I haven’t had a gargle (alcoholic beverage) for 2.5 years, and that’s great and all, good for the mental sharpness however the only downside to not drinking (for me) is that when you’re in a gargle-adjacent setting like a club or a concert, you have room for thinking about other things that take you out of The Moment.

For example, the most incessant thoughts that enter my sober brain when Out Out are usually:

~Did I leave the [hair] straightener on ~Did I bring my keys, I’ll just check my bag again ~Is the car locked ~Should I pee now or later ~What’ll I eat after this ~When can I leave without anyone noticing xx

Or I’ll start thinking about work things. Or I’ll ruminate about a conversation I had 15 years ago while everyone else In Da Club is writhing around the dancefloor.

But when my sister Aisling and I arrived at Terra Vibe Park in Athens, where Kneecap were playing in June, I was extremely present, taking in all the people (the “rockers” if you will, ‘cos it was Rockwave festival), the uplighting on the trees, the mystical mountain behind the stage, the wee moon and stars, and the few men and women in GAA jerseys (a novelty in Athens where the number of Irish people in the city is approx. 4 in a population of 3.6 million) and because I was sober, I was hyper aware ~as usual~ of every detail and smell and sound and jersey in that field.

And I was READY to hear some Greeks shout alongside the band in the Irish ~teanga. I had high hopes for that, and actually, it happened!! Super cute. x

🫒🫒🫒

So anyway, we’re in this big crusty field, and after faffing around with drinks tokens (water and a Freeway Cola i.e. the fake Coke from Lidl), we went down to the stage and slipped through the mostly male bodies to try to get as close as possible to the front, as per my sister’s request. I was still very present, excitable, and a touch overstimulated.

We caught the end of Fundracar and I haven’t a clue how to describe them but Google says they’re a “reggae, dub, psychedelic rock, punk, and ska band from Athens.” Yes exactly!

As per all Kneecap shows, the band invited local pro-Palestine activists to speak to the crowd before coming on stage. The first two keffiyeh-clad Greek women spoke passionately to everyone in Greek before Iasonas Apostolopoulos came on stage. He was on the Global Sumud Flotilla and spoke fervently to the crowd in Greek (I ascertained: Free Palestine, fook fascism). The third activist was a Palestinian man living in Greece, and he spoke in English, asking the crowd not to forget about Palestine and to keep talking about Palestine.

How can you transition from a reminder that a genocide is taking place in Palestine, but here we are in a big field about to listen to three lads rappin’? A minute or so passed after the Palestinian man left the stage, and then the lights went down. And it was all quiet, kind of spooky. And even if you weren’t sober, you’d be sober after those speeches.

Moody red lighting lit up the stage then, and DJ Próvai comes out in a red boilersuit and tricolour balaclava and ofc my first thought was, “Is he not roasting in that!” ~sober/person-over-30 thoughts~ He’s doing some hypeman bits and then Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap enter stage left, all sunglasses and hoods and jackets and caps.

They opened with SMUGGLERS & SCHOLARS, which I’ve since listened to approx 23 times on repeat. There was low-key movement, people head-nodding, bodies inching forward ever so slightly. Very civil. More red lighting and Fook You attitude on stage but still fairly civil !!

Next, goddammit I can’t remember what tune came next, but I do remember thinking, “This is all very tame for a Kneecap gig” and then, this girl flew past us, making her way towards the edge of the crowd. I’m thinking, “What’s wrong with her?” and then without warning, a full mosh pit i.e circle of boys shoving and running and bashing into one another breaks out, and it’s like a wave, a tsunami really, all elbows and backs and bucks.

It was the suddenness of it, the no warning of it. We were only 2 tunes in! It was a medium-sized mosh pit but spreading out rapidly, people just throwing themselves into the chaos, a whirlpool of limbs and floppy haircuts.

“We need to go NOW!” I screamed into Aisling’s ear.

“No it’s fine!” she screamed back. “We’re fine here!”

She was right anyway, and the girl who spun away from the mosh pit region re-emerged, and I felt good then, knowing that if she was feeling safe enough to re-enter, we’d probably be okay too. And as the night went on, I noticed a pattern.

Basically, a plastic bottle, or a cup, or a vessel with liquid would be thrown from the back of the crowd towards the front, and then a mosh pit would break out. And I realised, “Oh that’s the signal for a mosh pit to start! Cool!”

I quickly understood that’s not true at all, just a concept I invented, but it gave me a false sense of security for about 10 minutes, which was nice. As Kneecap spat out Carnival, Better Way To Live, Big Bad Mo, Liar’s Tale, I kept looking over to my right, anticipating the mosh pit, sniffing it out, high alert. Your sniffer dogs are shite !!

And that’s when my stupid sober brain started to wander, started thinking about mosh pits. What are they? What’s their purpose? Who invented them? What do people (moshers?) get out of these? When was the earliest mosh pit recorded in history?

I was distracted for parts of the set, thinking about all of the above. Mainly the ~why of a mosh pit.

But then, mercifully, about half an hour in, Móglaí Bap started saying dangerously, “Open up the piiiiiiiiiiiit”. So for the rest of the night, we had some structure for the pit instigations.

There was a big one for Rhino Ket and I can’t lie, I was both tempted and terrified to throw myself in there. But I didn’t, and I never will !! Instead, I had one ear on Kneecap and one eye on the pit, couldn’t look away.

“You’re doing great work in the middle there,” says Mo Chara. “But open it up so it’s not a fuckin’ cock fest!” For 99.9% of the night, it was a total sausage fest (from where we were standing), but it was still nice to get the invite. x

So anyhoo I can’t remember the exact setlist and other logistical details but I do remember bopping aggressively to Parful, one eye still on mosh-standby. And also, that Kneecap had “good chat” as they say on Love Island.

“I’ve just got a message from security,” goes Mo Chara.

Oh it’s the mosh pit! Someone’s hurt!

“If yiz have any Class A drugs, throw them here, we’ll make sure to get rid of them for ye.”

Someone threw up a bottle, but it was just “JOOOUICE !!!” Not even a beer!

“Open up the piiiiiiiiiiiiit !!!!” goes Móglaí Bap again, the wee divil.

“Open it up, and if someone falls, we pick them up,” goes Mo Chara. “‘Cus we’re one big Fenian family.”

There was another substantial one for FENIAN, and the bashing was definitely more gregarious. But I was feeling grand about the pit, even though we were dangerously close to the periphery. I knew there’d be more shoving to come, especially for H.O.O.D, which I thought they’d close on (confirmed: there was a big one). Instead, they went out on THE RECAP ft. MOZEY, which brought me back to the 15-minute interest I had in Pendulum in 2010. Aggressive drum’n’bass in small doses ✔️ And you better believe the ~moshing was outrageous for that one.

The club is cool and all but how gorgeous is a crusty field full of swirling mosh pits and Fook You off the A1? Pretty gorgeous if you ask me x

🕳️🕳️🕳️

Photo credits !!!

📸 Aisling O’Connor // 📸 Argiris Liosis // 📸 Rockwave Festival

Back with more Car Radio ~the best of~ specifically from the Dublin-based FM airwaves. I just ~can’t get enough~ of it. You could get a Musicology degree ~1st class honours~ if you listened long enough to Irish radio stations. It’s a solid education out there on those frequencies !!

I’ve also come to the conclusion that there ~must be~ an unspoken rule where certain stations have to reach a weekly quota of The Script (strictly circa 2008 - 2010), Justin Timberlake, Timbaland, and Pitbull. Because I hear these bands and artistés on a suspiciously regular basis. Radio rules and secrets. 🔮 Would love some intel there. x

Anyway, buckle up !!

This time we’re beginning with some Friday afternoon “it’s the weekend” music before entering more crusty territory. Then we’ll roll through some daytime bits and ballads.

Reet.

🚙

The Prodigy - Firestarter

I’d never heard The Prodigy on the FM radio before. Ever! So I was shooketh when I heard this on RTÉ 2FM on a Friday afternoon. Every goosebump bumped, every synapse sparked, every brain cell buffed! Just gorgeous. I love this trio (forever a trio 💜) so much I could cry!! And I have cried xx

Pianoman - Blurred

Blur + piano house [we] come one x

Faithless - God Is a DJ

Play it at my funeral! Sorry that’s a bit bleak but also the first thing that popped into my head when I heard Sister Bliss on the synth there. x

Remy Sauvage - Lost Frequency

Trance in typeface Orbitron:

Handbaggers - U Found Out (Tony De Vit Mix)

I can’t even !!

Glam - Hell’s Party (DJ Ricci Mix)

Bit of an in-between tune that doesn’t go anywhere but no harm in that !!

DJ Encore ft Engelina - I See Right Through To You

Ugh 💖

Ruff Driverz presents Arrola - La Musica

I’ve listened to this maybe 15 times on repeat. How could you not !! We’ve got samba drums, guitar riffs, trance sparkle and the maddest music video I’ve ever darned seen !!

Hyperlogic - Only Me (Red Jerry Mix)

Ok I didn’t hear this on the car radio, you got me !! This one came up on YouTube (does anyone else still listen to music on YouTube and not Spotify? I feel alone). Anyhoo, had to include this delicious trance item, especially as the weather is getting ~hotter~ and the days ~brighter~ etc. Car oven music.

Chiqito - Rock The Disco

There’s a designated department in my brain for tech house, and I’ve just added this tune to it. I must have approx. 250+ hours of tech house squirrelled away up there, stored from my Friday nights doing artist liaison for tech house DJs in da club. 11 PM - 6 AM, tech house in the house !! And I have a soft spot for it, I do. Some tech house is really good! Some of it is shite as well though. This is a real “muscular” tech house track if you ~know what I mean~

Layo & Bushwacka - Love Story

VIP Balearique.

The Shapeshifters - Lola’s Theme

Had to be done.

As The Rush Comes (Gabriel & Dresden Sweeping Strings Remix)

Where would we be without Positiva Records !! x

Rory Sweeney - Ruh Roh (ft. Ushmush & Roo Honeychildd)

Have you ever wondered what Irish rap and wibbly~wobbly~wonder bass sounds like? Come thru x

Sunscreem - Perfect Motion

What genre would you call this? I’m not sure but it’s nice. x

Infiltrate - Sean Paul

Never heard of Sean Paul until 98FM !!

Jem - They

The 2000s in song form.

In Your Wildest Dreams (feat. Barry White)

MADE FOR THE CAR !! Just play it in the car. Roll the windows DOWN. Let the world HEAR it. Also, have you ever come across the term “aquatic bass”? I’ve read it in RA reviews, and I’ve used it many-a-time in copywriting and journalism stuff. But what does it mean? THIS is what it means!!!!!

I didn’t intend to write another car radio-type post, but here we are. It just doesn’t get old! I’m still ~mind-blown~ at the variety of music at the end of my fingertips via the Car Radio.

And over the last few weeks, wow a woo wow, I heard so many great tunes and some music I would happily never hear again but I’m not naming names ok. xo

The Car Radio just does something to me. Maybe it’s still the thrill of being able to drive sans Fully Licensed Supervisor. The novelty just hasn’t worn off (yet).

And lookit I paid a lot of money, lost a lot of tears, and bankrolled Bach’s Rescue Remedy to get to this point in my Driving Journey, so I will enjoy my Car Radio, thank you V much.

Some radio updates that no one asked for:

I heard Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre’s ‘Still’ again. More Britney, also UB40’s ‘Red Wine’ again and several plays of Mark Morrison’s ‘Return of the Mack’. Also a LOT of The Script circa 2010 and other music I do not ~personally~ care for but I also heard a very nice Frankie Knuckles tune (not ‘Your Love’) whilst navigating biblical rain on the N11. The lyrics were ~~something something eeeeverything~~ and I’ve Googled it, but I can’t find the tune. And it’s a lovely tune!

On two separate occasions, I heard Paul Johnson’s ‘Get Get Down’ and both times were in Deansgrange. If that’s not freaky deaky, I don’t know what is!

I also listened to a good bit of Mark McCabe’s Saturday Night on 98FM, he of ‘Maniac 2000’ lore. I’ve squirrelled away some of his selections and pasted them below for ~enjoyment~ and universal appreciation. Am I allowed to do that i.e. steal another DJ’s ~selections~ and paste them here on Substack? I think so? Call me x

Another notable moment whilst driving my motor:

🔮 It was kind of spooky to hear Calvin Harris’ ‘Acceptable in the 80s’ whilst sat at a red light, and then scroll up to 98FM and hear the new era Calvin Harris i.e. ‘Blessings’ ft. Clementine Douglas at the same time.

