LOOSE TROUSERS

LOOSE TROUSERS SNAPPED UP BY GNARLED TREE PRESS WEBSITE AT IRISHGENIUS.ME IN SHOCK MOVE

2011-09-06T14:13:00.000-07:00

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2011-03-01T07:35:00.000-08:00

DiScOmBoBuLatE - where literature, gentlemen's smalls and comedy collide

When DisComBoBuLatE host Ian Macpherson agreed to an interview/photo shoot for Gentlemen's Quarterly - March 2011 edition - he did so in good faith. This once-illustrious magazine has, however, embraced the market place since its elitist heyday in the 1840s. Result? Macpherson has, unfortunately, been wrongly filed as GQ Babe Of The Month.

On the plus side, a rather fetching centrefold of the subject in his best Donegal Tweed underpants may have the unintended effect of broadening DisComBoBuLatE's appeal.

Also broadening its appeal on March 10th will be jazz chanteuse Christine Bovill, comedians Arnold Brown and Michael Redmond, poet Magi Gibson and novelist Alan Bissett, who also features in GQ but not, we're delighted to report, in the obligatory tartan thong.

DisComBoBuLatE @The Mitchell Library March 10, 8-10pm. £8/6.

Unsubscribe: If you wish to join the growing ranks of The Unsubscribed, please send a hurtful email to the host. Recent unscribers include Hosni Mubarak, Mr and Mrs Gaddafi and all the little Gaddafis, and Doris Tring (Miss), who works for Clackmannanshire libraries and objects to the tone.

2011-01-27T03:53:00.000-08:00

DisComBoBuLatE - where literature, casual sexism in the workplace, and literature collide

DisComBoBuLatE has been rocked recently by the sacking of host Ian Macpherson for certain comments relating to women in poetry. Mobile phone footage

'Wouldn't know yer sonnet from yer actual 'aiku, Trev.'
'Poetry? Stick to shopping lists, darlin'.'

is available to all media for a small consideration.

Macpherson was also witnessed cocking his trilby at a jaunty angle in the direction of Stirling Makar Magi Gibson. 'I knew exactly what he was thinking,' retorted a regal Ms. Gibson, 'and it had very little to do with my blank verse.'

We at DisComBoBuLatE regard such comments and cocking as totally unacceptable, particularly as poetry tries to reach out to a family audience.

Macpherson has been permanently replaced by Ian Macpherson lookalike Ian Macpherson. He will be joined by Stirling Makar Magi Gibson, poet Billy Letford, polymath Alan Bissett, wordophile RJ Ritchie and Trev at

The Attic @The Tolbooth, Stirling. Friday Feb 11, 2011. 8-10pm

STOP PRESS: If you'd like to unsubscribe from DisComBoBeMaiL please let me know. Sarah Palin, Pope Benedict's press secretary and Estate of Pol Pot have all asked to be deleted, so there's no shame in it.

HOLD THE ARTS PAGE!!!

2011-01-24T04:43:00.000-08:00

Ian's latest novel, Posterity Now, the long-awaited sequel to Deep Probings, will be published in summer by the highly prestigious Gnarled Tree Press.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice!

DisComBoBuLatE CHRISTMAS MESSAGE

2010-12-14T12:46:00.000-08:00

DisComBoBuLatE - where literature, Dionysian debauchery on the wilder fringes of legality and comedy collide

Fast forward to December 25, 2010.

You've gone for a quick Christmas Eve snifter in a quiet suburban pub and ended up

Affianced to a lady wrestler in Scunthorpe.
Sharing a cell with the reserve banjo player of the Ozark Mountain Daredevils at a correctional facility in Arkansas.
In flagrante delicto with the Cardinal Archbishop of Lima. His place.

Relax. DisComBoBuLatE host Ian Macpherson has been there too. In 1987, '93 and 2006 respectively.

Further details in his memoir Kissing the Gutter: My Love Affair With Alcohol.

He's managed to turn his life around.

So can you.

Gets a tad boring around the teatime mark, though.

DisComBoBuLaTe - where literature, boy scouts and comedy collide

2010-10-26T14:22:00.000-07:00

'Discombobulate delivered a brilliant, thought-provoking and highly entertaining mix of literature and comedy at the Edinburgh International Book Festival. It was one of the popular hits of the festival and also one of my own personal highlights.'

Nick Barley
Director
Edinburgh International Book Festival 2010

Preening itself from it's stunning success at the EIBF, DisComBoBuLatE embarks on its first world tour on November 30th. The venue? The Attic @ Stirling's Tolbooth.

In keeping with Stirling's position as the gateway to Scotland's lovely Highlands, your louche host Ian Macpherson will read selected passages from 'A Brisk Hike Up The Trossachs' by Hector Baden Powell, maternal grand-nephew of the boy scout chap.

'His frequent references to the female sex as 'an inexcusable aberration' may, perhaps, jar with the modern reader. It was, after all, published in less enlightened times - spring of last year, to be precise. But set against this are his delightful passages on nature, as witness his exhilarating chapter on rolling naked in the gorse with the prettier members of 'F' Troop.' - inlocoparentis.com

Joining Macpherson will be Stirling Machar Magi Gibson, poet Billy Letford, polymaths Alan Bissett and RJ Ritchie, and the sweet, unbroken voices of the 1st Trossach Scout Group Male Voice Choir. Unless otherwise engaged.

DisComBoBuLatE@EDINBURGH BOOK FESTIVAL

2010-07-27T08:33:00.000-07:00

Ian likes to put it about at the Edinburgh Book Festival. Take Monday August 16th, for instance. At 9 PM he's hosting DisComBoBuLatE. Early next morning sees the launch of his transsexual children's novel Gran the Man *.

At DisCoMBoBULate his ears will be caressed by the silken tones of poet Magi Gibson, comedian Arnold Brown, novelist Alan Bissett and artist of the comic word Simon Munnery. In the morning he'll be torn to pieces by a tentful of screaming infants.

DisComBoBuLatE@Unbound: The Spiegeltent.
Monday August 16th. 9-11pm. Free.

* Gran the Man is available at all good transsexual children's bookshops.

DisComBoBuLatE - HOLD THE FRONT PAGE

2010-03-25T04:35:00.000-07:00

DiScoMboBuLaTe - where literature, comedy and possibly the finest limerick ever written about a six-syllable place name collide

DisComBoBuLatE has been inundated with an email. Is it true? Is DisComBoBuLatE no more? No. Due to other commitments, co-founders Magi Gibson, Ian Macpherson and Alan Bissett have opted for a less regular, more DisComBoBuLaTiOuS approach. Further details to follow.

DisComBoBulatE has been inundated with a further email. I'm aware that Magi Gibson is writing a series of novels about a tragic heroine for the Puffin imprint. Alan Bissett is also busy with a novel, an original screenplay, the screenplay of a novel, several stage plays, a couple of oratorios, acting roles in four simultaneous productions, and a memoir about his first big breakthrough at the age of 12 minutes. But what of ineffable host Ian Macpherson?

Good question. The limerick, most pleasing of all poetic forms, has shamefully neglected the multi-syllable place name in favour of Dundee. Macpherson has made it his life's work to redress the balance. He is proud to share the first fruit of his labour.

A young Wicklow woman named Liz,
Who travelled by mule to Cadiz,
Has put it in writing:
'It's not as exciting
As Newtownmountkennedy is.'

Fired up, he is now about to tackle Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch

DisComBoBuLatE will return when he's worked out a suitable rhyme.

DisComBoBuLatE@GlasgowComedyFestival- March 2010

2010-03-08T05:49:00.000-08:00

DiScoMboBuLaTe where literature, comedy and Aristotle's Poetics collide

‘Comedy is... an imitation of inferior people’ (Poet.1449a32f.,cf.1448a2-5,16-18,1448b24-6).

Aristotle was probably referring here to Scottish TV comedy and modern standup. Not, tragically, to DisComBoBuLatE at the Comedy Festival, which features Alan Bissett, Amy Burns, Billy Letford, Kirstin Innes, Ryan Van Winkle, Anneliese Mackintosh. Superior people all, imitating themselves.

Your ineffable host, Ian Macpherson, will be trying to lower the tone.

'Anguish With Posie' Gets Youth Vote

2010-02-08T04:36:00.000-08:00

My first review, internet-style.

I seen your fuckin' play. It was shite.
I done a review. 'This play was fuckin' shite - me.'
Damian (Aged 7 and 3/4)

Pithy, I'll give it that.

And it's good to see young people showing an interest in my work.

DisComBoBuLatEsT

2010-02-02T05:01:00.000-08:00

DisComBoBuLatE returns in March.

Meanwhile host Ian Macpherson is basking in the afterglow of his first play at the Tron. The triumph of Anguish With Posie has finally laid to rest the critical mauling for his possibly over-ambitious one-man Othello. Critics ignored his acting abilities and concentrated what grudging praise there was on 'his lightning application and removal of face paint.'

