‘Slane Girl’, ‘Slut-Shaming’, and the Perils of Social Media

By now everyone will have heard of, or seen, the terrible pictures emerging from last Saturday’s Eminem concert in Slane – of a young girl photographed engaging in oral sex with two men.  The term ‘Slane Girl’ was trending number one on Twitter over the weekend, as photos of this very young looking girl continued to circulate on the social media websites.  The initial postings were under the auspices of her being a ‘slut’, her being an idiot, and her deserving everything she (socially) got.  Yesterday it emerged that she was underage, and the tone of the circulation took on a different hue – up until that point it was seen as a joke at someone else’s expense, but suddenly these pictures could qualify as child pornography.  This is when reputable media stepped in and began reporting the circulation of the photos and the possible criminal implications for the boys photographed, as well as for those continuing to post the photos online.  The undercurrent of ‘slut-shaming’ remains, though, in the reprehensible idea that this girl behaved in a way that somehow deserves the response.

There is no doubt about how I felt when I heard of this, and when I saw the photos themselves – sick to my stomach and so very, very sorry for that girl.  The boys in the photos are acting like heroes, looking at the camera smiling while people mill around them, seemingly uncaring about what’s happening.  That is how they saw themselves, even as it was happening, and so they posed for photos and cheered their online publication.  The girl herself, nameless though not faceless, will be tarred with this moniker and this night.  Nobody will ever think she was cool or outrageous for giving blowjobs to two guys outdoors in full view of others at a concert.  No, this girl woke up Sunday morning with a probable hangover and a definite looming shame as she remembered what had happened.  We've all been there.  Where we haven’t been, or at least I haven’t been, is online for our drunken mistakes.  I’m not saying her behaviour was standard, because I don’t know anymore – certainly when I was that age there were things going on that none of our parents knew about, or suspected we’d be involved in at young ages.  However, things have moved on to a point where these lapses in your own judgement are now recorded for posterity.  This girl woke up Sunday thinking she only had to look at herself in the mirror and face her own reflection under the weight of a shameful feeling that things got out of control.  Instead, she has to face her parents and family, and in two weeks, she must return to school and walk corridors filled with peers who know it all.

I think any talk of criminal prosecution takes away from the bottom line here.  We’re not going to be able to stop our kids from doing stupid things from time to time – granted this is in the higher scale of stupid mistakes – but what we can do is talk to them and listen to them on issues of peer pressure and sexuality.  That girl should have truly known that she is worth more than a public blowjob in a muddy field, instead of somehow thinking it makes her sexually expressive and adult.  The boys involved should feel more worth in themselves than to allow that situation to arise, and certainly feel that she has more worth than that.  Those taking and sharing the photos should understand the consequences of their actions, that somebody’s whole life can be ruined for the sake of a ‘funny’ Facebook or Twitter upload.  This world is not the world that I grew up in.  Your every action can now follow you beyond the stupidity of your youth, and our children need to be taught – really taught – the sometimes terrible power of the internet.

I hope that she is strong enough to deal with what’s coming.  The change in pace of reporting has meant that she is no longer a general butt of jokes online, but is instead the subject of a criminal investigation.  This doesn't take away what happened, though, and what she has to deal with.  The onus is still on this girl and she must still bear responsibility, however inebriated she might have been, for her own actions.  She is the one who has to live with this, and she is the one who will have to find a way to realise that these actions do not define her or make her less than she is – that she is a complex being made up of equal parts folly and intelligence, just as we all are.  We all make mistakes, and we all act out of character from time to time.  I wanted to speak about this once and then never again so that I don’t add to a drawing out of the conversation, because that young girl has enough to deal with without an endless online dissection.  I hope she can move past this and realise that though the internet can make the world seem small and on your doorstep, this one mistake should not become her entire world. 

Switch off, plug out, and breathe: For this too shall pass.

The Royal Baby? The Wrong Focus!

Unlike the many, many, many facebook and twitter friends who have updated their statuses with vehement denials of their caring for the royal baby's birth, I genuinely didn't care.  Having read through a million and one 'who cares about this?', 'why is this all over the news?', etc. - counterproductive, I might add, since they were all adding to the general conversation about the bloody thing - it still didn't strike me as anything, as an Irish person, to be particularly interested in.  I wasn't even uninterested, because that would imply being actively involved in ignoring the situation - it would tie me to the facebook disavowals of my vocal friends.  I was, to the highest degree anybody can be in such a limbo state, completely disinterested.  Ah, but then...

Sitting down to watch some stupid post-work TV on Sky, the terrible programme I was watching was interrupted by a 'breaking news' scroll across the bottom of the screen...the Duke and Duchess were about to leave the hospital!  Out of idle curiosity, I switched it over...and then out of journalistic interest kept watching, because the commentators were absolutely hilarious:  'There's some movement'; 'Sorry to interrupt you, but it looks like they're coming out'; 'What's the procedure here, Tom?', etc. etc. - a 24-hour news cycle in all of its awful glory as they scrambled for something new to say on this momentous occasion.  Of course, there was nothing new to say, and nothing to hope for except that they would bring that baby out as soon as possible!  And here's where it got interesting for me - when those doors finally opened, and a couple the same age as myself and my boyfriend strolled out the door with their babe in arms to cheering crowds.  They looked every inch the average couple - though better put-together than most after labour - with the beaming 'look what we have created' looks I've seen on every new parent's face.  But what interested me the most was not their commoner-ways and modern monarchy.  Not the ever-so-obliging chat with journalists, nor even the bundle of joy in their arms, could distract me from Kate's body.  Here, proudly on display for the entire world to see, was the ACTUAL aftermath of birth - a distended belly!

I absolutely applaud this woman, who is held up as the epitome of style and grace, for standing in front of a bank of photographers looking absolutely stunning (her hair, her dress, her shoes - everything about her spoke of poise and wealth), and cupping her arms around a body that has clearly just been through the rigours of childbirth.  Granted, we may have to see endless articles about how she'll get her 'beach body' back on the likes of Heat and Hello (in fact, OK was already running an article on this in the lead-up to the birth, if memory serves me correctly), but at the moment I can hold her up as a fine example of womanhood.  Somebody who accepts and displays the fact that a woman does not go from having a baby inside of her, swelling her breasts, belly and feet, to a flat-stomached bikini goddess in the blink of an eye.  For too long this side of life has been hidden, and women everywhere are made to feel that somehow you HAVE to return to the figure you had before birth in order to be a real woman, and a 'young' mother (no matter what your age).

Jade Beall did an amazing photographic diary of women, kids, and their post-baby bodies to show the beauty of the female form, in all its incarnations.  The photos are stunning and well worth checking out - on her website, here - and add to my amazement that anybody would buy the types of magazines that make you feel as though your body is less than it should be.  There might be a ton of other commentary on Kate's decisions - the polka-dot dress so reminiscent of Diana, the fact that she's so generally thin and model-esque, her coiffured hair 24 hours after giving birth, etc. etc. - but for now I want to bask in the glory of the future King of England being displayed by a mother who accepted her bodily changes as part of the baby she was holding, and told the world's women that it's a natural and beautiful thing.  And if that changes one woman's mind about her own bodily perception, and eases some of the emotional stress many women go through as they feel flabby and destroyed after birth, then it's worth every moment.

Welcome to the world, royal belly!

Why I Am Firmly Pro-Choice in the Abortion Debate

It’s getting increasingly difficult to remain balanced on the abortion debate in the face of the ‘pro-life’ onslaught.  ‘Pro-life’…how I despise that term – as though the rest of us are somehow ‘pro-death’, or ‘pro-abortion’.  And believe me, in online and protest debates, I’ve been called this and worse.  Pro-choice is where I firmly stand, and for me, pro-choice means accepting the side of the world that we’d all like to pretend doesn’t exist – the side that breeds rapists, incest, foetal abnormalities that mean the baby will not exist outside of the womb, young teenage pregnancies, etc. etc..  Or that most terrifying and incomprehensible of possibilities – that when she gets pregnant, a woman might not want to have that baby brought into her life…whether from emotional or financial instability, or from the myriad of other reasons that might cause her to feel unequal to the task.  For me, this is life in all of its greys and shades, far from the black and white dichotomy spouted by ‘pro-lifers’: oh, how I hate that term – and at the risk of sounding petty, from here on in I’m going to label them ‘anti-choicers’, in the spirit of their own antagonistic rhetoric.  The bottom line of all of these arguments is that abortions do happen, are happening, and will continue to happen.  By burying our heads in the sand, or trying to decide on the ‘worthy’ causes of abortion, we lose our grasp of the big picture – which is that not one of us has the right to force a woman to carry a child into this world that will not survive, or that she does not want.