2 Calvins, 2 eras.

And dare I say it, I like this current Calvin era, I like these summery tunes, they ~spark joy~ and feel all cute and nostalgic; two of my favourite things about dance music. 🥹

Anyhoo, we’re going from PM-AM again, you better fasten those seatbelts !!

🚗

Chocolate Puma - I Wanna Be U

I was OBSESSED when I first heard this tune, and I think it’s aged well, a classic, if you will. x

Tall Paul - Rock Da House

God bless Tall Paul is all I can say, and I’m not religious. x

Atlantic Ocean - Waterfall

There’s this scene in the movie Amelie, where Audrey Tatou is in the cafe she works in, and the guy she fancies comes in, and she dissolves into a puddle on the floor. Splat, on da floor. That’s what this tune is for me. I also really love the church organ ~on steroids~ in the first few bars.

Shakedown - At Night

It’s a classic. I was gonna put the official video in, but sometimes a clip from Top of the Pops is necessary. I didn’t grow up with this show because we had four channels on the TV, so I missed out on a whole visual chapter of dance music history, but I’m making up for it now.

SOUND DE-ZIGN - Happiness

Back up the truck, there’s a lot going on here !! And hey hi, do you recognise that melody? It’s the same one from Eliza Rose and Interplanetary Criminal’s ~world-dominating~ ‘B.O.T.A’ (2022) but to clarify: the original melody is from ‘Let the Beat Hit ‘Em (LL w/Love RC Mix)’ by Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam (1991). So SOUND DE-ZIGN sampled that melody, and that’s what we have here in ‘Happiness’ (2001). Reet? Reet.

K-Klass - Let Me Show You

You know what I love about listening to Car Radio on a Friday night? There’s so much music, especially house music, that I’ve never heard before in my minuscule life, and it’s right there on the airwaves. And this Lovely Tune by K-Klass is a perfect example.

Hyper Go-Go - Never Let Go

Another beautiful house tune I’d never heard before until Car Radio came into my life.

Basic Channel - Phylyps Trak

Crunchy, loopy, yummy. x

Ride Perfekt - Tunnel Cyborg

This reminds me of Drumcode parties at Tobacco Dock circa 2015. My first and last balloon never 4get. x

The Chemical Brothers - Hey Boy Hey Girl

I don’t know if it’s normal how much I love this song. Because if you think about it, it’s a ~seemingly~ simple tune that ~seemingly~ doesn’t have a lot to it. But hearing this in the car on a Wednesday afternoon on Pottery Road… well. The Best Things in Life Are Free O K.

deadmau5 feat. Chris James - The Veldt

How could you not!!! But also, I can’t help picture a teenage gamer boy sittin’ in a basement in a rural town. It’s got loner energy to it.

Max Romeo - Chase The Devil

Extremely rogue to hear this on RTÉ Radio 1 (the state broadcaster where it’s mostly about ~current affairs~ and the dire state of the world etc.). I would never expect to hear “I’m gonna send him to outa space to find another race” on there but then again, it was around 11 PM on a weekday (when they’re allowed go rogue I suppose). And yes that is correct, that’s the vocal The Prodigy sampled in ‘Out Of Space’. R.I.P Max Romeo (he died last year). 💚

Asa Nisi Masa - Cobweb Thread

How gorgeous is this! Just listen to it.

iiO - Rapture

So cool, that ~je ne sais quoi~ in music form x

Love Inc. - You're a Superstar

SO REACH FOR THE SKYYYYYYaaaayyee

AND HOLD YOUR HEAD UP HIIIIIIGHHHHiiiiiiiaaayyee

💖💖💖💖💖💖

Sash! - Ecuador

I have such a soft spot for Sash! even the exclamation mark after his name, everything about this man and his music is just so over the top, fantastical, nonsensical. The Fruit Pastille of Eurodance.

Jazzy, Spriitzz - Can’t Deny It

You know what, and I’m gonna quote Simon Cowell here, I don’t like it, I LOVE it. Summery, boppy, cute, girlie. Also appreciate the ~hot wheels~ in the video.

Calvin Harris, Clementine Douglas - Blessings

For the [Rimmel] Sun Shimmer nostalgia !!

Mylo Vs Miami Sound Machine - Doctor Pressure

This song was rinsed to no end when it came out in 2004, it actually gives me anxiety now but it’s obligatory to include here because I’m telling you, I hear this song at least 4 times a week on different stations, THERE’S JUST NO ESCAPING IT.

Timbaland - Give It To Me

OH MY GOD this is another one that no one was/is safe from, another tune which I kind of liked, but it was criminally overplayed (same with ‘The Way I Are’ and Nelly Furtado’s ‘Promiscuous’ ft. Timbaland), and these tunes are on the Car Radio airwaves at least 3 times a week, there’s no escaping it, you’re trapped, you’re stuck, and you canny get out xx

Destiny’s Child - Lose My Breath

I’m sad I don’t have my Destiny’s Child CDs anymore, specifically the album Destiny Fulfilled (which included ‘Lose My Breath’) with the 3 gerls on the cover, staring defiantly down the lens. ✨ A relic ✨

Tinie Tempah - Pass Out

I completely forgot about Tinie Tempah as a concept until 98FM dropped this red-hot dinger from 2007. I love the well-rounded vowels of BON-JOUR in the part (1:58) where he says, “They say hello they say hola and they BON-JOUR.”

Dannii Minogue - Who Do You Love Now

Calvin Klein CK IN2U in song form. Produced by Riva, who is in fact an alias of Chocolate Puma ✨ ~it’s all connected~ ✨

50 Cent - In Da Club

“We’re gonna party like it’s yer birtday” xo

Britney Spears - ...Baby One More Time

Expect at least one Britney in every Car Radio jaunt ok.

→ 💞 🔮 Spoilers unless you’re up to episode 11 🔮 💞 ←

“I’m definitely not watching Love Is Blind this year.” That was my first thought when I saw the lil pink thumbnail on Netflix with the smiley woman who I now know as Brittany holding up her newly-engaged hand with the sparkly diamond on her ring finger.

I thought the ship had sailed for me, as in, I wasn’t going back there. I had my fun with all those crazy cats in Colorado last year (an unhinged season), there was no need to watch the show again. I’d already given so much brain space to previous seasons, both the US and UK versions. I’d lost sleep over these shows, mostly because everything is insanely BRIGHT (aesthetically) and high-definition, far from a mentally unwinding visual experience. The show sticks in your brain afterwards, the conversations play back on a loop, and overall it’s a stressful programme to watch, it’s unhealthy, it’s toxic, it’s exactly how most of the relationships unfold on screen.

But NO. It just took one poxy click on a rainy Tuesday evening, and I was in, never to be seen again. 🕳️

Why did I ever open the trapdoor to Love Is Blind? I regret! J’regrette. Because it’s all-consuming once AGAIN.

Also, why do I give Netflix my money? It’s kind of shite, TBH. But I wanted to see the America’s Next Top Model documentary, that’s why I signed up for it during one of the 1.2 million days of rain we had in Dublin recently.

And how is it that I still haven’t even seen the documentary but I’m 11 episodes deep into Love Is Blind USA?

How did this happen? ~why

It’s an addictive show, morbidly fascinating. I feel like I was recruited into it, unwittingly. It started off with my sister watching it in 2020. I remember walking past the TV, and thinking, “Sure that’s all scripted I don’t know why she’s watching that.”

I remember some guy called Barnett and hearing the name Barnett a lot in the background because I would always think of a little barnacle on a rock. It stuck in my head, an indication of what was to come, the fact that the show is a barnacle in itself, sticking to every cell in your being for the weeks it’s on air (and for a short while afterwards too but thankfully not forever because like most reality (?) TV shows, you just forget about it after it ends and move on to something else just as bubble-gummy but forgettable).

Anyway that was ages ago, and then she roped me into watching the first Love Is Blind UK in 2024, which ~low-key~ took over my life, and I ended up writing a Substack about it, mostly questioning the gold goblets in every single scene (which are there for continuity so producers can edit scenes together seamlessly without revealing fluctuating drink levels — thank you Reddit where I copied and pasted that from).

Love Is Blind is the type of show that operates on a multi-level marketing scale. If someone you know is watching it, believe me, you’ll be roped into it, brainwashed, and suddenly you’re in a WhatsApp group dedicated to the programme, your mum is talking about it with her friends (who have no concept of the Love Is Blind-sphere), you’re writing a lengthy Substack about it, and now YOU are reading it.

Because when you’re in the throes of Love Is Blind, you want to know who’s really in there for ~love~ or clout or external validation or self-promotion or whatever. Like Love Island. You know, the usual opportunist stuff, and why the hell not?

Ok so back to Love Is Blind, Present Day, Season 10, Columbus, Ohio, the U S of A.

Our hosts are Nick and Vanessa Lachey, i.e. the seemingly ~perfect~ couple. But sorry every time Nick Lachey is carted out, my skin crawls a bit, he disturbs me on a very low level, and I can’t put my finger on why. There’s just something about him, and not in a good way. That’s a completely unreasonable remark I know, but I’m just being honest sorry sorry xxx

So anyway, we have The Pods, where everyone dates one another “sight unseen.” And on this season, there was soooooooooo much chatter about “honesty” and “my values”; all perfectly valid things to come up on a show like this but Boooooorrrrring with a capital B (for me).

This time, I fast-forwarded a load of The Pod scenes and skipped to The Reveals, where the couples who made it to the will-you-marry-me-omg-yes stage see each other for the first time. And again, I was bored because everyone thought their fiancé/e’s were gorgeous, which goes to show how fecked up this show is, as in, you actually want to see one or two flickers of disappointment during The Reveals. I admit it! Ugh. Apart from the slightly back-handed comments of “He’s/she’s not my usual type,” it’s all very civil and polite (boring).

UNTIL.

It’s the same every season, things start to go awry during The Honeymoon where a load of gargle and sunshine is consumed and then Netflix puts each couple up in these new-build apartments, and dear god the lights are always on FULL BLAST, so many overhead spotlights and I don’t know, it seems Ashley and Alex have the most soulless apartment of the lot? Every time there’s (another tense) scene in their apartment, part of me dies, it’s like they’re in a dentist’s waiting room with an Ikea couch and evil brown blanket flung on top. But it’s just their living room.

On that note, I can see Ashley descending into doubt every time Alex recounts his location-specific girlfriends and relationship timelines throughout the years of his Nomadic Life. And the math is not mathing. x

There are other stressful/anxiety-inducing moments in the show, like Ashley’s Dad asking Alex, “Did you vote for Trump?” and then Alex saying that he didn’t vote at all, but he’s “absolutely conservative though, without a doubt.” And then you realise, Oh Ashley’s whole family is MAGA, ok then, well at least that’s something they all have in common?

Then there’s the enraging moment where Chris says to Jessica i.e. Demi Moore’s distant cousin, that he’d rather be with someone who does Pilates on the daily? Not quite possible considering Jessica works around the clock as an Infectious Disease Doctor, but reet then.

And then there’s Devonta, who says it’s just not in his nature to give a compliment, god help him. He’s tried though! How could anyone forget the “I do really like your eyelashes, they’re very voluptuous” attempt? I’d be spinning outta there like a whirling dervish if I were Brittany, there’s just something about an eyelash-adjacent compliment from a man that doesn’t quite land but look it’s better than nothing I suppose!!!

WHY do I care about these people and their eyelash-volume compliments? It’s all part of the brainwashing and how much this programme gets under your skin cells. I think it’s also because they’re ~seemingly~ normal people, as in, they’re not famous, they’re not Reality TV stars, they’re Nurses, Account Executives, Sales Managers, Doctors (ok just one), Professors (also just one), Retail Merchandisers, Senior Merchants of Bath & Body Works, you know ~seemingly~ good people with good jobs wearing good quality athlesiure and chunky runners.