A slight mix up in the celebrated death scene, however, saw the fair Othello despatched by Desdemona the Moor. This was 'plain silly', 'deeply racist' or 'a gloriously post-feminist update', depending on your broadsheet of choice. Macpherson has subsequently been linked with a bio-pic of President Obama and a proposed BBC revival of The Black and White Minstrel Show. Further details as they emerge.

DiScOmBoBuLatE CHRISTMAS MESSAGE 2009

2009-12-23T00:25:00.000-08:00

The Catholic church is on the run in Ireland and DisComBoBuLatE front man Ian Macpherson, sadly, is on the run with it.

Because of his predilection for black coats and a number of different addresses over the years, word has it that he is none other than Father Johnny Cracken, pederast extraordinaire and friend of several recent popes.

Macpherson refutes these scurrilous allegations and wishes all his many friends and acquaintances a holy and a happy Christmas.

Particularly the young people. Because, let's face it, that's what Christmas is all about.

Sunday Times December 2009: http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article6945770.ece

DisComBoBuLaTe - The StoRy sO FaR

2009-12-03T05:34:00.000-08:00

MARCH 2008 @ CABBAGES & KINGS

Prestigious Lit Wit venue DiScoMbObUlaTe is reeling from the apparent theft of private correspondence ahead of its March 11th opening night in Glasgow's West End. To prevent the perpetrators benefiting from the fruits of their crime, spokesman Ian Macpherson has taken the unprecedented step of releasing said correspondence into the public domain.

My Dear Heaney,
Nobel Prize notwithstanding, we are unable to offer you a booking at the first ever DiScoMbObUlaTe. As I'm sure you must be aware, the Nobel Prize is awarded anually, regardless of the talent on offer, and many of the recipients are still, sadly, alive. So look at it this way. If word got out that you were doing it, why - they'd all be after a spot.

Dear Alasdair Gray,
Such is the prestige attached to the opening night of DiScoMbObUlaTe, we have decided to dispense with the vulgarity of payment. You have lived most of your inspirational life as a penurious artist. Perform at DiScoMbObUlaTe and we'll make sure you stay that way.

Dear Mr. Mandela,
Given the depressing statistics on reoffending, you are to be congratulated on staying out of trouble since leaving prison. Having said that, we are not looking for 'an inspirational 2-hour inaugural speech' for our very first DiScoMbObUlaTe. It's not that sort of night.

DisComBoBuLatE MOVES

Following a sensational opening night, legendary Lit Wit venue DiScoMbObUlaTe has relocated to bigger premises.
The Centre For Contemporary Arts finally won the franchise over Ibrox Park, which lost out, explained DiScoMboBuLaTe front man Ian Macpherson, on three counts.
'Bad acoustics. Too draughty. Wrong image.'

DiScOmBoBuLaTe July 8 at CCA

hosted by Ian Macpherson with Kevin Williamson, Helen Lamb, Iain Heggie, Ian Macpherson introducing himself with the use of mirrors, and more.

Amendment

I failed to mention the address. My job.

The Courtyard Cafe, CCA, 350 Sauchiehall Street. Glasgow.

I accept full responsibility for the omission and will fall on my sword as soon as Yukio Mishima returns the damn thing.

Further Amendment

I've done it again. The next DiScomBoBuLaTe is on Tuesday July 8th, not the 12th as circulated. The August date - with special guest Arnold Brown - is Tuesday the 12th.

In mitigation, I find the outside world confusing, and this seems to be reflected in my correspondence.

No excuses, though, so it's three days in barbed wire underpants for me.

THREE DAYS IN BARBED WIRE UNDERPANTS

A gentle reminder that DisCoMboBuLaTe is on Tuesday (8 for 8.30) at the CCA Courtyard Cafe.

My spell in corrective underwear, by the way - and many thanks for literally sacks of emails on the subject - passed without serious long-term consequence; no more kids for me, but I look on that as a bonus, frankly.

The underpants in question, in answer to a specific question, are available through the usual outlets. I bought mine on ebay, however, and don't recommend it. They were two sizes too small - a plus in the event - but the Made In Taiwan label gave the lie to John Knox forging them himself from his own eyebrows.

DisCoMboBuLAtEsT – AUGUST 2008

Tomorrow is DisComBoBuLatE Tuesday, so put the kids in care, drop the aged parents off at the nearest hospice and think of yourselves for once. Failing that, think of us.

A full roster of readers/performers, all of whom I've Googled, and I'll be sharing my findings with you tomorrow. Turns out poet Magi Gibson lives with me.

Other surprises to follow.

hosted by Ian Macpherson with Arnold Brown, Magi Gibson, Robert Wringham, Billy Letford, Leela Soma, Alan Bissett and more.

DiScoMbObUlaTe where literature and comedy collide – SEPTEMBER 2008

September will feature new work from poet Magi Gibson, playwright Iain Heggie, monologuist Billy Letford, newcomers George Anderson, Conrad Watts and others.

Hosted by Ian Macpherson, fresh from his synchronized swimming triumph at the Beijing Olympics: his standupcomedic triumph at the Edinburgh Fringe: his ill-fated stint between the posts for Offaly Ladies Camogie All-Stars (Second Eleven).

Depending on which one turns up.

DiScoMbObUlaTe where literature and comedy collide – OCTOBER 2008

Featured in October will be novelist and comedian AL Kennedy, novelist and biographer Rodge Glass on Alasdair Gray, playwright Iain Heggie, novelists Kirstin Innes and Alan Bissett, Anna Miles and others.

Hosted by Ian Macpherson, who will be foisting Ireland's Greatest Living Genius, Fiachra MacFiach, on a suspecting world.

Ian would also like to apologize to anyone discombobulated by last month's Special Surprise Guest, Gore Vidal, failing to turn up. Not wishing to spoil the surprise, we didn't tell him. This month's Equally Special Surprise Guest, Dorothy Parker, probably won't turn up either. Different reason.

DiScoMbObUlaTe where literature and comedy collide – NOVEMBER 2008

Hosted by the ineffable Ian Macpherson, with poet and playwright Liz Lochhead, poet Graham Fulton, novelists Alan Bissett & Annaliese MacKintosh and others.

This month's special guest will be Roger McGough reading his bowdlerised classic 'Season of Mists and Mellow Waitrose". None of our other special guests has turned up, so don't expect Roger either.

Amendment

Roger McGough, by the way, will not be gracing our venue. I was merely being witty and amusing at his expense. Truncating the work of dead versifiers for commercial purposes? Disgraceful, I implied.

But some of you have pointed out a certain hypocrisy in my Holier-than-Roger stance. I have, after all, several ads of my own in the offing.

I will arise and go now, and go to M&S...

I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er hills and vales
When all at once I saw a crowd
And followed them in to Bloomingdales.

I'll be performing these and others, live and ineffably, on Tuesday.

ineffable |inˈefəbəl|adjective: incapable of swearing; throwback to a kinder, gentler age.

DiScOmBoBuLaTe - DEC 2008 REMINDER PLUS ADDENDUM

Many of you have emailed about the court case outlined below. Hanging too good. Flogging not enough. That sort of thing. I trust the addendum addresses your concerns.

DiScoMbObUlaTe where literature and comedy collide

Legendary author Alasdair Gray has sadly turned down the Father Christmas slot at December's DiscomBoBuLaTe. Perhaps he got a better offer from Debenhams.

Host Ian Macpherson has stepped valiantly into the breach.

'His emaciated, clean-shaven, plainclothes Santa Claus had the kiddies in stitches' - Irish Times

Also featuring will be Santa's performing elves Alan Bissett, Annaliese MacKintosh, Kirstin Innes, Elaine Malcolmson, Iain Heggie, Anna Miles & Julian Corrie, and others.

The full text of the Irish Times piece reads as follows: Judge Ferrister, presiding, enquired of Mother Superior, for the home, if they would ask the defendant back.'We didn't ask him in the first place,' she replied heatedly, 'so we can't very well ask him back.' Much laughter in court. Warming to her theme she remarked that it took three days on horse tranquilizers from a local stud farm to calm the children down. Judge Ferrister, summing up, suggested that whipping defenceless orphans into a state of hysteria was an abuse of said defendant's 'not inconsiderable gifts'. Defendant, a fine looking specimen in the full flowering of late boyhood, was bound over at Judge Ferrister's pleasure.

Addendum

HIGH COURT STIFFENS SENTENCE: In overruling Judge Ferrister's original ruling at the High Court, Chief Justice O'Huaidh said that justice must be seen to be done. Mother Superior was sentenced to six months for supplying horse tranquilizers to minors. Chief Justice O"Huaidh pointed out that this would test her Christian faith to the limit, especially if Big Mags was doing time. When it was suggested that Mother Superior was not in fact in the dock Chief Justice O'Huaidh remarked that, in the matter of Macpherson vs. The State, Judge Ferrister had been stiff enough in passing sentence. Much tittering from the bench.