We can argue back and forth about the morality, but really, what is the point at this stage?  I won’t convince you of my argument, you won’t convince me of yours.  It’s the atheist arguing with the religious person – no amount of facts and figures will sway those with belief from their faith.  How many times have these types of discussions ended with a conciliatory, ‘well, I hadn’t thought about it SCIENTIFICALLY before!’: people come to, or from, their own beliefs in their own time, and generally spouting an onslaught of arguments against their tenets will just entrench them further.  So, too, continues the abortion debate – we argue on both sides as though we’ll convince the other, when what we all need to do is step back and admit that our beliefs are not important in this issue.  If you are pro-choice, then be pro-choice.  If you are anti-choice, then by all means don’t ever seek an abortion in your life, and consider it to be the morally repugnant act you truly believe it is…feel free in those beliefs, and sermon them round the dinner table as much as you like.  But don’t for a second believe that your faith in the morality or otherwise of abortion should effect legislation.

 

Of course, because of our parochial country and the financial support of religious groups, it seems that it is, and will continue to, effect political movement – but my God, the fact is that in a strong and working democracy it should have no bearing.  Women travel every day to England, outsourcing our problem to another shore so that we can pretend it doesn’t happen at all – and protecting the deeply held belief of anti-choicers that by resisting it in Ireland they are somehow preventing abortion from taking place.  This is patently not true, and results in an entire nation burying their heads in the sand rather than have this difficult conversation out in the open.  It is so reminiscent of our great and wondrous community spirit, where neighbour loves neighbour until a halting site is proposed for the area.  Everyone in the surrounds can recognise the value of it, and the absolute necessity of its being built somewhere…but nobody wants it on their doorstep.  Much better for it to be elsewhere (maybe England?), and be someone else’s problem.  This juxtaposition of recognising a need in society and community but being unwilling to enact the change that is required is symptomatic of the anti-choice brigade.  Spouting their vicious rhetoric and plastering pictures of unborn foetuses all over the city as though the rest of us were marching with necklaces of aborted babies adorning our necks in gleeful joy.  We do not march on the bodies of babies: we march for the bodies of women.

Forget the arguments I could make for abortion – the multitude of reasons that cause a woman to make this difficult choice have been well documented – because these points are ignored as inconsequential by the other side of the debate.  For anti-choicers, the bottom line is that abortion equals death and it should never be allowed in Ireland.  What they are actually saying, then, is that we should continue to use England as our get-out-of-jail card…if you’re desperate enough, you’ll find a way to get on that boat/plane/coffin-ship, as though personal and financial circumstances play no part at all.  A phrase much in use in the papers and in online arguments is that we will ‘open the floodgates’ for abortion on demand…as though women will be lining up round the block, giggling delightedly as they queue for a chance to have that longed-for abortion, equating it to the latest trend.  As though abortion were a luxury item, instead of a terrible necessity.  As though women will use it instead of contraception – why, after all, should they use a condom when they can just have an oh-so-simple and oh-so-quick procedure in a lovely doctor’s surgery the following morning?  The ignorance is staggering.

Abortionpalooza – that’s what the anti-choicers envisage, and in that bottom-line argument I cannot be reconciled.  Yes, there are always exceptions – those who don’t understand the terrible sacrifice abortion requires – but the majority of women approach abortion as a last-ditch solution to a heavy problem.  Who are we, any of us, to make that decision for each individual woman who finds herself in that situation?  I am pro-choice because I believe that my personal beliefs have no place in deciding the fate of women all over Ireland.  I am pro-choice because I believe that the choice should be hers, and hers alone.  Anti-choicers are entitled to their opinion – they are free to have it, and to believe it, and to strongly feel it in their bones.  But they are not entitled to make their beliefs the decision of every woman in the nation.  Are they stepping up to care for the countless children neglected and abused?  Let women choose for themselves, and let them live with their own choices – as each of us do in every way throughout the world.  Keep those beliefs, but keep them out of my face and out of my government.  Give women the choices they deserve, instead of shipping out our problem to another land and pretending it doesn’t exist.  Don’t criminalise someone for feeling so backed into a corner that their only option is to ‘hide their shame’ on an Aer Lingus flight.  Giving women more freedoms has never yet resulted in the worsening of society, and giving women more reproductive choices can only increase the level of care given to those children born.

My basic message to anti-choicers is to continue in your beliefs, stay as strong as you like in your opposition to abortion – don’t you ever, at any stage, have an abortion yourself.  But allow me the freedom, the respect, and the confidence to make my own decisions in life and to live with the consequences of my own choice.  Don’t keep putting me on that flight to England, pretending that I don’t exist, and acting as though your restrictive notions are the standard by which government should rule.

Fifty Shades of Feminism - Dublin Writers Festival

Dublin Writers Festival opened 20th of May and one of the first events was an exploration of the varying guises of feminism, as well as a plug for a new collaborative book, Fifty Shades of Feminism, in the Smock Alley Theatre.  One of the book’s editors, Rachel Holmes, was on hand to discuss issues that led to its speedy publication – and I mean speedy: it was thought up ‘over a glass of wine’ in September 2012, contributions sought immediately, and published by March 2013!  Each contribution, then, is more of a vignette – column length essays from more than fifty writers/activists/feminists.  Along with Rachel the panel consisted of book contributor Shami Chakrabarti, director of the civil liberties advocacy organisation, Liberty, in England; Louise Lowe, theatre director, playwright and Artistic Director of Anu Productions; Una Mullally of Irish Times fame (and a personal favourite of mine); and as chairperson, journalist Margaret Ward.

So, an interesting panel discussion seemed inevitable with such an interesting group of women, and the setting added to the feeling of collaborative thought – the main room of the Smock Alley Theatre is beautifully laid out, and the variety of age-groups taking up the pews was indicative of the head of steam feminism is building up throughout the country again.  It must be said, however, that there were moments when conversation flagged and the panel became little more than a self-congratulatory session, where battle wounds were compared.  Shami, in particular, came across as somewhat mocking at times – particularly when disagreeing with audience members, one of whom had the audacity to interrupt the panel before question time.  While the audience collectively sighed at the loud voice from the back of the room that interrupted what was becoming a fascinating back-and-forth on stage, it was unnecessary for Shami to take the role of the chair in poking fun at the woman.  This interruption was sparked by the attendee’s own interest in the discussion, and while I was one of the many who wished for her to shut up so that the panel could continue, surely Margaret Ward, as chair, was more than capable of bringing it back to centre.  I admire much of what Shami had to say, but it seemed at times that she wished to hear her own voice much more than others – something accentuated by her drinking beer on stage, slouching in her chair like a teenager, interrupting others as they spoke, and calling everyone ‘darling’ in a slightly sarcastic tone.  Obviously cultural differences do step in here – I’m really not a fan of that endearment, and it seemed particularly out of place when compared with Una Mullally’s intelligent and erudite contributions.
 
The youngest member of the panel, Una absolutely held her own with the best of them.  Obviously I was heavily invested in her being good, as she is a year younger than me and writing for a paper I would give my left ear to be working for, but she stepped up to the plate admirably.  Drawing the discussion back regularly from the brink of irrelevancy, her comments marked her as an interesting and interested feminist who thinks outside of the box.  Gaining confidence as the evening wore on, she became much better at responding and jumping in on questions – it was a pleasure to hear her belt out almost-statistics (who can ever remember exact numbers?!) and various studies.  Lacking this confidence, or perhaps shouted down at an early stage by Shami, was Louise Lowe.  I would have been very interested to hear more about what her theatre group does in relation to highlighting gender issues, but unfortunately she was loathe to step in on many conversations, and Margaret did not direct enough questions her way.  Rachel Holmes was very well spoken, and dealt with the discussion humorously and vigorously – clearly a woman of convictions, she knew her path and had worked hard to get there.  To alleviate some of my comments about Shami, it must be said that her contributions were often extremely interesting, and it is very clear that she works hard at her very laudable job – being an activist and advocate can often leave you disdainful of mere discussion, so it is perhaps inevitable that she might not always have taken the discussion as seriously as she might have.

Overall, the panel did not quite live up to what I would have hoped from a group of intelligent women coming together to discuss feminism today.  Irish issues were often not addressed, as statistics and reports were English based – a moment that stands out in my mind was instigated by Una Mullally, who pointed out that the Attorney General for Ireland (Máire Whelan) was female, which prompted muttering between myself and my friend about how the Director of Public Prosecutions (Claire Loftus), State Pathologist (Marie Cassidy), Ombudsman for Children (Emily Logan), the first Taxi Regulator (Kathleen Doyle), first Chief State Solicitor (Claire Loftus) and our last two presidents (Mary Robinson and Mary McAleese) were also women.  Ireland is slowly making changes, and it would be nice to have some acknowledgement of that – I’m not saying that the utopian meritocracy is upon us, but as a cloistered nation we have broken some of the bonds of patriarchy in recent years.  Indeed, the ‘Irish Mammy’ trope has had something to do with this – Irish women have always been strong, their strength just requires some direction.  We still suffer the general patriarchal impositions that most developed nations do – less pay in work, less advancement opportunity, childcare requirements not met, discrimination in the street, low rate of prosecution for rape and sexual assault cases, etc. etc. – and there is plenty of work to be done.  It took an audience member at question time to say ‘get out and march’, that this is the time to make sure our voices are heard, since the panel were not making that point – though ‘throwing bricks through windows’ should probably be taken more metaphorically than not.  There was far too much congratulation for writing the book as though that is all it takes to generate a discussion – the attendees were overwhelmingly female, and already in agreement with feminist as a tenet.  I would have welcomed a discussion on the damage post-feminism, societal pornification and raunch culture has done to our solidarity as a movement, rather than a cheap for-claps emphasising that ‘I’m not post anything, darling’.  I also felt that there was a contradiction in their allegation that women don’t generally help other women, yet each of them mentioned a strong woman who had helped them throughout their lives – again, it was Una who pointed out this crossing of lines, and I would have loved to have heard that developed.  This is especially relevant in terms of media portrayal of feminism – the ‘dirty word’ as it has become known, and that same audience member who wanted us throwing bricks through windows was again the one to confirm that is has never been a ‘clean’ word.