Also I’m fascinated by these people because they are mostly the same age as me i.e. somewhere in their 30s, yet they all seem to own 4-bed houses and/or bouji apartments? It’s a slice of how the other half live, but they’re not the other half at all, it’s just what having a Good Job and financial sensibility looks like I guess? Anyhoo I can’t help comparing myself to them and feeling like a Total Disaster. x

And it is fully mad that we’re shown the exteriors of their (MASSIVE) houses, the streets they live on, the insides of their bathrooms and bedrooms, their preferred brands of biscuit and carpet cleaner, their ~Home Sweet Home~ cushion and basically the most intricate details of their lives. Although I suppose it’s not that different from flitting through Instagram stories where it’s like “Oh, there’s that person who I haven’t seen since primary school but now I know what their granny looks like and that they have a cat called Liz.”

So despite Love Is Blind broadcasting SO MUCH information about these people (contestants? participants? experimentees?), I still have questions.

Such as:

• Do they get paid for participating? If so, how much? Is it staggered, like you get a certain amount for the Pods, the Honeymoon, the Living Together, the Wedding Day? Whip out an Excel there and ~show me the numbers~ even though it’s Private & Confidential information xx

• Do their parents know what their son/daughter is going to say on the Big Day? Because the parents’ reactions to the I Do/I Do Not part always seems to be genuine; a mix of shock, happiness, devastation, elation, but it depends. It’s the parents who I end up rooting for on the show and not the actual participants, which I don’t think Netflix intended, but these are my feelings! We were all rooting for you Love Is Blind parents!!!

• What’s life like after the show? For example, if Devonta is your “executive loan officer” aka a mortgage broker, which is his job in Real Life, and if I were sitting opposite him during my mortgage appointment (two things that will absolutely never happen), all I’d be able to think about would be “voluptuous eyelashes.” And that’s just madness!

• And then what though? I’ve already forgotten the names and the faces from Season 9 (except for Sparkle Megan, that was such an annoyingly good PR move on her part). Are they all just back to work and life now? What’s changed? Do they regret doing the show? Are they ok?

But oh! I am in shock about how much I’ve written about Love Is Blind. It’s quite alarming, which shows how much this somewhat reality-TV “experiment” has taken over my life. I let it happen, it’s my fault. Again.

So yeah The Weddings are on Wednesday and then The Reunion is a week after (where everyone sits on a couch Ricki-Lake-style and we find out what happened one year after the I Do’s/I Do Not’s at the altar). Both episodes are in my calendar, which is also quite alarming. But I’m in it for the long run i.e. until mid-March, and then I’ll just forget the show ever existed.

Again.

Until the UK one arrives this summer. 🦇

I passed my driving test a few months ago. Fourth time lucky. 🥹 And it’s great! But it’s the radio, specifically the in-car radio, and the variety of music at the turn of a dial that just… blows my mind.

Now, I understand the concept of radio. I’ve grown up with radio. I get radio. It was always there. But these days I don’t listen to the radio too often, unless I’m in the car and cruising down the mean streets of suburbia (although I switch off the radio coming up to roundabouts and those right-turn junctions, I mean, who came up with those junction designs, such nonsensical concepts, and I don’t like them one bit!!!).

But the radio. I’m talking FM radio, not online radio, just because FM radio is right there in the car and button-pressing is involved. It’s more fun, dare I say dexterous, than trying to open an online radio station on my phone and then doing the Bluetooth thingy. I am severely allergic to that idea.

So, in-car radio. Just wow. You’ve got it all! It’s an education. Britney Spears? Affirmative. East 17? Hell yeah. UB40? No question. Tall Paul? You better believe it.

And sometimes, ALL on the same day!

I’m writing this from Ireland, which means I am in Dublin, which means I have the privilege of scrolling through Irish radio stations. And let me tell you, it’s a mixed bag! A party bag. It’s the Wild West out there. And you won’t come out the other side without feeling… something. Nostalgic! Uplifted. Curious. Irritated. Surprised. Anxious. Dreamy.

I want to celebrate car radio. The concept of car radio, the musical VARIETY of car radio.

Here’s everything I’ve heard on the car radio in the last cupla weeks. 17 tracks that I can remember i.e. a party bag. And we’re going from AM to PM, as Christina Milian would say.

Actually no, that’s a lie, we’re going backwards, as in, starting with the dancey stuff from nighttime driving before going into the daytime stuff, because I don’t wanna waste the night tunes by listing them at the bottom of the pile, as it’s very likely YOU, dear Subscriber, will not scroll to the end of this Substack. So let’s not waste the dancey tunes by leaving them at the end of the list.

Major NB: Credit where credit is DUE. Most of the dance tunes are sourced via Al Gibbs’ long-running (and wonderful) show ‘Freaks’ (Fridays 7-10 PM + Saturdays 9-11 PM). 98FM also had some decent dance bits but ‘Freaks’ provided a reliable flow of the funky stuff.

I can’t remember the other stations I flew through while sitting at various red lights, but Q102, TodayFM, Spin1038, FM104, East Coast FM, 2FM, and Nova, also made appearances on the radio screen thingy.

Oh also also, shoutout to Adam who recommended tuning into Cian Ó Cíobháin’s show ‘An Taobh Tuathail’ (Monday to Friday 7 PM-9 PM) on Raidió na Gaeltachta. I am extremely ashamed to admit that I twirled past Raidió na Gaeltachta on several occasions. I just didn’t give it a chance because I assumed there wouldn’t be any dance music on there, but I was outrageously wrong on that front.

In fact I am listening back right now (not in the car) to one of Cian’s Friday night shows (which are V dancey) and basically, there’s everything from spacey broken alien sounds to squishy techno so I am quite happy about this new (for me) radio addition and still embarrassed that I didn’t tune in before now, especially in the car.

So to make up for lost listening, I’m starting this listicle with a tune I plucked from a previous episode of ‘An Taobh Tuathail’ (you can listen back to old episodes here). I believe this tune was made for the dancefloor AND driving at night (safely!!!).

And one more thing, Britney features twice. But don’t hate the player, hate the dial. She’s always on the airwaves, is our Britney. And if you can’t handle that, well sorry. Too hot to handle. Too fast too furious.

Furious.

🚐

Volpe - Pressure

Made for night driving O K !

Punchunella - San Trancisco (Air Tattoo Reconstruction)

Oh my LANTA. Just. Oh my Lanta? P.S. I think the piano melody is unnecessary but live and let live.

Elli Mac - Celebrate (Tall Paul Mix)

11 minutes long! It all kicks in at the halfway mark. Urgent, celebratory, slightly stressful while driving but… there’s good stuff here! (Viewers of SATC Season 3 Episode 8, I’m looking at you.)

The Source - Clouds (Jon The Dentist Remix)

For the boy racers at the back 🐌

Nikolai - Ready to Flow

A hairy trance classic. I took the long way home to enjoy the full thing, and je ne regrette nien.

DJ Sandy vs. Housetrap - Overdrive

Call me crazy but is there anything more blissful than driving at night (responsibly!!!) with dance music on the radio? I am talking about lovely dance music selected by a human being (namely Al Gibbs again, who played this tune and many others here) LIVE on the radio? It’s a rare thing, it’s a beautiful thing, and I think this is one of the most magical tunes I’ve ever heard in a car-based setting.

Sasha/Emerson - Scorchio

Another late(ish) night dial into ‘Freaks’ whilst in transit. Would I be the biggest Sasha and/or Darren Emerson fan? Níl but I like the unpolished vibe to ‘Scorchio’, as in, it’s not sleek and sophisticated progressive house. It’s crunchy. And it sounded good in the car.

Rhythm On The Loose - Break of Dawn

A timeless work of art, and there’s nothing more to say or do.

Britney Spears - Gimme More

It’s Britney bitch, and we’re driving in the daytime now. Would you believe, I heard this TWICE in one day on two different stations and in the same hour. I’m not making this up! Double Britney, and I’m not complainin’.

UB40 - Red Red Wine

Dreaming at the red light.

East 17 - Stay Another Day

I love this song on a very deep level. It’s everything. It’s just everything.

Dr. Dre - Still D.R.E. ft. Snoop Dogg

Still waters run deep 💚

Wham! - Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

Respect to Wham! specifically George Michael, always and forever, but I only associate ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ with this Oscar-worthy scene from Zoolander. It’s Alexander Skarsgård’s trancey sunglasses, the model mobile, the jerky dance moves, the inexplicable Tommy Hilfiger billboard, the New York of it all. Absolutely gorgeous car tune.

Britney Spears - Piece Of Me

The lyrics 💔 One of MANY songs I heard from the Blackout album on afternoon car radio (FM104 are mad for it, in particular). Still going strong 18 years later. Yes, it’s been 18 years since this tune came out.

Aaliyah - More Than A Woman

More Than A Woman i.e. say no more.

Eminem - Lose Yourself

I’m not sure about this song (it’s V dramatic) or Eminem as a concept. Sure we’ll leave it in anyway.

Airscape - Pacific Melody

I 💖 trance. Ending on a sparkly note for those who made it this far. xxx

Summer is over but at this present moment it’s sunny [in Dublin], so here’s a squidge more trance I didn’t feature in the first part of this trance love letter. Since I wrote that initial ramble re: trance, Nialler9 ~the DJ, event curator, producer, and dance music encyclopedia~ V kindly invited me onto his podcast to talk and listen to lots of Lovely Trance. Check it out for the full ~trance experience~ (Substack won’t let me embed the link, if anyone has intel on this, pls tell me).

Also, I realised that I never included some important trance mixes in the first speel, specifically the Euphoria mix compilations which Niall mentioned on the podcast. I came to these compilations a bit late in life and discovered them during lockdown, and ~honourable mention~ my favourite is this one by Matt Darey. Not to be slept on (but not for the dance music snobs OK !!!).

One thing I am still thinking about re: trance is the music videos and why everyone/everything is always in slow motion. Usually people are running somewhere or dancing in slow motion (or they’re sped up loads). CC: the videos for ‘Sandstorm’, ‘Beachball’, ‘Stay!’, ‘Cafe Del Mar’, and ‘L’Amour Toujours’. Why?

Anyway, on the podcast with Niall, I mentioned some DJs and producers who are playing/making good trance (or sprinkling trance elements in their sets/tunes), so below is the hard-copy list of these wonderful people and also some other artists I forgot to mention due to podcast-panic:

• eoin dj’s Fresh Kicks for DJ Mag is a nice whirl of chuggers + house + trance

• dogheadsurigeri’s Ibiza trance mix for TANK is quite stunning

• Monster actually plays many different genres, but trance does creep through here and there

• Someone Sunny’s lovely Liquid Joy mix has some gorji trance towards the end, but it’s quite a blissed out yummy mix overall xx

• Mercorn’s Fantasia mix series has lots of dreamy + jackin’ trance and features a starry array of guests, highly recommend

• I also mentioned KI/KI in the podcast for those who like the harder stuff

• Any mix from Courtesy is guaranteed to be a Lovely Trance Experience

🔮🔮🔮

Here’s the playlist of tunes Niall and I chatted about and a few tracks below with my unsolicited notes (and extra tunes) thrown in:

Spriitzz / Spray - Where R U (Ibiza Mix)

• new trance! i.e. trance not made 20 years ago. i love this summer-themed sugary drink by Spriitzz (the “sunset” alias of Spray)

Alice Deejay - Better Off Alone

• Kal from Love Is Blind UK Season 2 ???

Da Hool - Meet Her At The Love Parade

• simple but effective

4 Strings - Take Me Away

• trance dance moves in full flow in the video

Ian Van Dahl - Castles In The Sky

• a crime that I forgot about this one, just incredible: the big vocals, the drumroll bits, the choir-like harmony thing in the background (that sentence is why I don’t review music anymore). Also love the unhinged video for this tune

Grace - Not Over Yet

• ballgown trance

Storm - Time To Burn

• not in the playlist, also not really trance or eurodance (a bit too aggressive) HOWEVER a very danceable + silly track in the best possible way + gym-inspiring

Three Drives - Greece 2000

• a classic trance tune, doesn’t really resonate with me {personally} but still

Paul van Dyk - For An Angel

• pared-back trance, good example of chords going ham (a compliment to the chords)

DJ Quicksilver - Bellisima

• Manic trance NRG

Sash! feat. La Trec - Stay

• bit wonky but we’ll take it

It’s summer in Ireland which means Trance Season is in full swing. From the car, from the field, from the JBL speaker. It’s all a-go here once the temperature reaches 22++ degrees. The windows are open and/or rolled down, the factor 30 is not applied, the wafts of weed and strawberry vape(s) are obligatory. On the Dublin coast, the scent of the salty sea air swirls with cider breath, pawn cocktail crisps and car exhaust fumes. After 4pm, splats of vomit decorate the paths and cook under the sun. It’s all very Joycean, tbh.