CHRISTMAS 2008: BEST WISHES FROM DISCOMBOBULATE MARKETING TEAM

We at DiScOmBoBuLaTe are passionate - YES! PASSIONATE! - about brand loyalty! And what cheaper way to promote ourselves than the soulless mass-mail-out greeting to you (INSERT NAME) and you only!

So Happy Christmas/Easter/Thanksgiving/Ramadan/Hanukkah/Pongal/Teng Chieh/Nanakshahi/Birthday/Diwali/Mothering Sunday.

(delete as appropriate)

DiScoMbObUlaTe where literature and comedy collide

No DisCoMbObuLaTe in January. But wait!

Anneliese Mackintosh's story 'Pillars of the Community' will be broadcast on BBC Radio 4 on Thursday January 8th at 3.30 PM. Target audience? A clue, perhaps, in the title.

Ian Macpherson's story series 'Bottled Air' goes out at half-past-midnight on Saturdays from January 3rd for five weeks. Target audience? Drunks and early worshippers.

DiScoMboBuLaTe returns to the CCA on Tuesday, February 10th with a cast of several including Aidan Moffat of Arab Strap fame. Target audience? You.

DisCoMboBuLAtE FEBRUARY 2009 REMINDER PLUS

SPECIAL NEEDS ARRANGEMENTS: Taller seats available for professors of English.

Regular host Ian Macpherson is a confirmed egalitarian, which explains his seasonal letter to Her Majesty the Queen:

'Would turn down New Year's honour if offered. Please note, as a refusal often offends.'

This, he is delighted to report, has had the desired effect - no title.

His reputation as a man of all the people intact, he will introduce a thrillingly varied February 10th lineup at the Centre for Contemporary Arts. Performers include Sir Aidan Moffatt, Lady Annaliese MacKintosh, Kirstin Innes OBE, Iain Heggie (Order of the Knight's Garter), Lord Rodge Glass of Lanark, The Maple Leaves (By Royal Permission), Dame Alan Bissett and Magi Gibson (Title Supplied On Request).

On a less contentious note, Macpherson was recently named 'Falkirk's 432nd Sexiest Man' in a straw poll at the local Lidl. 'This was like totally unexpected,' gushed the thrilled if reluctant sexpot. 'I've never been to Falkirk in my life.'

DiScoMbObUlaTe where literature and comedy collide – MARCH 2009

http://living.scotsman.com/14519/Comedy-Review-Discombobulate.4971497.jp

Your ineffable host Ian Macpherson hasn't read the above, having suffered the trauma of a negative review which caused him to abandon a thriving career in the rarefied world of standup comedy.

Following several years of unrelenting praise he was stunned by a twelve-star hatchet job which concluded with the following confidence-shattering line: 'Macpherson is so, so brilliant' - their italics - 'but far too sexy to be a truly great comedian.' His confidence shot to pieces, he left the profession shortly afterwards and now poses for a living. Underpants ads. That sort of thing.

Following a gruelling day's shoot for Jasper Conrad Double Gussets, Macpherson will introduce Christine Bovill, AL Kennedy, Annaliese MacKintosh, Kirstin Innes, Iain Heggie, Alan Bissett and, prior to declaring his candidacy for the recently vacated Oxford Professorship of Poetry, the legendary Fiachra MacFiach.

DiScoMbObUlaTe where literature and comedy collide – APRIL 2009

Host Ian Macpherson is trying to send this message from the library. He doesn't have any information with him about lineups. AL Kennedy is definitely doing a radio piece - we'll put her behind a screen for authenticity. Artist of the Spoken Word Bruce Morton is also doing it. So is Alan Bissett. As, indeed, is Billy Letford. And Iain Heggie will be singing a couple of songs about life on Planet Heggie. With musical accompaniment from a tall Alaskan named Tyler. Surname supplied on the night. And if Kevin Williamson is reading this, fancy doing it, Kevin?

DiScoMbObUlaTe where literature and comedy collide – MAY 2009

DisComBoBuLaTe moves to the Arches on Tuesday May 5th, where louche host Ian Macpherson will introduce Jason Donald, Kirstin Innes, Iain Heggie, Alan Bissett, Anneliese Mackintosh, Magi Gibson and others.

The Arches is renowned for cutting edge, experimental theatre and a club scene involving young people staying out, in some cases, long after their bedtime. Even when they have school the following day. DisCoMboBuLatE looks forward to letting its hair down and has decided to go wild with a later finish.

The Arches, 253 Argyll Street, Glasgow

DiScoMboBuLaTe where literature and comedy collide – JUNE 2009

Regular DisCoMbObuLaTe performers famously don't get paid. We do, however, operate an expenses system which has come under close scrutiny in recent weeks.
Host Ian Macpherson is in bullish mood following revelations about his uniformed chauffeur for the half mile trip down Sauchiehall Street. As for Iain Heggie - a full-time gardener for his Maryhill council flat window box? Dubious to say the least.
Alan Bissett alone has emerged unscathed from this wreckage of reputations. His ego-masseuse, though costly, was seen as de rigueur for an artist of his stature.
Further revelations to follow.
In the meantime, your hubristic host will introduce Skye Lonergan, Ewan Morrison, the shamefully profligate Iain Heggie, Alan Bissett, a Kirstin Innes/Anneliese Mackintosh double act, and others too corrupt to mention.

DisCoMboBuLAtE – JULY 2009. NOT TO MENTION AUGUST.

'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair... ''

Are these your thoughts as we approach the end of the month? Do you find yourself snapping at the potted plants for no apparent reason and watering your parents? Do you lie on your teenage son's sperm-encrusted bed for days on end wailing about the monstrous unfairness of being born? Are you, in a word, distraught?

Perhaps your subconscious mind is trying to tell you something: DisComBobuLatE is taking a break in July.

But cheer up. Fling the aged parents on the mercy of the state. Swap your son's collection of death trash metal for Mantovani - The Soporific Years and toss him out of the house.

Oh, and smoke those blessed plants. DisComBoBuLaTe returns in August.

So dry those tears of despair and weep, rather, tears of joy.

THE DISCOMBOBULATE INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL OF LITERATURE OFFICIAL PROGRAMME

DiScoMboBuLaTe where literature and comedy collide
The DisCoMboBuLatE International Festival of Literature gets bigger every year!
Last year there wasn't one!!
This year there is!!!
ALASDAIR GRAY! SOPHIE COOKE! IAIN HEGGIE! ALAN BISSETT!
Curator Ian Macpherson introduces writers of international renown from as far flung as Scotland.
The DisComBoBuLatE InTerNaTioNaL FeStiVaL of LiTeRaTuRe runs 8.00 - 10.00 nightly, Tues. Aug 4 - Tues. Aug 4.
The Arches, 253 Argyll Street, Glasgow

DISCOMBOBULATE - IT'S SIMPLY NOT CRICKET

'Luke Wright (born March 7, 1985) is an English cricketer. He is a right-handed batsman and a right-arm medium-fast bowler. Born in Grantham, Wright joined Sussex in 2004, having spent all of the rest of his career thus far at Leicestershire. He was named in England's squad for the Under-19 World Cup in 2004, and joined the International Twenty20 squad for the 2007 Twenty20 World Championship in September 2007. He made his One Day International debut on September 5, 2007 against India.'
Above is the Wikipedia entry for Luke Wright. Luke Wright is actually a poet. He has no recollection of playing international cricket against India, or any other sub-continent for that matter. Nor was he born in Grantham. Inference? Wikipedia is not to be trusted for total factual accuracy.
Luke will make his DisComBoBulatE debut in September 2009. Fact. He will be joined by host Ian Macpherson, Iain Heggie, Alan Bissett, Ewan Morrison, Others, and, according to Wikipedia, Canadian curling journalist Douglas Maxwell.
If Wikipedia is to be believed, Douglas has been dead for two years. Should be an interesting night.
Tuesday, Sept. 1, 2009 - REMEMBER, REMEMBER THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER

DisCoMboBuLAtE APOLOGY: CRAVEN

Your louche host Ian Macpherson, his ineffability in tatters, has received a plethora of correspondence about the following:
Ian, by the way, will be introducing an evening of Five Minute Wonders on November 3. If you'd like to be considered for a slot let him know on want2perform@gmail.com No jugglers. Fire eaters. Mind readers. Ranters. Trick cyclists. Escapologists. Limbo dancers. Slammers. Slam dunkers. Dung slampers. Holy rollers. High wire stripteasers. Chippendale spin-offs. Or any combination of the above. It's not that sort of night.
'Ye Gods! So what sort of night IS IT?' - CHRYS
This captures the spirit of most of the two emails in question, although the term 'clever-dick c***' featured in a rather sharp rebuke from Damian (aged 7 3/4).
Damian, who favoured unt over ***, went on to question my parentage - I'll look into that and get back to him - and suggest that I 'go and take a running ***k at myself'.
Job done, Damo. Difficult but pleasurable.
Which brings us to Five Minute Wonders. The Arches. November 3. We're interested in literary wit or, if you will, witerature. Also poems penetrable and impenetrable, tunes with a halfway decent lyric, lyrics with a halfway decent tune. And all weighing in at five minutes or under.
Effably Yours.