Having attended university as an 18 year old and again as a mature student, I can tell you that some general opinions on feminism have changed and some have become even more entrenched.  Perhaps that was why Una’s contributions appealed to me the most – she would have come through the ranks as post-feminism was gaining its foothold, suffered as I did through the ‘Mad Men’ resurgence of ‘gentle sexism’, watched as the internet became a medium both of freedom and of increased oppression of opinion, and seen first hand the effects the pornification of society has had on a young population.  It had moments of lucidity, and there were times when I would have jumped in on the conversation myself, but the length of discussion was too short and the book-plugging too necessary for it to rise above the normal in panel discussion terms.  In the end, a lot of it was preaching to the converted, and I doubt very many people left the auditorium with deeply renewed fervour in their feminist goals.  I did learn a new term for my type of feminism – socialist feminist – which I will carry with pride, but I can’t say that I will be hugely inspired otherwise by what occurred beneath the Smock Alley roof.  Enjoyable, then, but since I left the discussion feeling mainly passive, I can’t call it anything other than a cap-tipping exercise in mutually congratulatory feminism.

EDIT:  Another thought that arose through questions, but we didn’t have time to explore, is the fact that feminism as we discuss it, and revolt against patriarchy as we see it, all exists under the umbrella of capitalism – which leads to an interesting debate about where we go from here.  Does the entire system need to be torn apart before changes can be made?  Are we constantly just putting patches on an essentially unworkable system by propping up capitalist tenets even while making gains in our feminist agendas?  Something to think about, certainly, so very glad to have these questions arise on Monday night.

Angelina Jolie - Saint or Sinner?

An interesting debate has surfaced over Angelina Jolie’s decision to have a preventive double mastectomy to offset her increased chances of developing breast cancer later in life.  Perhaps it is more accurate to say that the debate has mutated into vitriol, raging over her Op-Ed in the New York Times in which she has 'the gall' to speak about her experiences as though she was a normal woman with normal issues.  After finding myself in an online comments battle with very angry users on Jezebel and The Guardian it became clear that Jolie’s revelations have raised a whole new raft of issues for women – not least the issue of bodily control and celebrity illness.  Most of the anger seems directed at the fact that Jolie could afford the quite expensive testing that allowed her to identify the faulty gene that exponentially raises her chances of contracting both breast and ovarian cancer, and at her decision to speak publicly about her experiences.

For many people money is the great divider – and certainly in the American health system it can make all the difference in the world – but the argument falls apart when you take into account that Jolie lost her own mother to ovarian cancer, and at the end of the day, has removed both of her breasts in order to do everything in her power to avoid leaving her own children motherless.  Money might have allowed her to find this gene and recognise its influence over her future health, but money doesn’t stop it from mutating and developing into a cancer that might take her life.  Cancer is, in a way, the great leveller – of course advanced healthcare can extend your life, better access to facilities and good doctors can aid recovery, and constant screening can catch the cancer before it spreads to other parts of your body, but very often none of these things make any difference.  Steve Jobs is a high-profile recent example of this, as is Roger Ebert, and Jolie can be added to this list.  She has not removed her chances of developing breast cancer, she has simply reduced it from the terrifyingly high probability it was.  She has also intimated that she may remove her ovaries, as she also stands a very high chance of developing ovarian cancer due to the gene she carries – no doubt this will raise yet another backlash of ill-feeling. 

I, of course, find all of this to be a very personal argument – hence my getting involved in comment battles that are unwinnable (as all internet wars are).  Having lost my own young mother to ovarian cancer in recent times, Jolie’s experiences are issues that arise with myself and my sisters on a constant basis; worries about what our body is secretly doing – is it silently developing faulty cells, are they mutating and spreading, will we leave our children motherless, will I have children before the cancer develops, etc. etc. ad nauseum.  Ovarian cancer has definite hereditary implications, and as it is a type of cancer that usually gives no signal of its advancement until it has already gone beyond recovery, it has a low survival rate.  For myself and my sisters, then, our bodies are possible time-bombs – something you keep out of your head in your day to day life and try not to think of, but the fact remains that one of us may develop ovarian cancer later in life.  For me, then, Jolie is doing what we have already thought of doing – taking control of our bodies before they take control of us.  I haven’t had children, and still hope to do so (in the not-so-near future), so removing my ovaries is not something I can think of now.  For others who have already had their children, having a hysterectomy so young will throw them into early menopause, which is not something any woman relishes.  There is also the psychological factor – removing your breasts, removing your ovaries, it’s almost as if you’re removing everything that makes you a woman…what are you without these symbols of femininity?  In answer I refer back to Jolie, who has long been defined by her sexuality, in her decision to make her surgery public and to speak honestly about her experiences.  She is standing up, as a woman in the very critical public eye, and taking control of her body in a way few would have the courage to do – and I applaud her decision.  I have a not-so-sneaking suspicion that a large majority of those who do not support her are responding out of a personal/celebrity dislike of the woman rather than on a health basis.

The Irish Cancer Society has already reported an upsurge in their helpline calls, and breast checks will no doubt rise too.  Perhaps women will become more aware of their bodies, and listen to them – maybe if something feels wrong they won’t do the ‘Irish Mammy’ thing and push those feelings down for fear of complaining.  Maybe, just maybe, it will get a few more people out from under the umbrella of ignoring the problem and into the ring to face it.  I know if my mother had the choice of losing her ovaries or losing her life I would not be without her today.  If it keeps one more woman from succumbing to cancer, then what Jolie has done is nothing short of amazing, and no amount of fame or riches makes that bravery any the less.

EDIT:  An excellent article on the subject from The Feminist Wire, by Bill Patrick.

Review: Star Trek: Into Darkness

A review from last week that took returning to the IMAX for a second viewing last night to remind me to post it...

JJ Abrams’ name is swiftly becoming synonymous with a different sort of Star franchise, but for the moment it’s the Trek that occupies his, and our, time. Finally reaching our screens after what seems a never-ending onslaught of hype, Star Trek: Into Darkness follows on from where his wildly successful 2009 entry left off. The crew of the Enterprise are present and correct, from Kirk to Spock and all the token nods in between – and a fairly standard Star Fleet storyline means this Trek won’t be breaking a huge amount of new ground. BUT (and it’s a pretty large ‘but’), if you enjoyed the first one, then by Vulcan will you love its sequel!

From the second it hits the ground (running), Into Darkness reaches for the stars in terms of narrative, acting, exposition and flow. Largely hitting the mark on all counts, its pace is perhaps the most impressive thing about the movie. Considering the lengthy running time – it comes in at 132 minutes – the story moves from set-piece to set-piece with a seamless energy that means the final credits leave you wanting more. While the narrative itself may be slightly prosaic…wild despot wants to destroy everything Star Fleet holds dear, but is it all as black and white as it appears?…the villain who drives it is anything but. Hype aside, Benedict Cumberbatch was always the one to watch in this instalment, and he does not disappoint. He brings thespian finesse to an otherwise hammy acting ensemble – and I say that with full love for the essential, and irreplaceable, hamminess of Star Trek. There have been fan-led suspicions about his iconic possibilities, at least one of which is confirmed in classic theatrical fashion – a moment to really set the hairs on the back of your Trekkie neck on end!

Chris Pine’s Jim Kirk is as vacuous as ever, though he adds a layer of emotion to his performance this time that makes you almost forgive his doe-eyed interpretation of the schmaltzy captain. Zachary Quinto moves from impression of Leonard Nimoy to interpreting Spock in his own right – largely helped by the subtle love-story with Lieutenant Uhura (Zoe Saldana). Simon Pegg manages the impossible as Scotty, becoming less annoying as the series continues rather than – as the first movie suggested – lazily making Scotty into an overblown caricature of himself. He’s still remarkably irritating in full Scottish brogue, though Karl Urban has taken up the theatrical mantle with Bones, delivering catchphrases rather than lines and allowing his eyebrows to do the majority of his acting.