More importantly, in the past 48 hours, I’ve heard Todd Terry’s remix of Everything But The Girl’s tingly ‘Missing’ and Nalin and Kane’s ‘Beachball’ (the former on the radio, the latter in someone’s car pelting down the road at approx. 100kph towards the Forty Foot).

A heatwave is the only time of year these tunes are unearthed and broadcast on mainstream radio or dug out from the dustiest ends of Spotify or Soundcloud (~~bring back the iPod~~). When the sun comes out to play, trance (and some golden trance-adjacent house) is expected and welcomed by all ages and generations. It’s like hearing ‘Maniac 2000’ at an Irish wedding. It is compulsory, it should not be questioned, and it’s of equal symbolic importance to the goujons wheeled out after midnight.

Sunshine in Ireland also means Eurodance crawls out of the woodwork. Radio DJs select it with extreme care and without a wrinkle of irony. The unspoken brief of sun = trance + Eurodance is carried out with focus and precision. These genres must ripple across the airwaves as the temperature rises. As soon as the weather turns shite again however, it’s back to the usual aggressive pop and gravelly indie bits.

Before the grey skies and spitting rain return once again (and here in Ireland, this is approaching imminently), here’s the last of the trance magic to mark the genre’s annual heat-driven resurgence.

NB I: This list is not for dance music snobs. Or, it can be for snobs but only if you/they come with an open mind and open heart in the ~true spirit~ of trance.

NB II: The tracks are linked in the titles which might come up all gobbledegooked depending on your email/browser xx

~~🌞~~

Lasgo - Something

• teary trance. underated + underappreciated except by Courtesy who has brought it back to life in several of her sets 🔮

Chicane - Saltwater

• glorious, classy + civilised

Tiësto - Adagio For Strings

• summer on steroids, and we’ll take the steroids

Opus III - It’s A Fine Day

• woodland creature trance

Binary Finary - 1998

• the Honda Civic (4th generation) of trance

Fragma - Toca Me

• an example of synths and whispery vocals put to good use

Gigi D’agostino - L’amour Toujours

• just accept it

Robert Miles - Children

• obligatory

BBE - 7 days and one week

• see above

Sunbeam - Outside World

• matrix trance, more on the goofy side of the genre

Energy 52: Café Del Mar (Three 'n One Radio Remix)

• FM104, Spin1038, 98FM and 2FM have had an absolute field day with this tune over the years, it is the track for the Friday drivetime post-4pm but only if it’s 22++ degrees

Wamdue Project - King Of My Castle

• technically a house track but still in the trance orbit. For the Vogue-smoking sun-worshipper

Livin' Joy - Dreamer

• also 100% not trance but I’m quite sure the JBL speaker was invented for this tune on a sunny day

Lost Witness - Happiness Happening (Lange 2009 Remix)

• when trance + balladeering become1

DJ Rui Da Silva - Touch Me

• “i’m 135 years old and this track still blows me away. absolutely timeless.” From @dash2138

Ann Lee - Two Times

• trance’s quirky little sister

Safri Duo - Played-A-Live

• drums to eternity 💜

Matt Darey ft. Marcella Woods - Liberation (Fly Like An Angel)

• graceful, elegant, hands-in-the-air x 100

Sash! - Encore Une Fois

• unashamedly big, bold + brash (the ! after Sash says it all + note the candle-swathed DJ booth in the video)

Darude - Sandstorm

• love it or hate it, u cannot escape it

Here I am, writing about ~fashion~ again in my extreme slob attire (a multi-coloured vest thing purchased in Topman circa 2014 and a pair of anaemic grey shorts i.e. my Bloated Shorts).

From the high vantage point of my voyeuristic perch, I watched some of the coverage re: the new pope over a week ago. Having attended an extremely strict Catholic primary school governed by a terrifying nun called Sister K (which I am still recovering from today), I cannot help being curious about what goes on in Catholic Land from time to time, and judging by the rich fabrics and Child of Prague outlines seen in Vatican City, it’s all quite glam these days and dare I say camp?

I have not an iota of interest in men’s fashion let alone men’s ~papal~ fashion but I was hooked to the TV, soaking up all the ceremony and pomp. Those Swiss guards in their bulbous, Cadburys purple and Maille mustard get-up, accessorised with funky helmets, snatched straight from a souvenir shop in the Vatican. Impossibly camp?

Don’t even get me started on all the cardinal’s crisp white cassocks swishing in the gentle breeze, paired with a chunky Madonna crucifix and scarlet cape. Looking sharp and dignified, with a touch of white lace on the sleeves, just so. Impeccably chic?

And then my mind drifted to unspeakable, almost blasphemous territory. What if we had a woman pope? What would be the fashion choice here? Would she have a stylist or perhaps an advisor from the Papal Fashion Council? I can imagine her in a similar outline but maybe in black, with a whisper of doily lace on the shoulders. A leaf from the OG nun aesthetic, wimple et al.

Disappointingly, I couldn’t see any shoes on display beneath the cloaks of Cardinals & Co. I know for a fact that Leo XIV’s sweet predecessor, Francis, sported a sensible leather upper while the flashy Ratzinger preferred a ruby loafer, supposedly designed by Prada and/or Gucci (sadly this is not actually true, but one can imagine such a brand collaboration). Following loafer-gate in 2013, I presume the shoe choices were more low-key for Leo’s unveiling in St. Peter’s Square last Thursday.

Another discovery I made pre-pontiff reveal was the Room of Tears, aka the Crying Room. It’s an enclave in the Sistine Chapel where the new pope has a cry before ensconcing himself in his new papal cassock. Then the ~official papal tailor~ neatens up the cassock ahead of the pope’s Balcony Debut. I love this concept, which takes into account the pope’s emotional and fashion-focused needs.

Also inside the Room of Tears is a section of priestly clothes and accessories called albs, chasubles and copes, and an assortment of white shoe boxes, which are ~assumed~ to contain different-sized shoes for the pope’s tootsies.

I wish I had my own Room of Tears. But perhaps such a room would have been better suited in primary school, situated just outside the principal’s office, where we could cry in private before entering Sister K’s lair, for I don’t know, wearing a pink bobbin instead of a black one which was sacrilegious at the time. But you cannot have it all, I guess. Unless you’re the new Ponteef. 💋 xxx

I write this in a pair of tracksuit bottoms with a splatter of Oral-B 3D WHITE Vitalizing Fresh on my right thigh. My hoodie is from H&M. It cost €19.99, if I remember correctly. My whole outfit is washed out, faded, and hopeless, much like my prospects at the moment, in general.

I’ve put another layer of Vo5 on my scalp to flatten my pube-like flyaways and mounting grease. I haven’t shaved my legs since 2007. Okay no I have, but I barely pass as acceptably groomed today, so basically, I have no right, no leg to stand on, and no formal qualifications in fashion or indeed journalism to critique the garments worn at the Oscars.

However, I am extremely bothered by some of the outfits, specifically the dresses, at the 97th Academy Awards. This is haute couture here, made with the utmost of craftsmanship, the highest of quality, the richest of materials, and the largest of budget. Yet how can these gúna’s be so horrific? Who is responsible? The actor, their stylist, their manager, their publicist or the designer themselves? I don’t know. But Oscar nominees and Hollywood Stars, this is your big night! It is your time to shine, your moment to celebrate your immense talent and facial symmetry, none of which is to be lightly.

To be clear, I am not criticising the actors, the skill of actors, or the personalities of the actors. I don’t know these people. However, I love movies, I love the cinema, I love paying to watch films, and I love availing of 123movies when necessary. I have not seen Anora, but I am excited to see it. I am still getting over The Substance, which I saw on the big screen several months ago, and was so disturbed and weirdly fascinated by that film, that I had to go and write a whole decompression essay about it.

I am doing the same here again, but this time, it is to process my horror and confusion re: the dresses at the Oscars, some of which upset me greatly, even though right now, I am the equilivant of a crust, a fungus, a fart compared to the gorgeous people that graced the red carpet on Sunday evening at the Dolby Theatre.

Also, I’m sure some of the men wore shite suits but I don’t care about shite suits. I only care about shite dresses.

Let’s ~break it down~ in 7 clinical evaluations:

Rachel Sennott in Balenciaga

A disastrous collab between Jane Norman and Lipsy, one would think. But no, it’s custom-made Balenciaga. I don’t know who Rachel Sennott is but I wish her well.

Elle Fanning in Givenchy

Incredibly boring. A doily glammed up with a ribbon from the art cupboard in primary school.

Ariana Grande in Schiaparelli

I actually quite like this shade of dusty champagne pink, but I can’t help thinking about a cake, as if Ariana had just popped out from a massive cake at a guy called Otto’s 21st birthday party at his father’s summer house in the Hamptons. “Surprise!”

Zoe Saldaña in Saint Laurent

If anyone can pull off an expensive curtain tassel purchased from Hickeys in 1974, it’s Zoe Saldaña. No easy feat, but the Best Supporting Actress winner can pull it off.

Penélope Cruz in Chanel

Plucked from Marian Gale’s discount rail post-Debs season. Highly upsetting.

Rachel Zegler in Dior

A sneeze of a dress, straight from the nostril of Dior’s creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri. Why Maria? How did this happen? Just why.

Mikey Madison in Dior

The dress that broke me. Dior causing havoc again. The worst of them all, and it just kills me to think that someone thought it was a good idea to style a Best Actress nominee (and winner!) in such getup. WHO is responsible for this two-tone atrocity? The bow, the sheen, the black bandeau situation. A pink bauble, a gaudy Christmas decoration from Dealz. A real tragedy, and the inspiration behind this deranged edition of Not Music Journalism.

Still can’t wait to see Anora though. xxx

I love lists, I love feeling hopeful, I love complaining. This In/Out craic ticks all of the above!

~yay~

IN

Long word counts

Substack

Butter (real or fake)

Film cameras

Upper body strength hell yeah

Print magazines

Drum & Bass

L'Oreal Lash Paradise

Softback books

Biscuit-bass’d snacks

Cats in/on windowsills

Jungle

The cinema

Melatonin gummies

Firm oranges

Pets with human names e.g. Sharon, Fintan

Trance (both psy + scald)

This emoji: 🫐

€6 faux Crocs

OUT

Chasing invoices

Anything above 135 BPM in a non-club setting (drum & bass, jungle + trance are exempt)

Short word counts

WhatsApp

“No worries if not”

The 46A rebrand

Instagram

Procrastinating

Pitching ideas to platforms who I know will not reply to me but I do it anyway

Niahm

Dropbox

€5 sparkling water

McDaids (see above)

Crop tops

Gargle

The driving test waitlist for Dun Laoghaire

Hardback books

Trying to get rich via FeetFinder

Raisins

Few situations render me speechless, shocked and chilled to my core. Some situations include seeing Sunil Sharpe seamlessly mix four records simultaneously, hearing people speak fluent, perfectly-accented Greek who are not Greek themselves, and Riverdance.

I was home scarcely an hour, and there it was on RTE, the last few minutes unearthed from the broadcaster’s archives because why not? It has a ~Christmas aesthetic~ despite airing in spring 30 years ago during the Eurovision interval, and visually, it is the epitome of wintry, twinkly, medievally moods, ideal for revisiting in the run-up to the festive season.

Where to begin with Riverdance? The magic, the faisean (fashion), the folklore. The mathematical timing of legs flying left, right and centre. Defying science, space, gravity, algebra, fractions, theorems, equations.

It starts with inky water rippling across the telly, conjuring a spooky atmosphere before fading into a hooded woman singing a mix of opera and church hymns (not factually correct, but the tune feels operatic and churchy, to me, at least). Cherish you etc.

Then the choir comes in, and there’s more witchy singing, setting the first tentative goosebumps in motion.

The harpy twinkles begin, and Jean Butler emerges in this emerald green cloak thing, defining what it means to make a Grand Entrance. I feel like everyone should have one of these cloaks for pivotal moments in life where you need to feel confident: entering the room for your ~dream job~ interview, mixing two the first two tunes in your debut Boiler Room, arriving for your colonoscopy appointment.