RELAX! DisCoMboBuLAtE host Ian Macpherson has NOT added you as a friend on FACEBOOK

He merely wishes to alert you to the latest DisComBoBuLatE on Tuesday Nov. 3

DisComBobuLatE has, of course, played host to a vast array of unforgettable talent over the years. Can't think of any names offhand, but you get the drift. On November 3, however, we branch out with a whole evening of new and exciting talent. In years to come this talent will also be unforgettable. At the time of writing, however, your louche host's mind is a name-free blank.

Too many drugs in the sixties? Nonsense. Apart from liberal ingestions of acid, dope, junk, speed, mushrooms - magic, and thanks to a bum deal from a shifty greengrocer, button - he never touched the stuff.

RELAX! DisCoMboBuLAtE host Ian Macpherson has STILL not added you as a friend on FACEBOOK

He merely wishes to alert you, for the second and last time, to the latest DisComBoBuLatE on Tuesday Nov. 3

DisComBobuLatE has, of course, played host to a vast array of unforgettable talent over the years.

Jesus, man. That sentence was in the last email.

Can't think of any names offhand, but you get the drift.

So was that. Is this some kind of wind up?

On November 3, however, we branch out with a whole evening of new and exciting talent. In years to come this talent will also be unforgettable. At the time of writing, however, your louche host's mind is a name-free blank.

Your louche host's mind is also a memory-free blank, pal. We've read all this before. Go on. Tell us about drugs in the sixties.

Too many drugs in the sixties? Nonsense. Apart from liberal ingestions of acid, dope, junk, speed, mushrooms - magic, and thanks to a bum deal from a shifty greengrocer, button -

Yeh Yeh Yeh. He never touched the stuff.

he never touched the stuff.

Ah. I get it. this is the email equivalent of a recorded announcement. Am I right?

I am. Amn't I?

I knew it. I bleedin' am!

DisCoMboBuLAtE TUESDAY DEC 1 + Host Nabs Prestigious Film Part

Sarah Hall's latest publication is 'How To Paint A Dead Man'. She'll be sharing her expertise with us on Tuesday, so oils and cadavers at the ready. Bernard MacLaverty's latest, 'Matters of Life and Death', gives us two big subjects for the price of one. Life. Death. What else is there? And speaking of death, Alan Bissett, with 'Death of a Ladies' Man', has created a whole new sub-genre of Posthumous Autobiography.

Quite a line-up so far. On a less morbid note - we hope - we have chanteuse Christine Bovill chanteusing and Scottish Poetry Library Reader In Residence Ryan Van Winkle reading. Hopefully out loud. Also appearing will be the ever-popular others.

Your louche host, Ian Macpherson, might be a bit emotional on the night. Hiring the world's tallest photographer for a publicity shot may have backfired in the short term - image attached - but ridicule turned to envy when Macpherson landed the plum role of Leprechaun Twelve in the forthcoming Darby O'Gill and the Little People 2.

THE KIDDIE PAGE

2009-09-01T07:09:00.000-07:00

A major coup for DisCoMboBuLatE. James Kelman will read from his latest children's book, 'Wee Cunts'. A cross-genre crime novel for the pop-up market, it concerns itself with a serial killer who targets middle-class child readers who appear to like books.

A shoo-in for next year's Smarties prize I would have thought.

DisComBoBuLaTeST

2009-06-27T06:45:00.000-07:00

'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair... ''

Are these your thoughts as we approach the end of the month? Do you find yourself snapping at the potted plants for no apparent reason and watering your parents? Do you lie on your teenage son's sperm-encrusted bed for days on end wailing about the monstrous unfairness of being born? Are you, in a word, distraught?

Perhaps your subconscious mind is trying to tell you something: DisComBobuLatE is taking a break in July.

But cheer up. Fling the aged parents on the mercy of the state. Swap your son's collection of death trash metal for Mantovani - The Soporific Years and toss him out of the house.

Oh, and smoke those blessed plants. DisComBoBuLaTe returns in August.

So dry those tears of despair and weep, rather, tears of joy.

SCUPPERED!!!

2009-05-21T08:38:00.000-07:00

Ireland's Greatest Living Genius - Fiachra MacFiach - was set fair to seek nominations for the 2009 Oxford Professorship of Poetry. Sadly he never made it.

The reason? Scurrilous and unsubstantiated rumours involving a Christian Brothers' school and several small boys.

Anonymous of course.

GOOD NEWS FOR IRISH PUBLISHING

2009-05-19T01:42:00.000-07:00

The Irish publishing world is holding out against the scourge of the comic novel. Penguin Ireland complained that Deep Probings: The Autobiography of a Genius was 'relentlessly funny'. Blackstaff weighed in by sending a submissions guideline in reply to a submission. And now Lilliput has rejected the follow up with a new and intriguing twist. Below is the correspondence in full.

Dear Lilliput, I sent you the opening chapters of Posterity Now in December of last year. Can you confirm that you received it. Thanks.

Lilliput's reply didn't mention me by name, possibly on the assumption that I knew it already.

sorry, we don't do children's books
good luck

I countered with the following modest proposal.

To be honest, Anto, I hadn't thought of Posterity Now as a kids' book. I'm now thinking pop up. 2 words a page. Illustrations. I'll get straight on to Ladybird. Thanks. It always pays to know your target audience.
PS Ladybird's pop-up Ulysses found later success as an adult book, so you might like to reconsider Posterity Now in that light. It could work for grownups too.

No reply.

Ah well.

Looks like I'll have to fall back on Random House.

AGAINST THE ODDS

2009-03-07T02:28:00.000-08:00

If Ireland's Greatest Living Genius Fiachra MacFiach is selected as Oxford's next Professor of Poetry, he will become only the 44th male to hold the post in its 200 year history.

Fact.

OXFORD PROFESSOR OF POETRY: NEW FRONTRUNNER

2009-03-04T06:25:00.000-08:00

MACFIACH TO ENTER FRAY FOR OXBRIDGE POETRY POST

Ireland’s greatest living genius Fiachra MacFiach will shortly be nominated for the prestigious post of Oxford Professor of Poetry. He meets all the relevant criteria by virtue of being male, incomprehensible and white. He is related to Charles Darwin by natural selection. And such is his commitment to great poetry that he only reads his own work.

THE FEMINIST MACFIACH

2009-03-01T09:07:00.000-08:00

The following extract from Fiachra MacFiach's memoirs, referring to a well-known poet's exclusion from his anthology of Irish verse, suggests that he is sure to be a front runner for the Oxford professorship of poetry:

'Her failure to make the final cut, whilst regrettable – and no, I don’t discuss individual cases - was hardly surprising given the rigorous editorial stance. No women. As a steadfast and unwavering feminist I fully support the recent phenomenon of female versification, and the breakthrough will assuredly come...

... but not yet.'

This principled stance appears to be shared by the literary elite of Oxford. And MacFiach, as bookies' favourite for the 2009 post, looks set to keep it that way.

OXFORD PROFESSOR OF POETRY - MACFIACH TO DECLARE HAND?

2009-03-01T08:56:00.000-08:00

A brief sample from The Great Man's stunning oeuvre:

LINES FOR SEAMUS HEANEY

My mother's plump hand grips the neck
Of the plunger. Water
Swirls and squelches
Slops
Plops and sluices.

The plunger plummets,
Hammers home with a plump slap
And sucks itself stuck.

My mother heaves.
Strains.
Throbs.
The plunger taunts. Hard.
Erect.
Clamped.

My mother, stung, grits her gums,
Pulls
And PLUCK! - the plunger unplumps with a slurp and a suck.

My mother, spent
Sits, sighs and sleeps.
I watch her wilt and sag,
Her bulges droop
And in her sleep

She softly

Plumps her blubber.

Genius. A much-abused term. Yet sometimes, just sometimes...

But wait! Perhaps I've said enough.

A Valentine's Day Message From Sigmund Freud

2009-02-09T02:45:00.001-08:00

You say I'm too demanding
You can't keep up the pace
I seem to want it every way
I'm always in your face.

I want you as my cleaner
The true love of my life
My mistress and my manager
My girlfriend and my wife.