An added character to the entire movie is the 3D and IMAX experience itself. Though the 3D has been added post production, it has little of the rough edges you might expect from this patchwork approach. Expensive and exclusive, the IMAX does also offer an extra layer to the visuals by enclosing the audience in a full ‘cave of dreams’ experience – there are no edges to your vision, as the movie fills every available visual space. Adding to his sparkly-space tricks from the first outing, Abrams has also gleaned some cues from Joss Whedon’s Avengers escapade – some tell-tale zooms and pans liken his direction to Whedon’s favourite way of seamlessly suturing CGI into the landscape.

What we have, in the end, is as good an addition to the Star Trek franchise as might be hoped. Amid accusations of mechanical storytelling, it nonetheless stands as an able expansion – there might be formula, there might be rote, but under it all is a devotion to the beloved characters of the Federation and a motion picture event that manages to retain the Star Trek audience, whilst adding new devotees all the time. An entertaining and visually splendid Star Trek experience rooted in one of the finest Trek-villian performances of all time…boldly going where many have gone before, but taking us willingly along for the voyage.

See the full review here, at Film Ireland.

Oscars: A Yearly Exercise in Disappointment

Every year I tell myself that I won’t care anymore, that the Oscars mean nothing and haven’t meant anything for a long time…yet every year I am sucked into an emotional response.  And, as usual, that response moves from disbelief to anger, then depressed resignation.  The Oscars are still the industry standard, and there is just no getting away from the fact that these winners, chosen by a pool of old hacks/venerated thespians who simply refuse to recognise real talent or innovation, can still be the difference between a director getting another good movie under their belt, an actor finding roles that stretch them and allow them to grow, and a film finding commercial success thanks to that golden statue on their poster.  So, yet again I find that I cannot ignore them, and I cannot discount them…despite the nominations themselves filling me with nothing but ennui, I’m still enthralled by the results.  Here is my disbelieving/angry/resigned response to the Academy Awards, 2013.

Best Picture

Argo, Amour, Beasts of the Southern Wild, Django Unchained, Les Misérables, Life of Pi, Lincoln, Silver Linings Playbook, Zero Dark Thirty

*Sigh*, this is a really poor showing for the Best Picture category, relatively speaking…perhaps 2012 just hasn’t produced the quality, but my more cynical side tells me that the movies rewarded are carefully chosen for very specific reasons. 

• Argo is a ‘drama’ that seems almost made-for-TV in its simplistic take on a complicated situation, and is both here and a winner because Ben Affleck is becoming an absolute Hollywood darling, who must be nurtured and cultivated to join the old boys club one day.  And he has rewritten history to make America the good guys again – always goes down well;
• Amour is one I have not yet seen, but I can imagine myself easily delighting in it (though ‘delighting’ is probably the wrong word to use for anything involving Haneke) – I’ll have to reserve judgement on this one;
• Beasts was my personal favourite for pure fantastic beauty, just as I pitched here for Film Ireland, and its tale of beaten-down historical America should have twanged some old Oscars hearts;
• Though I loved Django, as evidenced by my review, it is pure stupidity that it would be included here – it, rightly, never had a hope – the Best Picture category SHOULD contain movies that display excellence in all categories, which Django clearly doesn’t;
• I have not seen Les Mis, and I’m pretty sure I will NEVER see Les Mis – but Hollywood loves a musical and adores a sad tale, so there  you go;
• I missed out on Life of Pi, purely because I couldn’t drag myself to a movie who’s raison d’être is visual above all else – though I will revise this, as I actually do enjoy Ang Lee’s approach to filmmaking;
• Lincoln was just an awful, plodding, historical biopic that, made by anyone but Spielberg and starring  anyone but Danny-Day, would have ended up on a True-Life channel at 4am in the morning – as it stands, it was just really, really boring, and even Danny’s spot-on impression of the man himself did nothing to lift it for me;
• Silver Linings was entertaining, but not outstanding – shying away from ‘just’ telling the story of mental illness, and losing the run of itself half-way through;
• Zero Dark Thirty was just pure crap – and I don’t say that often – but really, it was propaganda dressed up in a boring Hollywood costume that constantly screamed ‘THIS IS TENSE’ at you, without actually providing any reason to feel that way.

 

So, was Argo the best of a bad bunch?  Even with this mediocre showing, I’d have to say the answer is a resounding no – the Academy are rewarding Ben Affleck for being an industry stable, and toeing the line on moviemaking 1-2-3...he doesn’t challenge the status quo, he doesn’t offer innovative direction – he basically gives us the same solid filmmaking Hollywood has been churning out since year zero.  While I like Ben Affleck, and I somewhat-enjoyed Argo, to name it as the best picture of 2012 seems absolutely ludicrous to me: as a film critic, I just cannot but be horrified that Hollywood consistently rewards banality instead of innovation.

Best Director

Ang Lee – Life of Pi, Michael Haneke – Amour, David O. Russell – Silver Linings Playbook, Steven Spielberg – Lincoln, Benh Zeitlin – Beasts of the Southern Wild

Well, here’s another contentious one – how can a movie be the Best Picture of the year, and the director not even be nominated?  It’s being called a snub on all sides, but really I think the Oscars panel are showing their true inability to solidly lock down what each category actually means.  Coupled with this is the bottom-line fact that Affleck’s direction was very lacklustre – more Bazin’s Metteur en scène than Truffaut’s Auteur.  Anyway, my quibbles on these are slightly shorter.  Life of Pi looked absolutely stunning, and considering Ang Lee’s previous movies, I can’t imagine it’s anything less than beautifully directed.  The nominations are strange though – how unlike the Oscars to give a nod to someone like Michael Haneke in the Best Director category (usually they pawn people like him off in the Best Foreign Language, and forget about them).  Tarantino’s omission might seem like another snub, while David O. Russell (despite his craziness) is no surprise, nor is Stevie Wunder-kid - what's an Oscar party without Spielberg?  Zeitlin slipping in there does what the Oscars do to me every year: give me the tantalising impression that sometimes they DO actually know what they’re talking about.  Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!

Best Actor

Daniel Day-Lewis – Lincoln, Bradley Cooper – Silver Linings Playbook, Hugh Jackman – Les Misérables, Joaquin Phoenix – The Master, Denzel Washington – Flight

What to say about this one…where does the line stop between really, really good acting, and simply doing an excellent impression of someone?  Danny Day did not blow me away in Lincoln – something he absolutely did in There Will Be Blood…while he undoubtedly worked very hard on the character, and gave him every nuance of Lincoln, it just wasn’t enough to feel much more than an excellent historically accurate copy.  The banality of the movie around him probably didn’t help, but I can’t help but feel that Joaquin Phoenix deserved this one far more.  While I didn’t particularly like The Master overall, it was an excellently constructed film – and it hinged on Phoenix’s out-of-control central character.  His portrayal of addiction of every kind was blistering, and tore up the screen in a way Danny Day’s measured Lincoln did not.  Denzel and Hugh are another story – I haven’t seen Les Mis, I’m sure Hugh’s good, but I can’t picture an all-singing picture being able to give the standard of acting necessary to get this gong, and I thought Flight was a pretty terrible movie with some very hammy acting milling around.  Denzel just seems to be phoning it in – a result, perhaps, of being given an Oscar for a ridiculous performance after being ignored for so many fantastic performances??  I don’t particularly like Bradley Cooper, but he was very good in Silver Linings Playbook – he stretched himself completely and gave an excellently nuanced performance…though I do think a nomination is enough of a nod for that.

Best Actress

Jennifer Lawrence – Silver Linings Playbook, Jessica Chastain – Zero Dark Thirty, Emmanuella Riva – Amour, Quvenzhané Wallis – Beats of the Southern Wild, Naomi Watts – The Impossible

Slight conundrum on this one.  I absolutely adore Jennifer Lawrence, and I think she is a great actor, but her role in Silver Linings Playbook was not great.  She was great, but the role was not…and the film was not.  It was all very good, and entertaining, and solid – but it wasn’t Best Picture level, and I don’t think her performance was Best Actress level either.  I’m sorry, Jennifer, but I have to say that!  She was overlooked for Winter’s Bone, in which she plays a far more complex and difficult role, and one wonders if yet again Oscar isn’t pulling ‘a Pacino on it, and rewarding her in hindsight.  They do tend to do that…  Jessica Chastain was nondescript in a boring movie, and Quvenzhané was spectacular for a child actress, but I’m fine with her not winning.  I have yet to see Amour, and I’m not hugely interested in The Impossible – so this category was a slim-pickings one for me this year.

Best Supporting Actor

Christoph Waltz – Django Unchained, Alan Arkin – Argo, Robert de Niro – Silver Linings Playbook, Philip Seymour Hoffman – The Master, Tommy Lee Jones – Lincoln

My posts are getting shorter as I go!  Must be because my anger is disappating, and now it is completely blown away in the face of the delightful Christoph Waltz!  He absolutely lifted Tarantino’s script above the usual shmultz that Tarantino usually delivers – a pastiche of old-style Quentin, when he was good, and ideas from the million and one other movies he’s watched and admired.  Django was entertaining, Christoph made it smart.  I don’t know why Alan Arkin in particular, but also De Niro, were nominated for such miniscule roles – the Oscars pulling ‘a Dench’ on it.  Tommy Lee seemed to be just his usual sour-faced self in Lincoln, but was passable enough.  Hoffman was excellent in The Master, but he suffers a little from the Danny-Days too – I wonder how much of him is really invested in the role, when it seems to come so easy to him.