Jean flits around the stage softly and speedily ~ballet but it’s not ballet~ with her arms pinned to her sides, back ramrod straight, curls going 90. It’s a gentle, highly skilled hint of the witchcraft and wizardry to come, but we don’t quite know it yet.

Cut to the drummer boys bashing these giant drums, signifying things are about to get real funky. Gone are the harpy twinkles, and out comes Michael Flatley, ejecting from backstage like an uncoiled spring, a leaping frog in a silk shirt, a bat out of hell, a man with a mullet, a man on a mission.

First thing to note; he’s got the clackers on his shoes, he’s moving his arms. No clackers or arm movement for Jean. Why?

Who cares, there’s no time to think as Michael clicks and clacks with razor-sharp elegance, if there was such a thing, and there’s one bit that kills me, and I love it, I appreciate it, I respect it. It’s when he points down his flying feet (03.46), as if to say in his Illinoisan accent, “Can you believe I’m doing this Ayerland? Yes, I’m really doing this Ayerland.”

So Michael Flatley continues to click and clack, a whirling dervish of curls and swirls and sass. The rhythm, the timing, the sheen of silk, the volume of mullet; there are no words to further describe this gorgeous combination.

Then the drummer boys break up the scene with more bangin’, and Michael does some solo clacking between drum interludes, a symbiotic relationship between clack and drum, sole and stage.

Then the spotlight is on Jean, and this time, she’s got the clackers on, and the two of them pair up for this double act, Jean doing this pointy witchery, Michael placing a fierce hand on hip (04.50). Knowing smiles are exchanged, the chemistry is established, the chemistry is insane, they are Carrie and Big, Ryan and Marissa, Mr. Burns and Smithers.

The sparks. Sparks FLYING.

Just look at them! Where did they come from? Who are these aliens? Have you ever seen such skill, such technique, such sparkle and sheen? How is the human body even capable of such surgically precise rhythm?

Oh but then.

Six dancers appear head-to-toe in black, with three flanking each side of Jean and Michael, forming a collective tappa-tappa, perfect alignment, perfect clackment.

Then the dancers retreat into the darkness, and it’s Jean and Michael with more rhythmic sorcery and intense staring before a load more dancers join them and form two rows, and then unionise as one into a flawless line of slacks, 10 denier tights and furiously polished shoes.

Then Jean and Michael break away for more spell-bindery while the supporting dancers zig-zag in unison, and then it’s all over.

“Stunning music!” cries Gerry Ryan, who lives on eternally via Riverdance. “Amazing dancing! Was that or was that not the most spectacular performance you have ever seen?”

Nothing more to add.

Fin

I first heard of DMT during the Great Pill Phase of 2013. A friend of a friend had smoked it. We will call him Dusty. I remember asking him, “So what’s it like taking DMT?”

“Aliens come and take you away,” answered Dusty. “But it’s grand ‘cus it’s only for like, 10 minutes.”

Quite possibly an understatement, but I didn’t probe further as I didn’t know Dusty too well.

In the years since, I had rarely thought about DMT. The main reason was that I didn’t believe Dusty and his aliens, so I dismissed his trip as something he made up on the spot to sound interesting. Also, no one was smoking DMT in the cubicles of clubs or casually consuming this thing at parties and whatnot. So DMT was never on my radar after that.

Last summer, DMT resurfaced via Michael Pollan’s book How to Change Your Mind. I have a history of reading self-help books until about halfway through and then abandoning them, and even though this one was about colourful psychedelic things (fun!), I thought it would be too sciencey for me. Or just boring.

However, I read ~most~ of it because I was in a different country, had nothing else to read and a battered copy at my disposal.

While How to Change Your Mind is very sciencey in parts, I read it in small chunks so I could understand what the hell Michael Pollan was writing about and get my head around the past, present and future of psychedelics, of which I had very little knowledge before reading. And I’m a bit embarrassed about that now.

There’s a chunk in the book where Michael smokes DMT, aka The Toad, which he sourced from a therapist called Rocío, who goes out to the Sonoran Desert at night and snatches a few Sonoran toads as they emerge from their burrows. Rocío squeezes the toad’s venomous spray (rich in 5-MeO-DMT, aka DMT) onto a piece of glass before releasing these warty specimens back into the desert.

Grand.

Overnight, the venom dries on the glass and morphs into flaky crystals, which are then volatilized, thus destroying all toxins and leaving behind 5-MeO-DMT, ready for smoking.

In the book, Michael Pollan smokes The Toad and partially describes his trip. Some parts include a deafening noise as if he’s being blasted out somewhere, like “being on the outside of a rocket after launch”, amongst other antics. It all sounds horrendous, TBH. But he wrote that “words fail” to describe the overall experience. Language is the limit when describing a DMT trip (all the more feeding my curiosity about this spindly molecule).

There’s no mention of aliens anywhere, though.

But what’s all this got to do with Threshold?

This fiction/non-fiction/memoir/genre-fluid book freaked me out in so many ways I don’t know where to start, so in that case, I won’t start anywhere. Instead, I’m going in on the bits I can’t stop thinking about. And also how DMT is involved. Without giving too much away.

But first, a quick shoutout to my pal Lucie for the recommendation, who also flung The Grass Arena by John Healy and When God Was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman my way, but I have yet to read these mysterious titles.

Anyway here are some unsolicited thoughts as they happened while I read Threshold:

• Throughout the book, the narrator, Rob (I guess it’s the same Rob who wrote the book, but it’s still not quite a memoir or is it???), often refers to philosophers and writers, namely Nietzsche and Georges Bataille. I had never heard of either and briefly wondered if I was thick before accepting that it’s probably okay not to be aware of such people…?

• Some parts of Threshold are quite funny. For a few minutes, you’re enjoying the read, engrossed, and the narrator grows on you. He’s a grower. Then, a few pages later, he’ll make a comment that icks you out completely, a literal ick of a thought or a comment. Repulsive, revolting, reeling. But at the same time, it’s kind of admirable, to an extent, to write with such candour. So I kept reading anyway.

• I was ready to hate every word of the narrator’s description of Berghain. “Ha!” I thought haughtily. “Good luck writing about that without sounding cliché.” But it was a fairly accurate account of the various happenings inside the club. However, an encounter with the guy who drinks the piss is possibly a bit cliché, but it was still a beautifully written and weird segment in the book, which I appreciated.

• There’s an extremely graphic scene in an unspecified sex club in Berlin. It’s very…detailed. Shakespearean, but the dark room version.

• Rob’s descriptions of hangovers, and scag in general, are worthy of the Booker Prize if such a prize existed for writing only about hangovers and scag. I especially loved this one: “The day ahead seemed unendurable—trains and stations, pain and nausea.” I shed a tear.

Then there’s a load of DMT stuff in the final chapter which led me down all sorts of rabbit holes, trying to find drawings of Machine Elves and other such creatures and also wondering if we’re in a simulation. I’m still wondering about that.

So in the last chapter, Rob recalls his first encounter with DMT in South America and later in London via Casper Noé’s new (at the time) arthau5 film Into The Void. Here, he describes the character Oscar’s DMT trip in the opening scene, which I Googled immediately after reading.

“Oh I think I’d quite like that,” I thought. I mean, it’s nice CGI! But the comments underneath are freaky deaky.

What eyeballs!!!! Oh my god, what eyeballs?

What waiting room! Abused by entities? What!!!

Interesting. But then also…

But back to Threshold.

Michael Pollan’s chapter about smoking The Toad was a good primer for Rob’s DMT experience. Rob provided a detailed history of psychedelics, which I probably would have glazed over if I hadn’t read How To Change Your Mind. There are endless chemists, ethnobotanists, psychologists and various mystics (a lot ists) involved in psychedelics from the 1930s onwards, listed in both books. A lot of people, plants, and animals are involved in this naturally occurring compound.

Anyway Rob and his friend Matt smoke DMT in Rob’s kitchen in Rosslare, gradually increasing the doses from 20 mg to 60 mg over the course of a couple of nights.

Matt’s 60 mg doses sent him to a realm with “jesters” and other such beings. Could these have been the same yokes Dusty mentioned over ten years ago?

When Rob smokes the same dose, he writes about how language fails to describe his experience (just like Micheal Pollan). It is “as futile as describing music to someone who was born deaf.” I’m ill with curiosity at this point.

There is one paragraph, though, that freaked me out to no end, and again, it’s loosely related to those darned aliens that I was so quick to dismiss from Dusty.

Rob says he is generally a “sceptical person” who is “allergic to deluded and wishful thinking”, amongst other New Age-y stuff. So when he writes how he found himself considering “the most outré speculations” after smoking DMT, like how the drug possibly “allows us to perceive dark matter or parallel universes”, I did have a small existential spiralling moment that lasted for a day or two, so actually not that small, but yeah.

I recommend Threshold even though I feel like I shouldn’t, mostly because of the narrator’s inner Sleaze & Seed (to put it lightly) in other chapters. But the way he’s conjured up those intriguing glimpses of DMT-land, even with the limitations of language…well, I’ve never read anything like it before (the whole chapter is a trip in itself).

I’d give it 🥬🥬🥬🥬/5.

Don’t eat before watching The Substance. It’s a nauseating, sick, vile, disgusting, stunning film. So don’t do that.

And maybe stay away from stimulants of every kind, before and after. Adrenaline, tension, and nervousness will probably take hold of you naturally across the two hours; you wouldn’t want to encourage any extra cortisol spikes.

And maybe check if you’re in an ok mental headspace pre-The Substance.

It’s a body-horror film about ageing, essentially, with Demi Moore playing a fading actor turned aerobics instructor. On her 50th birthday her boss, aka Dennis Quaid, fires her. Through a series of unfortunate events, she ends up injecting the substance, which promises to create a “better version of yourself” i.e. Margaret Qualley.

I LOVED this rotten, ridiculous, and deranged movie for several reasons. The stylized aesthetic ~on acid~ from Demi Moore’s velveteen apartment to Margaret Qualley’s ropey eyelash extensions. Everything is so over the top, tacky, shiny, sumptuous, lumpy, bumpy, narsty.

E v e r y t h i n g.

Zoomed-in frames of yellow teeth, wet mouths, sticky bits. Gloopy gungey bits. Sterile white tiles splattered with ~bodily juices~. Needles, syringes, dark rooms.

The branding of the substance itself; lurid-green, bold typography, minimal design, clean lines—all very pleasing to your average Basic B (hi). A trustworthy Glossier x Dermalogica collaboration. Yeah I’d buy it.

And the SETTINGS. Azure blue skies, glaring sunshine, Club Tropicana palm trees, grimy alleyways, claustrophobic corridors. Symbols everywhere, like Demi Moore’s (Prada?) yellow coat and the gaudy French cuisine cookbook.

Lots of haziness. Red gunk.

Gunk, in general.

And the DETAILS. The cockroach extermination poster. The half-empty bottle of ketchup in the diner. That slab of quiche in Demi Moore’s fridge.

Oh and the ARSES. Sculpted and saggy. There’s no escaping these cracks and crevices. Arses through the ages. Diverse arse representation.

Less over the top but still present were the references to Carrie, The Shining, and Samara from The Ring (namely from Demi Moore’s impeccably parted black hair). Gollum from The Lord of the Rings too.

But the SOUNDS. So much squish and squelch. An exploration of warbly bass blobbiness. This is one of the reasons why I wanted to see The Substance. The trailer and its stretched-out, stompy soundtrack intrigued me. It reminded me of Daft Punk or maybe The Chemical Brothers, but with darker shades. So I thought there might be some interesting techno mutations in the film.

While there weren’t as many mutations as I expected (one highlight was ‘Home Improvement’), the bodily noises made up for it. It’s a real audio-sensory overload by a brilliant composer and producer called Raffertie. Lots of dramatic, drawn-out squelchiness.

But I do have one tiny gripe about the music. They (as in The Substance’s Music Department) should have used Danzel’s ‘Pump It Up’ for Margaret Qualley’s aerobics class, not the edit (which seems to have been produced especially for the film and cannot be found anywhere on the internet).

I feel like maximum pomp and campyness would have been achieved with Danzel’s ‘Pump It Up’ rather than the edit for The Substance. It felt a bit flat in the OTT surroundings of shiny leotards, pouffy hair and strip-lighting. Or maybe Benny Benassi’s ‘Satisfaction’ would have worked. Of course, Princess Superstar’s ‘Perfect’ would have been perfect (yes) if Saltburn hadn’t got there first.