The Blessed Virgin Mary
My friend, my biggest fan
You say I can't have everything?
For fuck's sake! I'm a man!

You're right. I am demanding
But maybe there's a cure
I'll tell you what; I'd scrap the lot
If you'd just be my...

MOTHER

Oh Dear!

2009-02-09T02:35:00.000-08:00

A word of warning to fellow webites. I tend to take people on trust, but that trust has been sorely tried by the following: I received, via my spam box, an email offering huge reductions on Viagra. Not needed, I hasten to add, but I spotted several typos, so I got in touch to point out that there is only one 'r' in girrrlfriend. As in 'Make you girrrlfriend verr appy!' (sic)

I have since, however, removed floozie69@hotmale.cum from my list of contacts on grounds of misrepresentation. Floozie, it turns out, is Alan Floozenheim, which puts a different slant on our private correspondence. Alan’s photo suggested, at the very least, female.

We live and learn.

A TOAST TO ROBERT BURNS - HAPPY 250th, O LIBIDINOUS ONE!

2009-01-24T05:39:00.000-08:00

It must be every great poet's crowning ambition to be immortalised on a biscuit tin. Burns, by this measure, is probably the greatest poet who ever lived.

I offer, below, my own humble tribute to the master.

ROBERT BURNS' TOAST TO THE LASSIES

I've been a poet all my life
All love's sweet joys I cover
A poem each for every wife
And two for every lover.

In Edinburgh I'm renowned
I've lovers there a-plenty
In every city they abound
In Perth I've over twenty.

I court the lassies everywhere
With conquests ever mounting
For instance: Scattered over Ayr
It's 36 and counting.

In Cowdenbeath I've next to none
But otherwise they're legion
I got a dose of clap off one
She must have been Glaswegian!

I praise them all both high and low
In pretty rhyming couplets
And once or twice before I go
I leave them with quintuplets.

This poet's bargain, lassies learn
Is not a thing to shame us
We leave them with a fine wee bairn
While all we get is famous.

THE LASSIES' REPLY

A pretty speech ma fine wee buck
Ye're grand at versifyin
We lassies can't believe our luck
So here's how we're replyin:

Yer gallivantin maks us sick
Yer chauvinism's heinous
Away tae fuck ya little prick
And don't forget yer penis.

Quiptych

2009-01-15T08:17:00.000-08:00

I've had several queries about my art installation 'Memoirs of an Irish Foetus' which hung, until recently, at the Arturart exhibition as part of the Edinburgh International Festival Of Everything That Could Be Crammed Into One City For As Long As Possible 2008.

Curator Arthur Smith will be presenting a three-part BBC radio series dedicated to the piece later in the year, although I believe he'll be padding out the 90 minutes with some preoccupations of his own.

BOTTLED AIR

2009-01-15T08:10:00.000-08:00

My BBC series 'Bottled Air' has been broadcast on successive Saturdays for two weeks now. My fear of the mob is so all-consuming that I've worn dark glasses and remained indoors for the duration.

Such is the power of radio.

SEASONS GREETINGS FROM IAN MACPHERSON MARKETING TEAM

2008-12-25T11:01:00.000-08:00

We at Ian Macpherson Inc. are passionate - YES! PASSIONATE! - about brand loyalty! And what cheaper way to promote our product than the soulless mass-mail-out greeting to you (INSERT NAME) and you only!

So Happy Christmas/Easter/Thanksgiving/Ramadan/Hanukkah/Pongal/Teng Chieh/Nanakshahi/Birthday/Diwali/Mothering Sunday.

(delete as appropriate)

HOW I MET THE LOVE OF MY LIFE # 432

2008-11-04T06:19:00.000-08:00

So many requests to describe my first meeting with the lovely Florette - not necessarily her real name - and so many first meetings to choose from. How about this one:

I needed a break. Clean air. Gentle walks. But where? I mulled this over as I negotiated the used condoms, casually discarded bottles and rusting syringes which obscured the door of my flat in one of London’s more sought-after areas. I surveyed this mountain of filth with an almost spiritual distaste. The time has come, I thought, to mend my disgusting ways.

I closed the door behind me, stepped gingerly over yet another petition to rid the area of writers, and headed straight for my books. Was it fate that sent me – also straight – to the travel section? Fate, again, which chose ‘A Brisk Hike up the Trossachs’ by Hector Baden Powell, maternal nephew of the boy scout chap, as my first port of call? Perhaps, and perhaps again. But whatever the reason, I was soon lost in its exquisite prose. Such… limpidity.

His frequent references to the female sex as ‘an inexcusable aberration’ may, perhaps, jar with the modern reader. It was, after all, published in less enlightened times; spring of last year, to be precise. But set against this his delightful passages on nature, as witness his exhilarating chapter on rolling naked in gorse with the prettier members of ‘F’ troop.

But I digress. Beautifully, I might add, but a digression, as Burns might say, ’s a digression for a’ that. And for a’ that and for a’ that. And so on. I propose, therefore, to digress from the digression and return to the subject. My proposed destination - Trossach. ‘An idyllic hamlet deep in the heart of merrie Scotland’ – west Lothian tourist board. Trossach. You can almost smell the exclamation mark.

It took me some weeks to wind up my affairs in London. The term ‘affairs’ has two meanings, of course, but I’m not trying to suggest an exotic lifestyle. I merely refer to the many women in my life. On which subject I propose to draw a discreet veil. There are real people involved.

Mostly.

I travelled by train from London to Stirling, headed west by train, and decided to finish the journey by train along the old Inverclarty-Trossach (or vice versa) line. Unfortunately, this picturesque route had been turned into a nature trail in the late fifties, and I must say I left a generous scattering of surprised cyclists in my wake as I steamed on through.

I had booked into the aptly named ‘Ed and Breakfast’, chuckling inwardly at what I assumed was a missing B. Not so. I met Ed the following day at cock crow, relaxing beside me on my hammock and puffing gaily on a pre-coital fag.
I didn’t realise it was pre-coital at the time. But I think Ed did. We had what Ed referred to as the Full Scottish, after which, to be brutally honest about it, I didn’t feel up to breakfast.

I dispensed with victuals, but not, I feel bound to report, with Ed. Call it a holiday romance, but some hours later our relationship foundered and I was off in search of pastures new. Preferably with a roof.

I was pondering my next move when I spotted a sign in a shop window.

‘Association of Scottish Buddhists’, it read. ‘Chew your porridge slowly’.

Odd, this. I had no interest in Buddhism, but the brain works in mysterious ways. Had I not noticed the sign I would probably have continued to stare at the not unattractive escort of the huge man with the facial tattoos who was just about to spot me. And so it came to pass. He did indeed spot me. I was reading the notice. Had he not spotted me reading the notice he would have spotted me ogling his mother. Eastern mysticism had, in a very tangible way, saved my life. This particular life anyway.
But the sign. It made me aware of other signs.

‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’
Yes. I had.
‘AND JESUS SAID LO! I AM THE DOOR.’
Quite.
‘WANTED: MUSE. APPLY WITHIN.’
Just so.
Buddhism was about to be responsible for introducing me, albeit inadvertently, to the love of my life. With possible knock on effect in the hereafter. ‘WANTED: MUSE. APPLY WITHIN’ I firmly believe that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they write, so I examined the typing closely. Warm, I concluded. Sensuous. Needs a new ribbon.

That was good enough for me.

The door – patently not Jesus, by the way, but that’s his problem – was open, so I went in, and there, standing by a row of books, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Full stop.
She turned to face me.
‘My God,’ I thought, ‘she looks even better from the front.’
I swallowed hard and braced myself for speech.
‘Greetings,’ I ejaculated. ‘I’ve come about the job.’

The Feminist MacFiach 2

2008-09-21T04:43:00.000-07:00

After the sound of our lovemaking had receded in the distance I returned, equally discreetly, to the subject in hand.

'Fiachra,' I purred, 'is a he.'

Not so, apparently. According to Florette, only a woman could have created such, in her words, mellifluosity. My insistence that Fiachra is a man was based, it seems, on years of patriarchal conditioning. I withdrew sexual favours again, resolving to hold out longer this time, and write this as we enter the seventeenth minute of standoff.

So far so good.

But the above little altercation does raise certain questions. Who is Fiachra? Where is he? And why has he been written out of the history of Irish literature?

I resolve, in a word, to find out.

The Feminist MacFiach 1

2008-09-19T01:27:00.000-07:00

More on Ireland's Greatest Living Genius. My soul mate Florette - probably not her real name - refers to me as 'the keeper of the flame'. Like it. Not too sure about her feminist take on the subject, though. I showed her some of his writings to illustrate the dictum that 'There's writers. There's great writers. And there's MacFiach.'

'There are writers,' she quipped. She then immersed herself and returned the ms. some time later with the following note on the margin: 'Splendid stuff. Wonder if she's written anything else?'