Best Supporting Actress

Anne Hathaway – Les Misérables, Amy Adams – The Master, Sally Field – Lincoln, Helen Hunt – The Sessions, Jacki Weaver – Silver Linings Playbook

Total loss here – I thought Amy Adams and Sally Field were really ignorable in their respective roles, and Jacki Weaver was pretty good in Silver Linings.  I haven’t seen The Sessions, and I find Anne Hathaway to be a very bland actor in general.  I can’t imagine adding singing into the mix will change my mind, though I’m prepared to be wrong…this has a touch of the ‘Kidman’ about it – pretty actress uglies up, gets Oscar.  But we’ll see!  Again, this poor pool of nominees takes away from the importance of the gong for me.

Best Writing – Original Screenplay

Django Unchained – Quentin Tarantino, Amour – Michael Haneke, Flight – John Gatins, Moonrise Kingdom – Wes Anderson and Roman Coppola, Zero Dark Thirty – Mark Boal

Flight and Zero Dark Thirty for screenplay?  Good Lord!!  I loved Moonrise Kingdom, though it wasn’t his best written piece, and I’m sure Amour is pretty solid…but I don’t have much to be angry about here.  I like Django a lot, and while Tarantino indulged in his customary megalomania within the film, the story was solid and entertaining.

Best Writing – Adapted Screenplay

Argo – Chris Terrio, Beasts of the Southern Wild – Lucy Alibar and Benh Zeitlin, Life of Pi – David Magee, Lincoln – Tony Kushner, Silver Linings Playbook – David O’Russell

*Sigh*.  What makes Argo the best adapted screenplay?  It’s revisionist approach to history?  It’s lack of real excitement and drama?  I don’t understand this one.  In fact, I might have even suggested Silver Linings in this category, because it was a very coherent and well-written movie.  But since I haven’t read the source work, I can’t comment fully.  Life of Pi was a novel I would have considered un-translatable to cinema, and to make that work deserves a serious nod.  Again, I’m just angry that Argo won more than anyone else losing!

Best Foreign Language Film

Amour (Austria), Kon-Tiki (Norway), No (Chile), A Royal Affair (Denmark), War Witch (Canada)

Sadly, and to my shame, I have not seen a single movie in this category this year.  Since I  went back studying full time, my alternative movie knowledge has been given a severe kick in the nuts.

Best Animated Feature

Brave – Mark Andrews and Brenda Chapman, Frankenweenie – Tim Burton, ParaNorman – Sam Fell and Chris Butler, The Pirates! Band of Misfits – Peter Lord, Wreck-It Ralph – Rich Moore

Whilst I loved Wreck-It Ralph, I’m happy for Brave here.  A great tale, with the first female protagonist animation has ever seen.  What’s not to love?

Best Documentary Feature

Searching for Sugar Man – Malik Bendjelloul and Simon Chinn, 5 Broken Cameras – Emad Burnat and Guy Davidi, The Gatekeepers – Dror Moreh, Philippa Kowarsky and Estelle Fialon, How to Survive a Plague – David France and Howard Gertler, The Invisible War – Kirby Dick and Amy Ziering

Thrilled about this…thought it was a fantastic documentary, full of intrigue and mystery, and ultimately one of the most hopeful and thought-provoking musical documentaries I’ve ever seen.  Bravo!

Well, there we go...my yearly rant is complete.  Oh Oscar, you still reel me in to your twisted world.  I’ll watch the highlights tonight, and since most of the talk seems to be about who wore what rather than who won what, I’m sure it will be delightful.  Seth MacFarlane's hosting, on the other hand, remains to be seen.  Nobody could beat Amy Poehler and Tina Fey at the Globes for me, but then again, I am slightly biased.

Here’s some Oscar reaction gifs to tide me over till then, courtesy of Buzzfeed!

Review - Django Unchained

Tarantino makes it so unbelievably difficult to like his movies – when I think of ego, I really do think of Tarantino these days! And he has done nothing to dispel those feelings with his press junket work on Django Unchained – from fighting on Channel 4 over the presence of violence in his movies to bandying about the ‘n’ word behind the scenes at the Golden Globes, he’s drawing attention to all the wrong facets of his filmmaking. Perhaps his stupidest argument in all of this is the fact that he feels he shouldn’t be asked about violence anymore – if you constantly court controversy, and purposely stick exploding heads and torture in your movies, are you not in some way asking that those questions be asked? My recent thesis work took me into the realm of ‘what Tarantino thinks of his own movies’, and added to his insanity at the Dublin Film Festival a few years ago (for the God-awful Deathproof), he really strikes me as a sort of idiot savant. How he can make such entertaining movies that seem to critique our very acceptance of violence, and then not understand that this is what critics are reading into it, is totally beyond me. It hints at something very, very wrong with our Quentin… But how and ever, less about the man and more about the movie – here’s my review!

Django Unchained
DIR/WRI: Quentin Tarantino • PRO: Reginald Hudlin, Pilar Savone, Stacey Sher • DOP: Robert Richardson • ED: Fred Raskin • DES: J. Michael Riva • CAST: Jamie Foxx, Christoph Waltz, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kerry Washington

The last few years have seen Tarantino’s star wane – his name, once a byword for a kind of hyperactive cinema offering snappy dialogue and copious un-PC violence had curdled audience enthusiasm to boredom as he seemed incapable of evolution. While his naughties’ output occasionally hinted at an old genius, most particularly with Inglourious Basterds, it has taken a film like Django Unchained to collate his messy strands of filmmaking back into an entertaining movie. Think Blazing Saddles meets Mickey and Mallory!

Django Unchained hits all the right notes for a Tarantino fan – from the soundtrack and dialogue to the schlock violence and derision, he conjures a reimagining of history so brutal and entertaining that the long running time practically flies by. There are faults, to be sure – indeed, even fans of Tarantino will sigh as his megalomania takes over from time to time, shoe-horning his ego, and himself, into unrelated scenes. And these faults do trip up an otherwise seamless flow, leaving plenty of room for after-film arguments across pints or coffee…which is exactly what a non-film-schooled director would want from his audience. Of course, then there is the racism – Tarantino has been building towards a film like this his entire cinematic career, from using Samuel L. Jackson as a sort of muse to his own embarrassing efforts at ‘gangsta’ talk. You can’t help but feel that he’s getting extreme pleasure from the artistic licence afforded him by setting his movie pre-Civil War, and making his hero a freed slave. As a revisionist Western it has holes on a par with Wild Wild West (please – no more cowboy ray-bans!), but fans of Tarantino will know that his coolness permeates even to the past. And copious use of the ‘n’ word aside, this reimagining of racial warfare in the Deep South manages what Basterds did not in creating a wholly blasphemous take on history that actually rings (somewhat) true. More than that, since we now have Christoph Waltz on our side, we can finally cheer the good guys with undivided gusto.

The casting is, of course, the real revelation. Waltz takes Tarantino’s sometimes mangled use of language and ups the ante on its coolness – nobody else could deliver his words with such panache and class. His interpretation of a bounty hunter caught between common humanity and simple moneymaking is by turns hilarious and excessive, but always mesmerising. The usually unlikeable Jamie Foxx takes the melodramatic title role of Django, and succeeds in giving life to Tarantino’s immense creation. Foxx excels by not taking himself too seriously, and the ridiculous scenarios and fantastical lines flow much more smoothly for having no thespian illusions blocking their way. Along with Waltz, the big talking point has been Leonardo DiCaprio’s portrayal of plantation owner and all-round bastard, Calvin J. Candie – and oh does he fill that role with relish! His over-the-top accent and ridiculous cruelty anchor the movie in its time – pre-Civil War Southern USA, where white men ruled with an iron fist. Ably helped by his ruthless slave confidant Stephen (Jackson), their interplay is so powerfully malicious and hyperbolic that only Django’s dramatic drive for both his freedom and his wife can balance their scene-stealing machinations.