I hate to say I loved Dennis Quaid mincing around in his extravagant slimeball suits, but I really did love him, even though he’s a proper MAGA head IRL. In The Substance, he is the human version of a melanotan and testosterone injection. Weathered, macho, sleazy, seedy. I feel like he would have smelled of biscuits, cigars and Hugo Boss. Such a change from the wholesome, American Dream-type Dad in The Parent Trap, the last movie I saw him in. Quite the transformation.

Actually all the men in the film are Big Eejits™. They weren’t spared an iota of eejit-ness, providing some much-needed light entertainment between the derailment of Demi and Margaret Q.

But forget Dennis Quaid. Obviously, Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley are the diamonté-studded STARS of the film. There’s Demi, slowly rotting away like the mum in Requiem for a Dream, and Margaret Q, all giggly and mean. Each giving the performance of their lives.

I also couldn’t help thinking how good Demi Moore looks for her age (vom), wondering if she was wearing hair extensions, what age Margaret Q is meant to be, and how they are both so stunning??? I also briefly wished I was 25 again (stupid). But that’s the point of the movie: messing with the perceptions of oneself, obsessing over near-impossible beauty standards, vanity, narcissism, ageing, wrinkling, disintegrating.

Completely delulu.

And I loathe to admit that my annoying perfectionist-inclined eye noticed things; Oh, I don’t think Margaret Qualley has had her teeth whitened, don’t think her brows are done, Demi Moore has a chipped fingernail there (and this was before both characters unravelled).

Feck sake, that’s the whole point of the movie!!!

By the time the credits rolled, I felt like a shrivelled balloon. Weak. Just not well. But I kind of want to watch The Substance again. It’s a cinema movie though; I’m not sure if the same nauseating, jellifying impact would come through on a TV or a laptop screen.

🩸🩸🩸🩸/5*

*Would have got a full 5🩸 if they used Danzel’s ‘Pump It Up’. We need the original I’m afraid.

I believe watching bubblegum TV is healthy but in small doses. It’s like a cleanser for the brain. It can soothe, heal and reset your cells after a long working week (or in my case, leaving everything to the last minute and squishing it all into an intense 24-hour sprint).

After such periods, I occasionally (and desperately) need to tune out and watch reality TV. Anything with lots of white teeth, diary room setups, and shiny hair. Shiny things, in general. Ridiculous amounts of wealth: optional. Hooked to my veins: preferable. Anything removed from Google Word Docs and the 1.2 million tabs open on my laptop, basically.

I remember watching seasons 1 and 2 of The Kardashians (not to be confused with the Keeping Up With iteration) after an intense deadline-y period. I also happened to be on my period and had to lie horizontally for a few hours.

Watching The Kardashians was a perfect binge of baby pink bubblegum, an indulgent marathon of reality TV nothingness. Everything my brain needed after a load of poorly managed timekeeping and too much caffeine.

I loved how the Kardashian sisters spoke so slowly, with just a bearable amount of vocal fry. The soft focus and halo lighting on their alarmingly symmetrical faces added to the unrealistic quality of this reality TV show. Also, the ambling pace of each episode suited my mental and physical state at the time.

The Kardashians was easy to watch without getting too invested, in the long term, at least. Considering I watched two seasons in two days, though, I actually was quite invested, but it was short-lived, and that’s one of the many benefits of bubblegum TV; it’s something you can tap into, become briefly immersed, and hopefully never watch for months, years, or maybe ever again. The bubblegum will have served its cleansing purposes.

I thought Love Is Blind UK would be the same bubblegummy experience. Despite the multiple episodes encompassing Love Is Blind US, Sweden, Mexico and South Africa entrenched in Netflix’s back catalogue, I had never watched the show. And because I’m sceptical of almost everything on Netflix, I categorised all versions of Love Is Blind under the imaginary ‘Will Never Watch’ section of my account.

My sister recommended Love is Blind UK. “At least watch the first episode, it’s actually really good,” she told me over WhatsApp.

“Yeah I will,” I wrote back, knowing well I had no intention of doing so. “I actually will.”

However, the need for a significant dose of bubblegum came soon after that message. And there was Love is Blind UK, ready and waiting, all 11 episodes. ‘The Reunion’ episode wasn’t out yet, where the cast (we’ll call them the ‘cast’ even though they could also be classed as ‘experimentalists’) reunites after one year for our viewing entertainment.

A quick synopsis for those uninitiated to the world of Love Is Blind, via Wikipedia: “The show promotes itself as a social experiment where single men and women look for love and get engaged, all before meeting in person.”

I’ll fill in the rest of the crucial blanks:

• A bunch of single men and women go on dates in ‘pods’, where a James Turrell-esque wall blocks them from seeing one another, so they can only hear each other.

• If a person has a “special connection” with their date, we’ll see more episodes of such connections blossoming until someone, usually the man, gets down on one knee and proposes (still behind the wall).

• The rest of the show shares the love stories of six engaged couples in total, with the remaining 18 cast members ejected elsewhere i.e. obscurity, never to be seen or heard from again (although a few return later in the ‘Guess Who’s Back’ episode to spice things up).

• Then it’s THE BIG REVEAL. The main question/worry each cast member tends to have is: “What if my fiancé/fiancée isn’t physically attracted to me?” This bit is actually quite nerve-wracking for both cast member and viewer.

• Following THE BIG REVEAL, the six couples are whisked off to Corfu for ten days for a “couples retreat.” Lots of petty arguments ensue.

• Then they’re whisked back to London, where the show puts each couple up in their own new-build apartment; the kind of place that would send a Foxton’s estate agent into a tail-spin, with its canal-side views, smart decor, all the latest mod cons, and just a stone’s throw away from the hip n’ trendy Camden Town.

• The couples meet one another’s friends and family along the way. Some encounters are painfully awkward (all the more for our viewing entertainment) but it’s usually because said friend and/or family member is not used to having a whole camera crew filming a conversation at the kitchen table (CC: Tom’s sisters meeting Maria for the first time).

• AND THEN, there’s the Wedding Day. And only then, just when the couple are about to exchange vows, can either the bride or groom say “I do” or “I do not”. If it’s the former, the couple must sign a legally binding contract (this show ain’t no joke). In some dire cases, the bride rejects the eager groom, or vice versa (CC: Cat and Freddie), resulting in a sensational jilting at the altar scenario (or at least the producers make it out to be).

• Then there’s ‘The Reunion’, filmed one year after the show, where we see who’s divorced, who’s still together, and who’s doing this whole thing for brand deals (I suspect Jasmine and Bobby, as per their YouTube channel Jamming With The Johnsons—I’m sorry, but I just don’t trust couples with Youtube channels).

So overall, highly dramatic, highly emotional. Bubblegum TV this is not.

Love Is Blind UK is a stressful, anxious, exhausting watch, but it is extremely addictive and addictive ‘til the bitter end.

I lost sleep over this show. The garish colours, harsh lighting, and insanely bright aesthetic of the series stuck under my eyelids all night. I also worried about Sabrina and whether her Steven was the real deal. I questioned Ollie—he of the Wandering Eye—and his motives with Demi. I doubted Cat and Freddie’s connection, considering they seemed to be on “completely different pages”, as Freddie’s sister Betsy-Dora accurately surmised.

Amongst all the drama, the most memorable part of Love Is Blind UK, for me, was the reoccurrence of gold goblets at the most pivotal points of the show.

In every laugh shared, every loving smile, every tender embrace, every tear shed, there were the goblets, again and again.

Yes, there they were, two pristine goblets strategically placed behind Freddie’s head as he sat talking to Cat’s parents, post-jilting, in the drawing room of the posh castle slash wedding venue.

And oh look, there they are again, just about visible in the back room of The Prince pub in London, as Benaiah leans over a jukebox and has a small cry after his spat with Sam in the smoking area.

And of course, in every scene, whether filmed in the pods, the villas in Corfu, the apartments in Camden, or the weddings in the castle, the gold goblets presided over everything, watching every move intently like Big Brother in George Orwell’s 1984, or indeed, Big Brother on Channel 4.

What did these goblets mean? What’s inside each goblet? Are they symbolic of a cult, like L. Ron Hubbard’s science-fiction novels or the Masonic handshake of the Freemasons?

Watching Love Is Blind UK was self-destructive and took up a lot more brain space than I want to admit. I suffered mild withdrawals after flying through all 11 episodes. I slowly morphed back to normal after a week, only to be sucked in again by ‘The Reunion’, which I watched, and experienced anxiety, rage, sadness, suspicion and energy depletion all over again.

There’s another series coming, according to Matt and Emma Willis. But I’m not watching it. I’m never watching this show again.

Realistically, I probably will though.

I don’t want this Substack to turn into a sad account that dwells on the past (CC: 2009 Music), a kind of “back in my day” speel, an old man shouting at the clouds situation.

But occasionally, I think about the long-gone Marble bar and why Cadbury’s discontinued it. What was their logic? What was their reason? Who made this decision? Why, just why?

The Marble bar was a precious blend of white and milk chocolate, cloaking a chunk of hazelnut praline in every cantilevered square. For a short time, it was the highlight of my weekend, my life, my raison d’être.

I chose it after Mass every Sunday in the early 00s. It was the reward from my parents for enduring 45 minutes in the church, which felt like an eternity in my fun-sized brain. I thought about the Marble Bar at all times, from the Entrance Procession to Concluding Rites. Going to the shop across the road from St Michael’s Church afterwards was the Ultimate High.

I miss this bar a lot, and nothing has since come close to replacing it. I loved the taste, the texture, the sweetness, the melt-in-your-mouth quality, and the subtle hint of psychedelia on the wrapper. A piece of pure, velvety joy.

But the Marble bar is not the only wondrous creation that was taken all too soon.

Here’s a selection of other discontinued stunners, some of them just as beautiful as the Marble bar, others not so much. It’s the list no one asked for, and no one needs, joining several other discontinued confectionary lists that live on the internet.

Mars Delight

This bar is basically Miranda in Season 6 of Sex and the City. The series aired in 2003, and everything she wore was of its time: the low-rise jeans, the bangles, the tank tops, the flicked-out pixie haircut. Like Season 6 Miranda, everything about the Mars Delight screams the 00s i.e. the squiggly ‘Delight’, the futuristic ridges, and the confetti motifs.

I don’t recall the taste (slightly sandpapery?), but aesthetically, the Mars Delight is era-defining, up there with Nelly Furtado, inflatable bubble chairs, and chrome furniture.

The Tiffin Bar

I think raisins, aka Devil’s Farts, should be banned. They are a crime. They should not exist, let alone be coated in perfectly good milk chocolate (Cadbury’s milk chocolate as well; maybe if it was Nestlé, I’d be more forgiving). I feel this is a granny-ish choice of bar, like a grandmother would pick this out as a treat for her grandchild, and then the child would start crying at the sight of the shrivelled Fart on the cover and throw it on the ground in a blind rage. It would cause so much chaos and a possible rift between grandmother and grandchild for years to come. It’s just not worth it.

The Tiffin bar was never worth it.

The Dream Bar

The choice of a teeny bopper trying to be sleek and sophisticated. Impossibly sweet, but the shade of baby blue, the lulling logo, and the general soft and melty vibe of it all made the Dream so appealing. It was the bar you knew you shouldn’t eat because of its intensely sugary taste, but how could you resist those comforting tones on a cold Tuesday evening in the depths of winter?

It was made to go with a cup of tea, resulting in a glorious surge of serotonin.

The Echo Bar (pre-and-post-rebrand)

I associate the Echo bar with trains, namely the Hueston to Galway train. The Echo would be available on the trolley alongside the KitKat (never a Dairy Milk on the trolley, ever). Obviously, the Echo tasted better than the KitKat, which I still, to this day, do not understand as a concept, and the same goes for Ferrero Rocher. So for a while, this was the chocolate bar from the train, and it was grand but not amazing.

Following its dramatic rebrand in 2008, however, the Echo lost its simple but reliable status. It was now trying to be cool, clinging on to the dregs of the Celtic Tiger for dear life. Its aesthetic was denim: the uncomfortable kind. Its description: ‘seductively creamy’. Its font: an uninspiring take on Groovy Chick and Ballygowan.

Post-rebrand, the Echo was now ice-cold, clinical, and void of its plain but reliable charm.

Milky Way Crispy Rolls

Disappointment in cylindrical form.