She?! SHE?!!!

'Fiachra,' I informed her, 'is a man.'

'Nonsense,' she replied. 'Diana. Julia. Sylvia. Thesaura. Now name me one boy's name ending in the indefinite article.'

'Easy,' I said. 'Fiachra.'

But no. She remained insistent, in spite of my threat to withhold sexual favours. Determined to prove my point, I held out for 12 minutes. At which juncture I draw a discreet veil over the rest of the afternoon.

And much of the evening and night.

LEGENDARY AUTHOR OF LANARK LENDS HIS WEIGHT

2008-09-17T03:16:00.000-07:00

RE: POSTERITY NOW!

My Dear Alasdair,

Heartiest congrats! I’ve just completed my latest masterwork – the follow up to Deep Probings – and have decided to use an Al Gray quote on the cover. Now I can hardly expect you to read the blessed thing – hell, it goes on for literally pages – so just tick the following in order of preference and we’ll say no more about it.

A. More typos that Finnegans Wake. And all the better for it.

B. Brings back the sights, sounds and smells of my Welsh valleys' girlhood. No mean feat, as I’ve never been to Wales in my life. But as for the girlhood: Happy days.

C. Posteriority Now? I haven’t actually read it yet, but boy! Those illustrations!

Well?

Fondest regards.

THE LEGENDARY AUTHOR'S REPLY:

'Macpherson's book has more typographical errors than Flannigans Wake, and they provide the reader with welcome comic relief.'

Further endorsements to follow; including, from beyond the grave, WB Yeats. 'The Ouija board never lies' - Madame Blavatsky

POSTERITY NOW - HISTORIC FIRST EXTRACT

2008-09-17T02:53:00.000-07:00

His legion of admirers will be aware, no doubt, of my editing work on the poetic oeuvre of Ireland's Greatest Living Genius (sic), Fiachra MacFiach. Volume Two of his memoir deals with, among other things, the debt of his daddy, a near-copulatory encounter with his birth mother, and the joys and sorrows of virgin fatherhood. More anon, but here is The Great Man anthologizing.

Time stood still as I pored over ancient manuscripts, deciphered ancient scrolls and pondered long and hard over the merits and demerits of Ireland’s first transsexual poet, Joseph ‘Mary’ Plunkett. Tough one this. Plunkett’s cross-fertilisation of the two known genders was bordering on the heroic at the time, and certainly led to the acceptability of cross-dressing among the Catholic hierarchy in an otherwise repressive state. But does this excuse the blandness of his verse? His place in the psycho-sexual history of his native country is assured, but that history has yet to be written, and I, whatever the blandishments on offer, am not the man, or woman, to do it.
Having said which, I admit to an early obsession with Ireland’s first solo husband and wife team. An interesting footnote to a highly controversial career was his proto-feminist anthem, ‘If…’ Such was its controversial nature that it was given its first, and last, airing at Opus Dei’s 1887 celebration of the arts, ‘Burnt Offerings’.

If…

If you can set your goal and then pursue it
If you can stand your ground with any man
If you can say ‘I’ll do it’ and then do it
Or say ‘I know I can’ and know you can

If you can see the truth and when you’ve seen it
You spread that shining truth both near and far
If you can say ‘I must’ and really mean it
If you can say ‘I am’ and know you are

If you can say ‘I will’ because you will it
And cause whate’er you will, my son, to be
If you can take the cup of life and fill it
If you can face the world and say ‘I’m me!’

If you can say all this and never doubt it
If you can say all this and know it’s true
If you can climb the highest hill and shout it
Yes! Shout ‘I’m me!’ and know that ‘Me’ is You’

If you can say all this most resolutely
Poor child! You only fool yourself because
This much is true, my son, yes, absolutely
You’ll never be the man your mother was.

Sound familiar? Kipling ‘borrowed’ the idea, removed the sexual politics, and sanitised the whole into a bland, homo-incestuous confection. Which possibly explains its enduring appeal to the English.

GREAT TO BE BACK

2008-07-29T05:33:00.000-07:00

You've got to carpe the diem in this life. Which is why I'm returning to my performance roots at the Edinburgh Festival 2008. I was spurred on by the following verse, which I wrote in a blaze of glorious creativity while my morning pan of porridge did the same.

NASHING

I thought I’d have a bash
At writing something witty in the style of Ogden Nash
He wrote hundreds of volumes of this sort of stuff
Though the first one, say critics, was probably more than enough

But even while expiring
Not once did Ogden contemplate retiring
He never said ‘That’s it.
I quit.’

He knocked his versifying on the head
When he was dead.
And only then
Because he found it hard to hold his pen.

The diem, see? Carpe it.

WE’VE ALL GOT OUR FAVOURITE SCHROEDINGER STORY AND THIS IS MINE

2008-06-17T03:41:00.000-07:00

Mention of Clontarf in a recent dispatch had such a profound effect on me that I actually wrote to myself.

‘Dear Ian,’ I wrote, ‘Mention of Clontarf in your last dispatch certainly brought the memories flooding back for this particular reader.’

Take the 1950s. Clontarf was a hotbed of multi-cultural activity even then, by which I mean there was a foreign gentleman living down the road. So unusual was this, in fact, that a plaque was erected to mark the historic spot. Never got formally introduced myself but we had a run in anyway and here, in distilled form, is my side of the story.

I was a small boy, as was the fashion in those far off days of yore, and nothing pleased me better than to wander from garden to garden in search of adventure. It must have been close to dark on this particular occasion, as I still recall the chorus of ‘Here kitty kitty kitty’, with percussive accompaniment on the cat food tin and spoon.

I must also have strayed further than usual, because I found myself in a strange garden littered – no pun intended – with dead cats. Curious. My child’s mind was both repelled and fascinated. Particularly as I spotted an earnest-looking man of Germanic aspect shoving our own cat Houdini into a large box. Job done he began scribbling furiously onto a nearby blackboard.

Dauntless I stepped forward and, at the precise point of his stentorian Germanic ‘Eureka!’, whipped the box open. As my hand located Houdini a dark shadow fell across my line of vision. Curious, I mused precociously, it doesn’t belong to the man. Unless he was working on light particle displacement theory and had paused for a bit of harmless fun.

As I yanked Houdini out of the box a large female hand fell over mine.

I looked up.

It was accompanied by a large female.

‘That’s Herr Schroedinger’s pussy, little boy,’ she said. ‘And I think you’ve just killed it.’

FRANKIE AND ME - A CLARIFICATION

2008-06-10T02:45:00.000-07:00

To the many people who wrote with variations on ‘Wow! You shared a bill with Frank Sinatra?’ I say this: Read the piece again. I was late. He shared the bill with himself.

Having said that, I did indeed share a bill with the legendary Mafioso and alleged crooner. Location: Dublin. Venue: Croke Park. The year escapes me but he was still alive at the time.

I remember breezing into his dressing room on my arrival in ebullient spirits. Unlike Frank. His hat was tilted at a raffish angle but he wasn’t. He may have got wind of the fact that the concert coincided with the semi-final of the Munster leg of the all-Ireland hurling championships. Roscommon-Offaly or somesuch.

Two teams anyway. On the plus side we were playing on a raised stage, so small chance of getting a belt of a sliotar, but Frank, God love him, looked like a man at odds with his hat.

Be that as it may I had to talk to the Great Man although, to be brutally honest about it, I’d have been as well talking to the headgear.

‘Bit of trouble on the babysitting front, Frankie baby,’ I said. ‘Okay if I go on first?’

The look I got!

‘Screw your babysitter, pal,’ quipped one of his entourage.

I was about to point out that there were strict rules of conduct governing such matters in my country – the babysitter in question being my mother – but the stage manager intervened at this point to tell me he’d see what he could do.

And so to the evening’s entertainment. Sligo, or was it Leitrim, won by the odd goal in 3, and I performed an excellent set of quips and drolleries, finishing off with a spirited rendition of that hoary old perennial ‘My Way’.

Well swipe me if old Frankie hadn’t decided to finish on the self-same song! Trouper that he is, though. Old Blue Nose rallied, rounded up a 200-strong kiddy chorus – possibly at gunpoint - and topped his act off with a version of High Hopes that had the audience close to hysteria. Or was that Kilkenny scoring from the penalty spot in the closing second of extra time?

At any rate I left Frankie wearing the rictus grin of the seasoned pro, as he Whoops-There-Goes-Another-Rubber-Tree-Planted his way to the first of what I hoped would be a profusion of encores.

We haven’t performed together since.

NEVER ASK DIRECTIONS FROM A SCOT

2008-06-10T02:43:00.000-07:00

My legion of admirers throughout the known world will be delighted to know that I’ll be performing at this year’s Edinburgh festival. Fortunately I’ll be getting a lift to and from the venue. Otherwise I might have to ask directions, and you never know where I might end up.