The running time does hint at Tarantino’s inability to find fault with any of his creations – he can rarely bear to leave anything on the cutting room floor, and there are certainly scenes that could have benefited from the chop. Despite its flaws, though, Django has so many parts that offer pure entertainment that – as long as you don’t take it too seriously – it’s nearly impossible not to be invested in some way. The bottom line is that while it is politically-incorrect, facetious, ridiculous and crazy, it is also Tarantino at his best – kinetic, irreverent and downright entertaining!

http://filmireland.net/2013/01/16/cinema-review-django-unchained/

Bridging The Gap

Inspired by a workmate who blogs with much more effort than I do (to the left, My Mate who blogs about delicious food!), I've decided to resuscitate my writing.  Hard to believe it's almost 2013, and I haven't blogged since returning from South America and starting back to college again.  Well, a synopsis seems in order...and brevity would definitely be beneficial at this stage.  After all, encapsulating over three years of life into one blog post seems slightly foolish.  With that in mind, I'll just say that quitting my job and returning to college was the best thing I have ever done with my life, even though it was a struggle from beginning to end.  My Mam was my biggest fan in terms of academia, and she always felt that writing and learning was where I shone the brightest.  So losing her at the start of my second year made continuing with college both the only option, and the hardest decision I've ever had to make and follow through on.  I could no longer bring her my English essays to read, praise and edit, no longer phone her with my results and listen to her glee as I made A after A.  First year was difficult, as her sickness got worse and I rushed from class to hospital and back to class again, trying to accommodate every part of my life into days that suddenly seemed too short.  In that time myself and Alan broke up under the strain of it all, I moved home to Wicklow, and spent more time than ever back with my family, waking up every morning and being more of a help to Mam than I ever could have been in Dublin.

Though Alan and I got back together after only two months apart, I remained in Wicklow for the summer - and it was a fantastic summer.  My brother's well overdue wedding in June was amazing, surrounded as we were by family and friends in cheery mood, and with Mam dancing the night away, putting the rest of us to shame.  I had the pleasure of not working that summer, and so spent what appears in hindsight to be endlessly sunny days walking the roads around Donard, making dinners to tempt Mam while she underwent chemotherapy.  We even spent one unbelievable day at the river I swam in as a child, with Mam, my sister and all of her kids, basking in sunshine and watching Mam again put us all to shame by swimming in the river herself for the first time in ten years.  By the end of the summer it was clear that despite Mam's monumental will, she would not be staying with us.  In September, with us all around her, she passed peacefully at the age of 54.  Nothing in my life will ever be the same without her, but it is in her memory that I continued to fight my way through college and emerge the other end battered and bruised, but proud.

As tough as first year had been dividing my time between hospitals, campus and my part time job, it became even more difficult accommodating Mam's memory into my everyday life, and attempting to continue without my biggest fan was harder still.  Having spent my teenage years fighting with Mam, the past few years of friendship and respect had been an absolute privilege.  With this in mind, I kept my head down and did my best to go on.  The college assigned me a counselor who proved absolutely useless - not to denigrate the profession, because I'm sure there are many good ones working at colleges throughout the country, but this particular one repeatedly asked me 'what was making me so upset'...and my answer that my Mam had just died didn't seem to satisfy him.  So, after two sessions, I decided to continue on alone.  I threw myself into my college work, and though my concentration was not the same as it had been - still isn't, in fact - and my writing skills needed similar adjustment, I did alright.  I managed to enjoy it again - though Freud's attack on the mother-daughter relationship left me breathless more than once during psychoanalytical studies.  After finally gaining my degree in English and Film Studies, I wanted to continue, so applied for the MA in Gender and Sexuality in Culture - a masters that combined English, Film and Women's Studies in one fantastic course.  Not everyone was convinced that this was the right thing to do, but I knew that if Mam was here, she'd be delighted that I was continuing on with further and more in-depth studies.  I continued working in the bar and nightclub that had sustained me during my degree, but after Christmas my position became untenable there, and I moved on to a library assistant role in a solicitors' firm, working three days a week to allow time for continued study.

Towards the end of the MA, and while writing my thesis, I had another setback on my return from the Euros in Poland, where I had holidayed with Alan.  My friend and workmate, Jam (James), had been missing for almost a week when his body was discovered in a river in Bydgoszcz leaving his family, his friends, an entire town, and Ireland fans all over the country devastated.  He was a fantastic person, who was filled with fun and trickery at all times - and it was an absolute pleasure to know him, to work with him, and to be his friend.  Behind the bar, he made my nights fly by with his jokes and games - riding a sweeping brush, putting ice down our shirts, finding snowballs outside and smuggling them in to throw at you when you least expect it, running for the front seat of my car no matter who was in it, ripping his tight trousers in one overenthusiastic lunge, finding ways to make obnoxious customers calm down, slinging his arm around my shoulders even though he had to stretch to reach them, always wanting to take his trousers off when he was drunk and having to be laughingly restrained, buying sweets from the sweet shop and always sharing, running into his house to get me mini Toblerones at Christmas time for my journey back to Dublin because his Mam always had them in the kitchen, staying until 7 in the morning even though work finished at 3 just to keep chatting and laughing, the list goes on and on and on and on.  A few weeks before we both set off for Poland, he came up to Dublin with another friend from the bar, John, and the three of us spent a night getting drunk and soppy, ending up in La Cirque declaring our everlasting friendship before breaking into a rousing chorus of 'I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane' (our party piece from so many parties), and getting roundly kicked out.  So, the last time I saw him was getting into a taxi and heading back to Blessington after a night where I got to tell him how much he meant to me.  Not many people get that opportunity, and I'm eternally grateful for it.

Finishing my thesis was an uphill battle after that, and the struggle resulted in a dissertation that was not what I wanted it to be, but was the best I could do in the circumstances.  The title was 'The Casualisation of Sexual Violence Against Women in New Millennial Media', and covered what I believe to be a media-wide attack on women that has led to a very real change in attitude - from movies to newspapers, and on to court convictions for real attacks on women.  My bottom line is that I believe, to paraphrase a paraphraser, that the greatest trick Postfeminism ever pulled was convincing the world that Feminism doesn't need to exist. Anyway, it's all done now - I got high enough grades to be happy.  Not enough A's, but only Mam really cared about that part and how hard I worked to get there.  For everyone else, it's enough that I'm done - for now.  In fact, for me it's enough that I'm done for now.  I continue to write reviews when I can, published on the Film Ireland website, and in the meantime have had some minor success with my review of 'The Social Network', which Scott Rudin himself requested be used in the circulation and advertising material for the film in America.  Quite the coup, and it was a pretty fantastic feeling to know my writing was appreciated.

The job I'm in is for now, and not for good.  I'm still unqualified as far as actual workable skills are concerned - my options now range from PhD, if possible; another MA (in education - primary or secondary, so that I could teach); getting to write for a newspaper; travelling with Alan; working in another country; or continuing to work in administration.  It's tough to have finished studying - despite the hardship, I loved spending my days immersed in the writings of the greats, dissecting movies and then building them back up again, delving into gender studies and feminist writings, associating life with art and art with life, tying my feminism together with the varying facets of my life more completely than I had every thought I could...it's been a journey.  And, like all journeys, it eventually had to end.  I'm far from where I started - both figuratively and literally, being back in Dublin with Alan and visiting a home that feels so much less like home without my mother there to welcome me.  But steadily we build and we move on - Dad's now the patriarch and matriarch, working hard to fill both roles and make Wicklow the home it once was to us all.  I continue to read and stretch myself with furthering my studies in case I decide on PhD or further MA.  I work, I eat, I sleep, I live....this is how the days pass, now.

As I started with a Zeppelin quote to begin my blog way back when, it seems only fitting to drag one out of the woodwork now...

"...it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune, then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn, for those who stand long,
And the forest will echo with laughter."
- Stairway to Heaven

Back to basics soon, with film reviews and travel updates.  I've a Primavera to blog about, a Euro's trip to Poland, a foray into Mexico and a converted-camper-van trip up the North.  It feels good to write again.

The Tale of Five Vines

God, how time flies when you're a mature student completely out of your depth in a college full of youngsters who think the most important part of college life is getting your hair to look messed up, while secretly spending hours that morning tweaking it to perfection!

I'm going to get my teeth into a 'diary of a mature student caught in the middle' soon - my caught in the middle thing is that I'm not quite old enough to fit in completely with the other mature students, who tend to be mid-30's onwards, and I'm not quite young enough for those school leavers either being, as I am, quite a bit over 18 at this stage... However, today is not the day for beginning that! Before my memory burns out completely and I forget the stories of that beautiful continent of South America altogether, I want to flesh out that tale of ayahuasca in Colombia, since I've now informed my immediate family that I've taken it, and have nothing else to hide!

We had made friends with our hostel owner, Samuel, and talked to him about many things - including the similarities between Ireland and Colombia in so many ways. Samuel was a documentary-maker, who had studied the tribes and ancient customs of Colombia, so was a very knowledgeable person to while away the hours listening to. He explained to us the cultural tribal significance of the ayahuasca, more commonly known as the vine of souls. He believed very strongly in the experience, not just for its power to open you up spiritually, but for its power over your physical well-being. His girlfriend, Paula, was pregnant, and when she was six months, would accompany him to the hills to take the ayahuasca so that their baby would be born with an open mind, spiritual awareness, and full health - for the worriers amongst you, it's worth noting that Paula would only be taking a very small dose, and they have since had their baby, born healthy and strong. The vine of souls is actually seven vines, mixed with almost pure alcohol, and administered by a Shaman, who organises the proceedings into its necessary ritual. It so happened that Samuel, who had taken the vines many times, knew of a Shaman living in the hills above Medallin, who could provide us with the experience we so desired - it sounded so tantalising and mysterious...receiving something so ancient in a ceremony by an actual Shaman. Others in the hostel heard of our plan and decided to come along - a Japanese guy called Hiro, a Canadian man, and two German girls. The cleaning lady also came along, planning to bring her 3-year-old son, who was sick, so that he could take the vine and be cured; however, at the last minute, her father in law protested so vehemently to his grandson taking part in this ancient ritual that the child was left at home. This is quite common amongst the believers in the healing powers of the ayahuasca - children take it, as do elderly and, shown in Paula's case, even pregnant women.