The Yorkie Bar (specifically Not For Girls)

The bolshy teenage bar. It’s still out there. However, the ‘It’s Not For Girls’ slogan can’t be easily erased from the general history of chocolate bars, so it’s making the list.

Although it mostly went over my head at the time, the discriminatory branding had some effect on me; I felt so bad-arse buying the Yorkie circa 2005, so rebellious, especially if I was handing over my pocket money to a man behind the till. The slogan fuelled my desire to buy it.

Reverse psychology *the marketing edition*.

The Shortcake Biscuit Bar

Controversial, but the Shortcake Biscuit Bar could be on the same level as the Purple Snack. The little broken-up shortcake segments worked so well with the Dairy Milk chocolate and felt more classy than a full-on biscuit inside, compared to the Purple Snack.

The Shortcake Biscuit Bar was for those who liked more chocolate than biscuit, if you know what I mean.

The Flake Snow, aka The Snow Flake

One of life’s greatest mysteries — the discontinuation of the Flake Snow. I think it was the tightly-packed ripples underneath the milk chocolate that did it for me and the fact that the white chocolate was literally white and not off-white, ivory or cream, which made it all the more enchanting. So delicate, delightful and delicious.

Forever missed, alongside the Marble Bar, and nothing, or no one, can ever come close to it.

• Seeing Tony De Vit at Trade.

• Going to hip-hop parties in Athens.

• Sneaking into fabric (underage) to see Fabio & Grooverider.

• Listening to their mum’s jungle tapes in the kitchen.

• Mixing their brother’s trance records in a boxroom in Belfast.

• Performing in bands in dive bars in New York.

Basically, very { cool } early beginnings.

No one ever talks about their uncool beginnings. Do such beginnings exist in this world? I want to know the Cringe. I want to know the Shite. I want to know it all.

My own beginnings are extremely uncool, which I have listed below, followed by the music that I thought was cool at the time.

NB: 2009 was a particularly formative phase in my dance music journée, so I wanted to revisit that year and see if the tunes have aged well 15 years later and give them a 🥬/5 rating. Some of them are still good, others are…yeah.

Personal Uncool Beginnings

*Wezz [2008]
Woeful on so many levels, but I have a distinct memory of hearing ‘Firestarter’ in there between Kesha, P!nk and, I dunno, Scooter.

*South Dublin cesspit of hormones and Glen’s Vodka

The Prodigy’s Their Law - The Singles 1990 - 2005 [2009]
First bit of cool aged 16!!! Yay.

DJ Church at The Palace [2011]
Black Eyed Peas, David Guetta, Rihanna (although RiRi was and still is very cool); that kind of vibe from DJ Church. There were other selectas in The Palace besides Mr. Church, but he stands out in my memory, mostly because of his trilby hat and ~secondary~ occupation as a rugby player for Ireland (which he’s still booked and busy with today).

EDM Phase [2012]
Swedish House Mafia, Hardwell, Laidback Luke; all those guyz :(((

Deep House [2013]

Between those introductions, FM104 provided Freaks On Friday (still going strong with Al Gibbs > cool), NRG FM (where is she now?) supplied more crusty sounds, and Annie Mac had her gorgeous Friday night show on BBC Radio 1. Thankfully, these beatific DJs introduced me to lots of great music, from Marshall Jefferson to Miss Kittin to some duo called Bicep. #grateful

2009 Music: Has It Aged Well Though?

Calvin Harris - I'm Not Alone

Massaging my scalp the other day when this tune slid into my head, uninvited, and prompted this whole 2009 idea in general.

Calvin before the confetti cannons et al.

🥬🥬🥬🥬/5

Deadmau5 - Strobe

A rancid memory of this tune, forever in my mind. I attempted to see Deadmau5 in Oxegen 2011 for Strobe, and for Strobe alone. 

Approaching the Main Stage with caution with my friend Emily (now a V talented photographer), Devil’s Bit seeping out of my pores, a permanent taste of stale gargle in my mouth, and my teeth all furry, we lasted about 30 seconds in a sea of topless lads before Aborting Mission.

Like Sam and Frodo entering Mordor, we were just out of our depth at the Main Stage. Two naive 16-year-olds, coming from the secluded world of 4th Year in an all-girls school — a world of Sun Shimmer, Koka Noodles and Skins Season 3 — spat into a lair of sweat, amphetamines and some bare-chested guy to my left, wearing a hard hat and hi-vis vest; it was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. No opportunity to see Deadmau5 has occurred since, maybe for the better. 

I still love this tune.

🥬🥬🥬🥬🥬/5

The Prodigy  — Omen 

Definitely the most credible (and cool) entry here. A timeless rave-boyband. I fancied all three of them in their own demonic ways; Liam Howlett, the moody and mysterious brain behind the melodies. Maxim, the deranged vocalist, war-painted and ripped AF. Keith Flint, the screaming frontman, frenzied and fabulous, all pointy hair and perfect teeth.

A very masculine and jumped-up kind of trio but not in a “you can’t sit with us” kind of way? Love them forever. 🤍

🥬🥬🥬🥬🥬/5

Fake Blood - Mars

In preparation for interviewing a person I had never heard of, I went on a deep dive into their Soundcloud. I skimmed through their recent mixes and heard mostly indie house and electronica bits, and then…oh my Lanta, is that Fake Blood?

It had been over a decade since I heard this tune. ‘Mars’ actually came out in 2008, but look, we’ve no editors to answer to here at Not Music Journalism™.

The little gargoyle noise, the twinkly melody, the alien vocal. Whatever happened to Fake Blood?

Still a fun tune.

🥬🥬🥬🥬/5

Guru Josh Project - Infinity (Klaas Vocal Mix)

Here’s my key

philosophy

a freak like me

just needs

infinity

So dramatic but also iconic. This edit of the original version actually came out in 2008, not 2009, but again, we’re just free-flowing and can allow for some flexibility between the years 08 and 09.

I quite like this tune.

🥬🥬🥬🥬/5

The Bloody Beetroots - Warp 1.9

Not proud to have once listened to this on repeat. So much screaming. Trying to think of a redeemable quality here.

Nein.

N/A 🥬

Basement Jaxx - Raindrops

I used to love this song, but listening back, it’s all a bit much. There’s a lot going on. Not sure about those vocals. It reminds me of Urban Outfitters music but on steroids. The crazed synth segment is fun though.

🥬🥬🥬/5

Swedish House Mafia & Laidback Luke ft. Deborah Cox - Leave The World Behind

“Some Red Bull, some water, some nice fresh house music.”

So much happening in this video, I don’t know where to look. We’ve got private jets, palm trees, Pete Tong’s voice crackling on the radio, bikinis n’ bums, and Steve Angello, who “just wants to show the world that I’m a good producer.”

I’m too overwhelmed by the Superstar DJ bits in the video to listen to the tune properly. This is The Life, the stuff of dreams, the pinnacle of one’s DJá career.

Aspirations. x

🥬/5 (sole 🥬 dedicated to the Deborah Cox sample)

I was never going to see Coldplay. It was never anything I intended or planned to do in life. So that is why my sister Aisling, an unexpected fan of the band (she’s an Ibiza Head) bought one ticket to their show in Athens on 9th June. She said she would go on her own. I said I’d accompany her on the Metro before leaving her in the capable hands of Chris Martin.

A rewind for a moment. Months ago, she had tried to buy a ticket through Ticketmaster when sales went live for Coldplay’s Music Of The Spheres tour, but despite hovering aggressively over her laptop keys, the tickets seemed to evaporate to dust. She didn’t get one for Coldplay’s shows in Dublin or London. As predicted, they sold out in nanoseconds. The same thing happened for Athens; the show sold out, and she didn’t get a ticket.

However.

She managed to find a ticket for Coldplay’s Athenian leg of the tour through a legit-looking re-sell site called Viagogo. She paid €250 (that’s €150 more than the standard price) to a re-seller named ‘Duka Altiona’. Nothing seemed weird because Aisling wasn’t dealing with some faceless account on Gumtree, Facebook Market Place or Instagram. It was all done through the sleek site of Viagogo. What could go wrong?

On the day of the concert, everything started off so well.

We took the Metro for ten stops, getting off at Irini at 6 p.m., well in advance of Coldplay’s grand entrance at 9.15 p.m. We walked under the shade of the white spaceship structure leading to the Olympic Stadium, where Coldplay would be performing, passing gyros vendors and some questionable merch stands. Despite the hordes of people milling about and the hawkers of various natures, the atmosphere was chill. Relaxed, even.

It was going to be great!

We sat on one of the roundy mosaic benches dotted around the stadium, each one wrapped around a tree, providing more essential shade. The band wouldn’t be on for ages, so we passed the time chatting and voice-noting Coldplay-inclined friends and family about this momentous occasion. I also began to observe the crowd from my High Horse. Who listens to Coldplay? Who buys tickets to Coldplay concerts, apart from Aisling?

It turns out a very cute cohort of the human race. I saw a group of glittery-faced teenage girls holding hands, swinging their arms, and bouncing toward the entrance. Young couples. Older couples. Families. Groups of innocent-looking Greek lads.

Everyone looked so happy!

Aisling was in a fabulous mood, which put me in a fabulous mood. She bought a freddo from the Everest truck (“need the caffeine ha ha!”), and coming up to 9 p.m., I left her off at the entrance to the arena, waving her off like it was her first day at school.

I saw the steward in the bucket hat and hi-vis vest glance at Aisling’s ticket and direct her to the next set of barriers, where she’d get her ticket scanned. But I didn’t stick around for that part.

I made my way to the Metro, walking against a deluge of more sparkly-eyed Coldplay fans. The sun had just set behind Mount Parnitha, and the sky was dusty pink, adding a mystical vibe to the evening.

Everything felt so magical!

On the Metro, I thought about which bakery I’d go to for a spanakopita once I got back into town. Apollonion? Artiston? Attica? Or would the pastries be all sweaty and sad by now? Maybe I’d get an Oakberry instead.

Three stops later, I checked my phone.

Aisling was sitting at the big dried-out fountain near where I had left her only twenty minutes ago, in floods of tears. She explained what had happened. The nice woman scanning tickets told her that this ‘Duka Altiona’ had already used the ticket at precisely 6.40 p.m. So ‘Duka’ was in the arena right now €150 richer, probably having a cold drink and bopping to the support act, Maisie Peters, fully aware that Aisling was outside and utterly rejected in every sense of the word.

My sister wasn’t the only one who was scammed that day. She had seen the staff turn away a tearful teenager, her crumpled print-out ticket in hand, and a father and his three kids go through the same thing. And because Aisling used Viagogo, not some dodgy site (to reiterate!!!), she never expected this to happen. Neither did I.

In the minutes before Coldplay came onstage, we sat on the rim of the dead fountain. There were other rejects there too, and people who looked as if they had happened to be strolling by the stadium that night and decided to stop and listen to whoever was performing.

Aisling gathered herself through more tears, tissues and hiccups. I thought about ‘Duka Altiona’. Who was this ‘Duka’? Why did they do this? Maybe they needed money to pay for medical treatment or buy food for their two-year-old. Maybe they needed petrol so they could visit a sick relative. I felt sorry for them and whatever situation they had found themselves in to scam someone out of a Coldplay gig.

A Coldplay gig.

But actually, no. How can you scam someone and then go to the concert, knowing that the person you ‘sold’ your ticket to is outside in ribbons? I’m very curious about this. Would you not feel guilty the whole time while Chris Martin softly sings ‘Fix You’ in front of 70,000 people on a balmy Sunday night in Athens?

Anyway.

The stadium went all dark, followed by a long, cinematic intro. We could hear it semi-clearly, and then a woman’s ecstatic voice boomed into a microphone, introducing Coldplay in Greek. A burst of light, twinkling LEDs, UFO beams, flashes of blue and red, and then we could hear Chris Martin’s amazingly high-pitched voice reverberate around the arena, trickling through to the Fountain of Rejects.

“We just need a big screen, and then we’d be set!” I said brightly to Aisling.

“Sure, we could have just come here and listened to the whole thing for free,” she responded half-heartedly.

We both knew that sitting at the Fountain of Rejects was not the same experience as being inside the arena, obviously.