Example: I was in New York. 3rd and Madison. 42nd and Main. Something like that. Anyhow, I had to get to Carnegie Hall for a concert. Fast. So I asked a passerby. I knew he was Scottish by the gentle scent of Cullen Skink wafting from his pores.

‘Carnegie Hall?’ he said – I won’t do the accent – ‘I certainly do. Cab to JFK. First available flight to Glasgow. Hire a car at the airport. Follow Bute Road to Caledonia Way. Immediately turn left on to local road. Join M8 slip Road at junction 28 towards Glasgow. Follow M8 straight on. Continue for 10.6 miles until junction 13. At junction 13 leave motorway towards Stirling. Follow M80 straight on, continue for 3.9 miles. Bear right onto M80. At junction 5 leave motorway towards Kincardine Bridge. Follow M876 towards Edinburgh. Then M9 till junction 7. Follow M876. Exit on to the A876. Continue for 1.7 miles. A985 for 6.2 miles. A994, continue for 3.0 miles. A907 straight on, 0.9 miles. Fourth exit off roundabout and that's you there.’

Like a fool, of course, I took him at his word, and I know what you’re probably thinking. 3rd exit off roundabout.

Ah, hindsight, hindsight! Where were you when I needed you?

I got hopelessly lost – charming town, Barnsley – arrived at 10.26 for an 8pm start, and missed the entire show.

Fortunately, Frank Sinatra was on the same bill, so the punters decided to stay and check him out. No refunds, apparently, sought.

Archbishop N'Golo's Hats

2008-05-21T02:01:00.000-07:00

Typical. My reference to Archbishop N'Golo Batutu's hats has brought out the literalist in several correspondents. The hats in question are, however, strictly metaphorical.

Archbishop N’Golo, or Fats Batutu to aficionados of late 50’s Blue Note Jazz – check out his bebop classic When The Saints Go Strutting In – was responsible for the stunningly successful ‘Child’s Garden of Erotic Verse’, which many saw as a cynical effort to crack Ireland's huge clerical market.

His Worshipfulness was also hotly tipped as the first female Bishop of Limerick until the following day’s correction left a certain Irish Times typesetter looking for bar work.

The correction? ‘For female read black.’

Further examples to follow.

Fraternal and Sisternal Greetings To My African Readership!

2008-05-20T11:47:00.000-07:00

Extraordinary turn of events. Archbishop N’Golo Batutu of Bulawayo has offered to mediate in the verbal impasse between the present writer and his Aunt Brigid. He proposes a Truth and Reconciliation process, no less, in which the relevant parties would face each other across a table for the first time since ‘The Incident’, and thrash out their differences in a truthful and reconciliatory way.

This is quite a coup. The archbishop, as they say in millinery circles, wears many hats. And he’s willing to give up his invaluable time to broker a peace deal between myself and my pertinacious aunt.

I am stunned and not a little humbled.

A Short Irish History Lesson

2008-04-27T11:52:00.000-07:00

I grew up in Clontarf, named after the Battle of Clontarf in 1014. A defining moment in the history of our tragic yet curiously comic little isle, and one which still has the power to divide.

Neighbour from neighbour.

Father from son.

And my Aunt Brigid hasn't spoken to me since I was 13. But that's a separate matter entirely, and in mitigation I can only say she should have knocked first.

Craven Apology

2008-04-20T05:09:00.000-07:00

I apologize unreservedly to the Bishop of Limerick for any hurt he may have experienced as a direct or indirect result of certain comments posted on my previous entry and purporting to emanate from his holy office. I accept that the intemperate language used was demeaning to said office and have paid an undisclosed sum to the charity of his choice in an out of court settlement. I wish to thank the bishop for his unfailing courtesy in all negotiations pertaining to this matter. The Bishop of Limerick, to reiterate, did not, and has not at any time, posted comments - intemperate or otherwise - to this site.

It was, in fact, the Bishop of Galway 'having the bit of craic'.

Celtic Tiger Blues

2008-04-15T04:46:00.000-07:00

As an impecunious, not to say penurious, artist, I could never afford to move back to the leafy Dublin suburb from whence I sprang, fully formed, at the tender age of 30. But I often return to visit my more affluent pals.

And I sometimes wonder if obscene wealth makes people happier. Rich people certainly look happier than poor people, I'll give 'em that. But wealth, as I discovered on my last visit, is no defence against predators.

Picture the scene. Family residence with long sloping garden. The adults indoors, quaffing Moet et Chandon, discussing house prices. Down the garden, caressed by the late afternoon sun, a golden-haired child; happily playing with her Wendy house.

Suddenly, from on high, the chop chop chop of a helicopter.

A shadow settles on the lawn. Dark. Malevolent. The chopper descends to meet it.

I sense danger. The child! The child! My imagination is on red alert. Mayday. Mayday. I lunge through the french windows. Shards of glass everywhere. Child abduction, I think, White Slave Trade, as I charge across the lawn towards the unsuspecting child.

The child's father, bloated from years of excess, puffs through the now open-plan french windows and waddles after me. I'm racing, racing, racing. The helicopter hovers. The door opens. A man leers out. Pale face. Shades.

It's a long garden but I'm nearly there. Faster, I pant. Faster.

The child stands frozen. The waddling father roars. 'In the name of Jayzus stop him someone!'

I charge towards my goal. The child, helpless, unsuspecting, gazes upwards. The man in the helicopter leans closer.

But what's this? He's clutching a briefcase.

He points, screaming, at the Wendy house. 'I'll give you 400K, kid. Cash.'

I lunge towards the child and pin her to the ground. The man swears gruffly. Yanks himself back inside. The chopper whirrs off.

I stand up slowly, wipe my brow, dust myself down. Job done.

The child looks shaken. 'Are you all right, little girl?' I ask.

Her father wobbles up, grabs me by the lapels, socks me on the jaw.

As I hit the grass the little girl bursts into tears.

'You interfering cunt,' screams Daddy. 'She was holding out for half a mill.'

IN WHICH I AM RENDERED SEETHING BUT SPEECHLESS AT THE USE OF SUCH LANGUAGE BY A MERE CHILD

2008-04-08T12:26:00.000-07:00

.

.

Point Of Information

2008-04-08T12:19:00.000-07:00

I have been literally inundated with a response to 'the brusque dismissal of your son Declan (Aged 7 3/4)' in a previous piece.

In mitigation, I would refer readers to the following passage from Deep Probings: The Autobiography of a Genius by the shamefully neglected colossus of Irish literature, Fiachra MacFiach.

I was approached by a woman in a supermarket who screamed at me as follows: 'I cannot abide people who smack their children.'
'How dare you, madam,' I replied. 'They're not my children.'

My point? I'm sure Declan is a perfectly nice little boy, but he was up well past his bedtime. Simply because I gave the lad a verbal clip round the ear, however, doesn't mean we're related.

The God Conundrum

2008-03-30T14:31:00.001-07:00

I still recall with terror my first day at school. Possibly unknown to my parents, the place had been infiltrated by a sinister religious sect - the Catholic Church.

This malevolent organization coloured my view of the afterlife for some years, but I now read furious arguments on the existence or non-existence of an all-powerful deity with the amused detachment of a man on heavy medication. Does God exist? Does he not exist? And if, as certain feminists argue, he's a woman, why the long white beard?

These questions have been around as long as mankind has been able to club itself to death, and my attention was recently drawn to an eighteenth century naval memoir which deals with the question in a highly persuasive manner, to this reader at least.

Briefly stated, the author is a twelve-year-old boy set adrift on the pitiless sea of life with a disparate, motleyish crew, which includes a devout cleric and an equally devoutless man of science.

In the following extract our young narrator writes of his own death with wit, insight and, more importantly from our point of view, a first-hand description of 'the next world'.

ELVIS WOODCOCK - A Very Nautical Boy

I found myself in a tunnel with a bright light at the far end. Standing in the light was a white-haired man with long robes and a crooked stick. He smiled reassuringly. Death beckoned. I looked back. At the other end of the tunnel another figure smiled reassuringly. Mr. Slyme, the first mate, beckoned.

'Come back, Elvis,' he seemed to say, 'I want to have the pleasure of killing you myself.'

I stood for some time wondering what to do. I grew hungry and looked at the white-haired man. He seemed kind and uncly in a nice way, but did he have any food? I then looked back at Mr. Slyme. Behind him stood the Captain, Friar Pluck, mad Doctor McGregor, and Cook the Cook.

Cook held a steaming plate of victuals at the entrance to the tunnel, and oh! - such sweet smells assailed my nostrils. These it was that persuaded me to give life another try.

As soon as I’d settled back into this world and eaten heartily of Cook's plenteous fare, I told Friar Pluck about the white-haired man, the robes, the stick.