So, on a very cold and rainy day in central Colombia, we set out with Samuel on the local bus up into the hills. We brought gifts for the Shaman - alcohol to mix the vines together, and some plants that Samuel had picked out for us; along with, of course, our payment. About the equivalent of 15 euro, this was not a costly endeavour, and the Shaman only charged us, tourists, so that local people could be administered the ayahuasca for free - none of us argued with this logic; after all, we were rich tourists, by their standards. Our visit to the Shaman would ensure that a homeless man suffering from cancer, due to visit him the next day, would be able to receive the ritual and 'medicine' for free.

The bus journey was uneventful, apart from re-enforcing my belief in the friendliness of Colombian people; I sat next to a young man on the journey, who engaged me in conversation. Though he did not speak any English, we managed to chat away fine about everything from student life in Colombia (he was in university), to his impressions of Ireland as a country, for the hour-long journey, until Samuel called out to us all that our stop was coming up. We got off at the edge of a big motorway, winding through the hills well above the city of Medallin, with the skies still drizzling cold rain on us. It was rather a deserted area, and a small muddy laneway ran off the edge of the road further up into the hills. We set off walking behind Samuel, lugging our sleeping bags and quickly getting pretty damp. It was a very steep climb, and we were glad when we came in sight of the Shaman's home up ahead of us. A very non-descript house, we nonetheless clambered enthusiastically into his living quarters: after all, it's not every day you get to see the home of a real-life Shaman! He was very normal looking, but had a real sense of dignity in his bearing. Younger than I imagined, he soon told us the story of his training (in Spanish - he spoke no English), and that he was very recently qualified - hence he and the also quite young Samuel knowing each other so well. He showed us photos of his 'graduation' (for want of a better word) ceremony, and the old Shaman who trained him. The photos looked wild! Headdresses and ceremonial staffs, fires burning, and something so untamed and tribal about the whole experience! We sat on his dirt floor, while he spoke, and had the opportunity to look around us. On the walls were pictures of Jesus, Buddha, and even some Hindu Gods. Our Shaman - affectionately called 'Shamey' by us Irish (between ourselves of course - we showed him nothing but respect!) - explained that the life of a Shaman does not align itself with one religion, but accepts all religious beliefs into its theory of spirituality, hence the pictures from each religion on his wall. He then began to collect the tools of his art, and told us that he was taking us up to a deserted cabin further up the hills, where another Shaman used to live. Part of the experience of the ayahuasca is to sleep outdoors...something I relished less and less as the rain continued to come down. As we left the house, I spotted peyote (a powerful hallucinogenic cactus we had seen for sale in Bolivia) growing in his front garden...

We headed up to the deserted cabin, whose porch provided welcome shelter from the rain - though we couldn't enter. It was painted in bright colours, with a mural on the front of a stereotypical Shaman, headdress and all. Shamey told us that part of the experience included us collecting firewood to build a fire that would last the night; he would have to perform ceremonies to burn our demons for us while we went on our own spiritual journeys throughout the night. So, we headed off, the mystical spell of it all somewhat broken by first our annoyance at heading out into the rain again, and then our excitement as darkness fell and we stumbled through woods trying to carry, a little competitively, as much branches as we could, before dragging them all back up the hill to our mystical spiritual commander.

If you spot a note of slight cynicism underlying some of my memories, then it is only because it echoes how I was feeling at the time...it wasn't the first time that my cynical inclinations impeded me feeling the full effects of a spiritual excursion, let me tell you!

Anyway, it was decided that the rain was too settled to attempt to sleep in the VERY wide open, so we set up base in the porch of the cabin - which sheltered us only from the rain. From the biting cold we were, at that moment, still unprotected. So, the experience itself began. Any giggles were soon stifled as the Shaman got into his full regalia: headdress made from the plumage of various birds - which he named for us, showing each of their feathers; dried nuts of some kind wrapped around his legs so that every dancing movement sounded like rain trickling down a dry straw roof; white almost robe-like clothing decorated with beautifully woven reds and blues and greens; and a stick with feathers and dried nuts or fruit attached which swished and rattled when shaken. He really did look like the dictionary definition of a Shaman! We got the fire going, also in the shelter of the porch, and drew around it in a circle while he began the ritual. He told stories of the ancient tribes, and how they discovered the uses of the separate vines, he told us of each of the vines used in the mixture and where they can be collected. He even began to tell tales of Jesus, Jehovah and Buddha - all interspersed as though they were one and the same prophet of spirituality. Our understanding of exactly what he said was minimal, as he spoke only Spanish, but the Canadian man translated some of his stories. However, it was not necessary to understand fully, because you were pretty much just transfixed by his voice as he spoke, framed as he was by the flames of the fire in his feathered headdress.

As he spoke, he began laying out the different bottles containing crushed vines...to be honest, I can actually feel myself beginning to gag even describing this bit!...and mixing them together for the first person. Out of the darkness, we began to form a queue to receive this drink which would open our minds, show us the way, answer questions, lead us on the path of spirituality and, for the first while at least, make us very sick! I should point out for anyone not familiar with the process of the ayahuasca or, indeed, peyote: when you take it first, you get suddenly and violently ill...either vomiting or diarrhoea or, for some lucky feckers, both. This is then followed by the opening of the spirit world...or hallucinations, as some of us refer to it!

Ciaran went first, and I went second. By that stage, the foul smell of the stuff had reached my nostrils, and I figured if I didn't get it out of the way first, then I'd balk when it came to my turn. Before anyone took any, it was pointed out that people should try make it down to the end of the porch to get sick, so that nobody was forced to step in anyone elses' vomit. Yes, even in a Shamanic experience, practicalities are not overlooked! Anyway, we stood round the fire, waiting our turn. Ciaran kneeled in front of the Shaman, who chanted something in Spanish, and waved his feathered rattling stick around Ciaran's head and shoulders, before leaning forward with a brown bowl. Ciaran got up and moved off into the darkness, as I took my place. Kneeling down in front of him, I noticed that he was pouring the very strong alcohol in with the different mixtures in the earthen bowl, and that some of the concoction was being poured from an old 7-up bottle. This little vision of modernity snapped me out of the mysticism of it all somewhat, but how-and-ever, I committed myself to the moment, and gazed up as he swished his feathered stick around my head, the sound of the nuts rattling like rain around my ears. Then he leaned forward with the bowl and thrust it into my mouth, immediately tilting it so that I had to gulp the mixture very quickly. God, I really am feeling my stomach knot just thinking about it! A more foul-smelling concoction you'd be hard pushed to find, but if the smell was bad, the taste was even worse! Bits of leaf and bark floated in a murky mix of alcohol and organic matter, and it was all I could do not to spit it back in his serene bloody face when it hit the back of my throat and burned its way down into my stomach! But I got through it, and stood up so that Alan could kneel down behind me. I looked over at Ciaran when I got up, expecting to share a bit of a grimace and wry smile with a fellow-cynic, but his face was pointed downwards, and he seemed to be having some kind of internal struggle going on. As I took my own seat, I realised that his internal struggle was not actually psychological, but purely physical. It immediately felt like my stomach was trying to eject this mixture by every means possible: cramps and battles were waging, and it was all I could do to stop the vomit from coming up straight away! Alan took his place, as did the rest, and we all struggled against the sickness as the Shaman began to sing and dance around the fire, banging his drum and chanting in a measured and rhythmic melody. We were told that the longer we could hold the ayahuasca down without getting sick, the better our experience would be. Having the constitution of an elephant, I held mine far longer than anyone else, and having listened to the strangely uncommented-upon sound of people vomiting in the background for almost an hour, I finally succumbed to the sickness.