I can’t remember the first song because I was too distracted by more wholesome scenes, even at the Fountain of Rejects. There was a dad dancing with his young son, twirling him around, the child giggling in delight. A regal golden retriever had appeared behind us, its owner listening to the overflow from the stadium. A group of loud girls were jumping up and down and singing along to ‘Adventure of a Lifetime’. It was all too much and, coupled with the pearly half-moon high in the sky, triggered another onslaught of tears from Aisling.

Chris Martin spoke a few sentences in Greek (a valid attempt) and then launched into a breathy rendition of ‘Paradise’. I pictured ‘Duka Altiona’ holding their arms up in the air, eyes closed, swaying at the chorus, and hugging the person next to them. Maybe taking a selfie afterwards to savour the moment forever. xoxo

We stayed for about an hour before heading to the Metro, and on the way, witnessed a heated exchange between a security man and a couple. The latter had been leaning on the barriers close to the entrance, which was apparently a No-No. Both parties were shouting, with lots of “Malaka” thrown in, and not in the usually affectionate way that warrants the term “Malaka”.

We passed the gyros vendors, who had re-stocked on interesting terracotta-coloured sausages, and bought our Metro tickets to return to the centre.

On the platform, we heard most of ‘Clocks’ before the train sputtered into the station, and by the end of it, I felt an unexpected tug of emotion in my tummy. I had forgotten how stunning that song was; the elegant piano notes, the wistful lyrics “yeouuuuuuuuu ooooooooooooooooo (pause) aahrr” and the twangy guitar bits. I also couldn’t get over Chris Martin’s Peter-Pan style baritones. I have a new appreciation for him, it must be said.

Then my mind wandered to ‘Duka Altiona’ again. Were they having a nice time in there? WERE THEY FEELING GUILTY YET?

Thankfully, it wasn’t all shite. The following morning, after a carefully worded email to Viagogo, the company refunded Aisling the full amount. So, Aisling got her money back, but ‘Duka Altiona’ is still up €150 and got to see Coldplay in Athens, which is (according to Aisling) a “once-in-a-lifetime” experience.

While the refund proved the best outcome in this poopy situation, we will never know who ‘Duka Altiona’ is. But I think they are a bad person.

I do.

Small Things Like These

Claire Keegan

My mum received this book as a gift whilst recovering from an operation last year. When I saw the snowy scene on the cover, I thought, “That’s nice, a little book about the small moments of joy that happen every day, like the smell of chipper or the sound of a baby’s giggle. Lovely now.”

I was so wrong to have made such an assumption. Also, I only wanted to read Small Things Like These to get it out of the way before seeing the film adaptation with Cillian Murphy (which is still TBC for a release date). It was a book to tick off before seeing the movie rather than something I actually wanted to read.

Looking back now, and considering how compelling the book was overall, I’m embarrassed to admit my initial ~flippancy~ towards it.

Small Things Like These is set in 1985 in New Ross, Co. Wexford and follows Bill Furlong, a coal merchant and father of five. It’s a dark and dreary winter, both literally and figuratively. The Catholic church is very much in power, people are upping sticks daily to find work in England, and it’s so baltic that you can almost feel the chill escaping from the pages.

This book lived in my brain for weeks afterwards, mainly because of how it’s written rather than the poignant storyline. Every sentence is considered, every word is precious, as if Claire Keegan was working with an extremely limited word count (maybe she was?). 

I was quite curious about her approach, so I went down a Keegan-shaped rabbit hole, reading every article I could find about her. It turns out that, yes, she does write “economically” and says, “Elegance is saying just enough.”

Here’s an example of such Elegance with a capital E. There’s one bit where Furlong is in an orchard and considers robbing a “freckled pear.” I have never read a more stunning description of a pear. There’s another scene involving a “flock of wicked geese.” Wicked geese! I can see them now, squawking around the place, eyes bulging. Shivers.

After I read the book, I read it again a few days later. Claire Keegan’s choice of words, the structure of every sentence, and her chilling descriptions of New Ross, like the herd of abandoned cows “bawling to be milked”, amongst many other glimpses of the town and its inhabitants, shook me. I’m still shook. 

🍊🍊🍊🍊🍊/5

The Little Friend

Donna Tartt

I didn’t know what the hell was going on for most of this book, but I got through it anyway. It’s very different from Donna Tartt’s previous bestsellers, The Secret History (slippery, disturbing, skin-crawly) and The Goldfinch (trippy, seedy, hormonal). 

The Little Friend is set in a sleepy town in Mississippi in the 70s. The protagonist is a precocious 12-year-old called Harriet Cleve Dufresnes (only Donna Tartt could come up with a name like that). Most of the story centres on Harriet’s plan to avenge the person who killed her brother, Robin, who was mysteriously murdered when Harriet was a baby. But the story also conveys how the murder affected her family for many years to come. 

There are a lot of characters in the book, so I got lost at times; Who’s Farish? Which one is Edie — one of the aunts or the granny? What about that Reverend person? What is going on!!!!!

So many goosepimple scenes though, especially in the last quarter. I couldn’t get them out of my head. And the descriptions are simple but create a tangible atmosphere: the “dust motes” swirling around Harriet’s house, the permanent smell of Ponds Cold Cream on her mother and the “dingy, shut-up vapor of neglect” that hangs over the backyard. Unlike Claire Keegan, Donna Tartt is not economical with her language — this book is a chonker at 576 pages (for context, that’s more than Prince [?] Harry’s thesis-thick memoir Spare).

But still, you really get sucked into this hazy town and all its snakes in the shadows. It was a mission to read at times, especially when feeling a leeeetle tired, but it was worth it to reach the end and complete a more challenging book from Donna Tarrt’s wild imagination. I spent hours on Reddit afterwards reading what others thought of the book and, in particular, that ending. Reddit for days. Much procrastinating.

🍊🍊🍊🍊/5

Klara and The Sun

Kazuo Ishiguro

Shoutout to Someone Sunny for recommending this book. I’d never heard of Kazuo Ishiguro before. Would you believe he’s an award-winning, celebrated, renowned and big-deal author? 🫠 Also, there’ll be a film version of Klara and the Sun, so I recommend reading the book first, if possiblé.

Ishiguro writes the story from Klara’s point of view. She’s an Artificial Friend i.e. a robot, who survives on “nourishment” from the sun. The book begins in the store where she’s for sale, waiting for a parent to purchase her for their child, which seems to be the norm in this weird world conjured by Ishiguro…and you’ll have to read the rest.

Like The Little Friend, I wasn’t sure what was going on in this book, but only in some parts. What’s the RPO building? What’s wrong with Josie? What does it mean when a person is “lifted”? Can someone explain please!!!

That’s the beauty of it, though. The book alludes to things, so you have to come up with your own ideas about what’s really happening.

As well as the descriptions of dystopia (which we are all heading towards IRL, I feel), Klara’s cute observations lived in my head for ages. There’s “Coffee Cup Lady”, whom Klara christens because “from the back, and in her thick wool coat, she seemed small and wide and round-shouldered like the ceramic coffee cups on the red shelves...” There are loads more cute observations like that throughout the book.

After finishing it, I disappeared into the Reddit vortex again, desperate (lol) to know how other readers interpreted the ending. That sparked a whole new spiral of thoughts, so I might read it again because it was a bit of a task at times and mostly depended on how fried or fresh I was to fully absorb and appreciate the writing. It’s still a V good book though.

🍊🍊🍊🍊/5

The Mess We’re In 

Annie Macmanus

A fangirl for over a decade now, I love Annie Mac as a DJ and Annie Macmanus as a writer. She’s an icon, a legend, a total inspiration. How does she do it? The DJing, the Before Midnight-ing, the touring, the podcasting, the writing, the sea-swimming? She’s just bloomin’ brilliant.

I flew through her debut novel Mother Mother which came out in 2021. I’ll probably write about that one in a different listicle.

You’d fly through The Mess We’re In too. It’s an easy read but a high-quality easy read, if you get me. You could read it on the train, on the plane, walking the cat, anywhere, really. Not like The Little Friend, which allowed for no external distractions, and required full brain cell usage.

The Mess We’re In is set in London in 2000. The main character, Orla, has just moved to a squalid house in Kilburn with her brother, his bandmates, and her best friend, Neema. Orla’s 21, working two jobs and going out on the sesh every night. That’s all I’m sayin’.

Very early in the book, there’s a description of an Afters situation. Orla wakes up in the morning, slumped against a radiator in someone’s living room, hungover and scagged to BITS.

“The record spins on a deck in the corner. The coffee table is covered; overflowing ash trays, empty beer cans, half-full glasses with cigarette butts floating in the liquid like tiny dead bodies. A semi circle of space on the side nearest the sofa holds a row of messily chopped lines of cocaine.”

If you have even the faintest interest in dance music, it’s likely you’ve seen at least one of the dregs above, maybe in a club, a kitchen, a portaloo or anywhere with a pair of CDJs or Technics within sneezing distance. That scaggy scene alone still lives in my head. I’ve seen it with my own eyes more than times I’d like to. 🥲

Much like the author herself, the cover is iconic. It’s cool and fun and orange; everything you’d expect from Annie Mac. J’obsessed.

🍊🍊🍊🍊🍊/5

Questions, mostly beginning with WHY

There are loads of reviews on Irish Wish that critique the film properly, in a clear and journalistic manner. Here’s my version, however, which is neither of those things. It’s a stream of nonstop questions that flowed through my head throughout the film and still swirled in my brain after the rolling credits.

NB: I forgot most but not all of the character’s names, so I’m using either their real names or a reference to…something else.

The questions

What was the budget for this?

Why is everyone in tartan?

What are these accents???

Does Hollywood think all men with the surname Kennedy are good-looking because they come from the same stock as JFK?

Why do the Cliffs of Moher remind Lindsay Lohan of James Joyce?

Why do all of Jane Seymour’s scenes look like they’re filmed in a prefab with a few props thrown in at the last minute?

Why is Lindsay Lohan brushing her teeth so aggressively?

Why is everything so BRIGHT?

Why was the world so mean to Lindsay Lohan in the ‘00s?

I wonder if her nightclub in Athens is still going?

Or the beach club in Mykonos?

The St.Brigit character is V good, what was she in again?

Why is St.B wearing a spa manager’s uniform with a headscarf to match?

Who wrote that exchange between Jane Seymour and the airport check-in girl?

Who put Lindsay in those suede brown loafer things?

What are those straw basket hats on the bridesmaids at Em’s wedding?

So the big reveal is…Lindsay Lohan will write a book about the Cliffs of Moher? But…how? Will they come alive, like the talking trees in Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers?

Why is Lindsay Lohan’s talent wasted in this tartan-clad film?

The best bits

Lindsay Lohan’s real-life brother jiving (he has that glint in his eye where you know if you went on a night out with him, you wouldn’t come home for a week).

Lindsay making the best of a shambolic script. I wanted to watch The Parent Trap after seeing Irish Wish, to do her justice more than anything.

To conclude

After all that, I enjoyed watching Irish Wish with my mum, grabbing her arm and SCREAMING at some of the scenes, most notably the diddly-eye jig in the pub, the priest addressing Lindsay Lohan as “my child”, the inappropriate use of the phrase “tickety boo” and St.Brigid peering behind Lindsay’s shoulder in the most Irish way possible asking, “Was that a wish ye were making?”

It was surreal to see Lindsay Lohan bopping around Westport, Wicklow and Knock airport; surreal but weirdly reassuring. She’s like your neighbour from up the road, someone who went to your school, your friend’s older cousin. Just a familiar gerdle with a reassuring presence. Big Sister Energy, possibly? Maybe that comes from how long she’s been acting, from The Parent Trap to Mean Girls to the Mykonos beach club days (that was a reality TV show [apparently], but still). You’d know her to see; she’s a bit intimidating but also cool, calm, collected, familiar.

Also, I almost got high seeing the long driveway into Powerscourt in Irish Wish. I’ve been there! I know that place! It’s fun to see places you know on the Big Screen. There’s Dun Laoghaire shopping centre with the old brass bannisters! [The Snapper] It’s the 40ft in all her glory! [Bad Sisters] Look at the Spice Girls in Stoneybatter! [video for Stop] And there’s Paul Mescal in Trinnerz! [Normal People]

At the end of the day, Irish Wish is a harmless, predictable movie with a robot script and some nice shots of Ireland. Lindsay Lohan is great. I don’t want to add to the paddywhackery of it all and say “fairplay to her” but to complete this academic essay on the film, Fairplay To Her. x

Subscribe now