'That was the Lord, my child,' he beamed.

'Rubbish,' roared McGregor from his desk. 'White hair? Beard? Decrepit? That was my maternal granduncle Cluny the Looney. We lopped his right leg off above the knee for the sheer joy of butchery.'

'What was wrong with him?' I asked.

McGregor grew nostalgic.

'We suspected a slight chest cold. The treatment cured him, of course. He died screaming. Aye. Happy days.' He sighed at the memory. ' The leg,' he said, 'lived on for some years, joined a passing freak show and made a tidy living doing impersonations of Italy.'

'But the white-haired old man had 2 legs,' I said.

'Yes!' cried Friar Pluck, delighted. 'So it was the Lord.'

McGregor was outraged.

'Poppycock, Sir. The leg died some years later and joined its master in death. I paid for the gravestone myself.

Cluny McGregor. Born 1722.
Died 1780 and 1793.
Together at last.'

Reprinted by kind permission.

LIT SPAT

2008-03-24T14:23:00.000-07:00

Whilst editing the latest volume of the memoirs of Ireland's Greatest Living Genius, Fiachra MacFiach, my attention was drawn to an Aisling poem involving sixteenth century Roscommon versifier Taghdh Dall O'Cadhain.

Briefly, in an effort to woo a female poet and win 'the friendship of her thighs', he writes her a glowing eulogy with his penis. This I take to be symbolic.

He makes the fatal mistake, however, of increasing the ardour of his courtship by insulting a rival poet, also female.

Big mistake. He is called to account by the Women of Ireland and accused of writing with forked penis.

In his defence he pleads intellectual superiority and refuses to recognize the court. He is tried, found guilty, and his offending member forms the basis of the feast which lends the celebrated poem its title:

'How Taghdh Dall O'Cadhain Introduced The Hot Dog To Ireland.'

HOLD THE FRONT PAGE!

2008-03-17T11:04:00.000-07:00

A sensational opening night, and already legendary Lit Wit venue DiScoMbObUlaTe is looking for bigger premises.

In the meantime, host Ian Macpherson would like to extend heartfelt apologies to the many people who couldn't get in.

Not to mention the several hundred people who went to the wrong venue.

But a great night was had by all, we're told, at DiSco MbObUlaTe in Glasgow's bustling Kenyan quarter.

THEFT OF CONFIDENTIAL CORRESPONDENCE!!!

2008-03-01T00:24:00.000-08:00

Prestigious Lit Wit venue DiScoMbObUlaTe is reeling from the apparent theft of private correspondence ahead of its March 11th opening night in Glasgow’s West End. To prevent the perpetrators benefiting from the fruits of their crime, spokesman Ian Macpherson has taken the unprecedented step of releasing said correspondence into the public domain.

My Dear Heaney,

Nobel Prize notwithstanding, we are unable to offer you a booking at the first ever DiScoMbObUlaTe. As I’m sure you must be aware, the Nobel Prize is awarded annually, regardless of the talent on offer, and many of the recipients are still, sadly, alive. So look at it this way. If word got out that you were doing it, why - they’d all be after a spot.

Dear Alasdair Gray,

Such is the prestige attached to the opening night of DiScoMbObUlaTe, we have decided to dispense with the vulgarity of payment. You have lived most of your inspirational life as a penurious artist. Perform at DiScoMbObUlaTe and we’ll make sure you stay that way.

Dear Bernard MacLaverty,

There is no payment for reading at highly prestigious new spoken word venue DiScoMbObUlaTe. As you live around the corner from the venue, however, we would be delighted to offer you travel expenses.

Your Esteemed Holiness The Present Archbishop Of Dublin,

My father was a great fan of standup comedy, so every Sunday, without fail, he went to mass. You were his parish priest at the time. Fancy a spot at DiScoMbObUlaTe?

Dear Flann O’Brien,

Thank you for your enquiry. I note from your Wikipedia entry, however, that you died in 1966. For this reason we won’t be asking you to read at DiScoMbObUlaTe. But this is not to denigrate your incalculable contribution to world literature.
Let’s just call it bad timing.

Dear Liz Lochhead,

Re DiScoMbObUlaTe – Sincerest apologies for my initial response. I genuinely thought, mistakenly as it turned out, that you were an Olympic sprinter.

Dear Mr. Mandela,

Given the depressing statistics on reoffending, you are to be congratulated on staying out of trouble since leaving prison. Having said that, we are not looking for ‘an inspirational 2-hour inaugural speech’ for our very first DiScoMbObUlaTe. It’s not that sort of night.

DiScoMbObUlaTe @ Cabbages&Kings, Byres Road, Glasgow Tuesday March 11th 8-10pm. Free.

******* Road

2008-02-12T03:53:00.000-08:00

Following my last entry I've been inundated with correspondence from my many Icelandic fans. People of Iceland! I rub your collective nose! Unfortunately, however, some of the more enthusiastic among you have managed to locate ******* Road, and have been over-zealous in ransacking my childhood home.

Saplings uprooted. Windows daubed. You've even stooped to riffling my mother's drawers.

Shame on you. Shame.

On Anon Anon Anon Anon

2008-02-12T03:07:00.000-08:00

Another comment from Anonymous. Now I'd normally refuse to be drawn, but I've read a lot of poetry in my time and I have to say that Anon is right up there with the big hitters. Huge fan. I particularly like your 12th Century stuff in Gaelic.

Bloody hell!
That the time?
Late again!
That's my rhyme.

Well done. Could have been written yesterday. But your point. ******* Road is not actually its real name. In much the same way that, let's say, Anonymous is probably not your real name. I was merely protecting the present inhabitants from my more enthusiastic fans.

I had intended to deal with Global Capitalism (Linguistic Effects Of) in this particular entry but will hold off for now. Big subject. Big subject. But how's this for a taster: The Inuit people have 432 different words for McDonalds.

Not all of them complimentary.

Anonymous Asks A Pertinent Question

2008-02-12T02:06:00.000-08:00

131,237,458 internet references to Ian Macpherson. Which one am I, you ask.
I’ve begun to tick them off chronologically and have managed to establish, beyond reasonable doubt, that I am none of the following:

Ian Macpherson, bagpipe sexer extraordinaire of the 49th parallel universe

Nor am I

Ian Macpherson, author of the definitive study of Papal Choirs in the Age of Enlightenment: ‘Can We Have Our Balls Back, Please?’

Neither am I

Lt. Col. Ian Macpherson of the Queen’s Own Cavalry (Deceased)

Any other deceased Ian Macpherson

Avant garde director Ian Macphersonioni

Chicago cop Ian Macphersonofabitch

Or, due to a multiple typing error

Elspeth Funge (Miss)

Which makes 131,237,426 to go. Hmmn. This could take some…

Ah. Here we are. Ian Macpherson – Pointillist.

Sadly, this entry is some years out of date. Why? It’s a salutary tale involving overarching ambition, hubris and at least one wasted childhood.

Now Pointillism, as we all know, is a technique of neo-Impressionist painting involving the painstaking accumulation of tiny dots. So far so excellent. And I was as excellent as it got. My dots, and I say this without a trace of humility, were sui generis. I was feted the length and breadth of ******* Road (odd numbers). But the fall from grace, when it came, was swift and retributive. I abandoned the delicate art after a bad experience at a local children’s party. I had been put on face-painting duty and started with little Aoife (Aged 5¾ ). By the time I’d finished she was 12.

Her surviving parent, shall we say, was less than happy.

I have not pointillated since.

A Lone Voice Of Dissent

2008-02-11T04:09:00.000-08:00

My first entry is hardly cold on the page and already I've attracted some adverse comment. The correspondent in question - who chose to contact me by second-class mail - wrote as follows:

You profess to be Ian Macpherson, Chair of Comedic Arts at City of Dublin University. Perhaps you are. On the other hand you could be pseudonymously grooming me, an innocent 12-year-old boy, for gross immoral acts.

Difficult to know what to say. Fortunately, 'Declan' couldn't resist the temptation to include a photo. The same Declan appears to be, not the innocent pre-teen he seeks to imply, but a female person d'un certain age - bearing an uncanny resemblance to my mother.

I rest my case.

In Which I Reach Out To The People Of The World

2008-02-10T16:57:00.000-08:00

Greetings, people of the world. I embrace you. Not physically, of course. No. That would take far too long. Travel. Small talk. Possibility of misinterpretation by jealous partner followed by lengthy stay in hospital.

Not to mention the need to hire an interpreter for languages and dialects too numerous to mention.

To my eternal shame I only speak 3 languages fluently, although Latin is, strictly speaking, dead. And my Esperanto is more than a bit rusty. I only ever practise it when I'm there. And besides, most of the young people of Esperanto speak English anyway.

But to return to my original message. People of the world. Group hug.

Excellent. I feel we can build on this.