Or rather, the sickness finally overtook me, because at a certain point I became blindingly aware that there was no way I could hold it in any longer: it was the most physical thing I've ever felt. Literally, my stomach was ejecting this mixture, and there was NOTHING I could do about it! I barely made it to the end of the porch before I was doubled over and vomiting like I never have, and hopefully never will, ever again! It's hard to describe the feeling unless you've gone through it yourself, but as I ran towards the end of the porch, with the sickness rising, I didn't feel any sense of panic or embarrassment - after all, everyone else had already done it. But it wasn't just that - the vine seems to work on you straight away in making you incredibly calm and accepting about it all...or maybe that was just me. I vomited for about 5 minutes straight, from what I can tell, and it was a strange kind of sickness: it felt as though it was being drawn from my toes right up through my body, and was clearing out my whole system. I could see why people felt that it had healing properties, for I literally felt like every bad thing in my body - both physical and psychological - was being FLUNG out of my system by this wonderful vine of souls. I was doubled over for the whole retching experience, but when I straightened up the world flattened out into 2D, and the rustling of the trees and long grass around seemed like a language I could finally understand. For others, the effect had been more instantaneous and powerful - they had immediately wandered off into hallucinogenic fogs of altered perception. For me, unfortunately, the hallucinations ended there, and I made my way back to the fireside with an only slightly altered state of mind. From talking to Samuel beforehand, I knew that this often happened on some people’s first experience – that they would only feel the true effects of the ayahuasca after taking it a few times. His first ‘real’ experience on the vine of souls had been his third, and he had never looked back.

I was disappointed: despite my cynicism and slight mockery of the whole thing, I had really wanted a spiritual epiphany – something to truly shake me up and make me feel changed and new, and I had thought that this wondrous vine of souls might do it. As I sat round the fire, I realised that Alan was – as always – very much on my wavelength, and neither of us were experiencing anything close to some of the others. The two German girls, who I felt were a little young and possibly a bit silly to begin with, were giggling in their sleeping bags, curled up together under the porch. Samuel had retired to his sleeping bag away from the main group straight after taking the ayahuasca, as he had said he would, and was groaning to himself in obvious struggle with something deep inside. Hiro was in the bushes talking to the trees, and Ed and some of the others were wandering out in the darkness, silently in discussion with their own consciousness. Myself, Ciaran, Daragh and Alan, however, were circled round the fire, listening to the Shaman continue his singing and talking, and gazing into the flames. Once or twice I felt slight hallucinations cloud my vision, but I jumped on them so quickly – with my bloody rationality – that they disappeared instantaneously. I tried a different tactic of allowing the ‘visions’ to materialise without trying to focus on them, but they remained as insubstantial as smoke.

Hours passed this way, and the Shaman noticed that the four of us were not feeling the effects of the vines as much as the others, and offered us a second mixture, which we accepted. I thought, I might as well be hung for the sheep as the lamb, and tried not to remember how vile the mixture had been all those hours ago... So, we queued up again, and my stomach cramped in horror at the disgust of that murky mess we had to swallow. The other lads, as before, got sick very soon afterwards, and faded away into their own personal experiences, and myself and Alan – by prior arrangement – settled into our sleeping bags in front of the cabin under the shelter of the porch. As before, I held onto the sickness longer than the others, and it was later that I finally succumbed again to the horrifically physical retching of the vine, straightening up again in the hopes of some kind of spiritual vision but, again, being disappointed. I retired to my sleeping bag, feeling a bit pissed off that after all my effort – drinking the damn stuff two times, for Christ sake, and vomiting what felt like all my internal organs into a wet Colombian night – I still was feeling nothing stronger than a slightly vague feeling of dissimilarity, but so insubstantial that it was as close to nothing as seemed to make little difference.

As I lay there, on the hard ground, feeling cold and cross, I began to really and truly be annoyed by how sick I felt, and how bloody freezing it was, and when would that bloody Shaman stop banging his bloody drum, and shut up so that we could go to sleep and get the hell out of here! I’m sure my state of mind had something to do with no spiritual epiphany forthcoming, but the sickness in my stomach certainly played a part in my temper. After the last vomiting party, I had felt immediately better, and no nausea remained behind, but this time I was left with stomach still churning, so that I couldn’t sleep with the cramps and pain of it. More than once I got up to the end of the porch, and tried to force myself to get sick, thinking this would make me feel better, but I couldn’t. As the night wore on, people began to quiet down – some to sleep, some to simply think. But I couldn’t sleep with the nausea, and lay there seething at the stupidity of the whole situation. As the night wore into early morning, I felt new stirrings in my body...was this the spiritual epiphany I had hoped for? Something seemed to be happening! But it only took me moments to realise that this was nothing spiritual, and another couple of seconds to figure out that if I didn’t get out of that sleeping bag, I was in severe danger of soiling myself...

I struggled out of the zips, and stumbled like a drunkard with no real sense of my footing to the end of the porch – I had never stepped off it, having only vomited off the edge, but these were desperate times, and I jumped straight into the darkness, misjudging the height and landing heavily into the grass. Not stopping to think of the vomit I might have just fell into (luckily the rain had washed everything away, so it was clean-ish in that area!), I staggered forward into the darkness, my prudishness and wish not to be heard or seen by anyone forcing me to push onwards to distance myself from the cabin, despite the PRESSING need of my bowels. One definite altering effect that the vine had had was on my walking, as I now had severe trouble staying in a straight line, and couldn’t really control my direction. In the darkness, I fell into a muddy hole up to my knees, water and muck drenching my trousers and entering my shoes and socks...and this was the catalyst my body needed, for I barely managed to drop my trousers before I lost control completely! It was horrific...and if you think READING about it is bad, you should try bloody experiencing it! God, it was the most undignified, horrible diarrhoea of my life, and I felt like my body would explode...at least Harry had a toilet under him in ‘Dumb and Dumber’, I had rain on my head, grass at my feet, darkness all around me, and moderate hallucinations beginning to fly past my eyes!

Thankfully, when Samuel had explained that some people suffer THIS instead of vomiting, I had assumed the worse – that I would be the one to get that instead of sickness – and stuffed toilet roll in every pocket of my coat and trousers. Never has my pessimism worked so well to my advantage...at least I could return to my sleeping bag without the added indignity of a dirty bum!!!

As I stumbled back through the darkness trying to avoid the bloody hole again, I was frightened by the sudden appearance of Hiro out of the darkness; stumbling like a young startled deer into my eye line, he glanced at me fleetingly, before galloping off into the darkness again. Strange times.

I passed the rest of the night/early morning in my now slightly damp sleeping bag – lying awake, listening to the Shaman’s moans and occasional rattles by the fire, Samuel’s groans from his sleeping bag, and the odd cry from the wilderness, where I could only assume Hiro was still stumbling. However, I felt perfectly at peace. The sickness had mostly passed, and I felt no embarrassment about all the bodily expulsions, and was feeling quite bright and cheerful as I lay in my sleeping bag, gazing at the slowly brightening sky and listening to the soft and almost comprehendible language of the swaying trees. I felt at that moment that it was not necessary to fully understand the entirety of nature around me, but simply to be a part of it, and to relax in its comfort. So maybe that was my spiritual epiphany: to simply relax in my life, slow down, and accept that something at simple as a tree blowing in the wind can be the most beautiful thing on earth.

By about 8am, everyone was up and about, and talking about their night of ayahuasca. Hiro had been welcomed by the trees and plants into their world, and they had leaned towards him and spoken to him – however, things had turned nasty when he stumbled through the forest and accidently trampled some plants in his path...the trees and flowers had turned on him and began to hold him back, and he was forced to fight his way through back to the safety of the cabin. The German girls had spoken to God...apparently. On their way up to the cabin the day before, they had said that this was the thing they wanted to do in their experience, so I can’t help but feel that the whole thing was self-induced in their case. However, they had enjoyed their night, and laughed the whole way to the bus about it all. Alan had experienced a similar night to me, minus the bowel excursion of course, while Ed, Daragh and Bones had more positive personal experiences, and some even felt a profound change. As this is a document of my time with ayahuasca, it’s not my place to detail their journey – but suffice to say, I was impressed by their experience, and of course, slightly jealous that I hadn’t had something stronger happen.

The Shaman had one last piece of ceremony to perform, and the lads took off their shirts to be blessed by him after their dance with the ayahuasca – he shook his rattling stick about their heads, and filled his mouth with the alcohol, before spraying their bodies and faces with it. I decided that I had been blessed enough without doing this, and politely declined the added chill of cold alcohol being spat at me! So, we packed up our gear and headed down the mountain, chattering about the night, and telling our stories. It turned out that the Shaman had also suffered the same problem as me, but his was due to his battling the demons escaping from all of us, and trying to fight them into the fire. Poor guy.

As we headed back to the hostel on the bus, all I could think about was how tired I was, and how dirty I felt. By the time we got back, the euphoric feeling I had experienced while lying in my sleeping bag and gazing at the trees had long since subsided, and all I wanted to do was get into my bed and sleep, which I did without further talk, ignoring everyone in favour of a good rest. When I awoke, I had a long shower, and cleaned out my sleeping bag, as well as sending my clothes out for a wash. At this point, I felt more myself, and realised that ‘myself’ is someone who is open to new experiences, but also someone who quite likes being clean, dry, well-rested and well-fed! Which isn’t such a bad thing...

Despite the sickness and diarrhoea, the nausea and rain, the cold and the muck, I genuinely am glad that I took part in the ceremony. I was disappointed that I had no spiritual awakening, or faced any of my demons, or even had some hallucinations to liven the time. But at the end of the day, this is not something that’s purely a tourist attraction, and I’m glad we had the experience of a real Shaman and a real medicine being administered by somebody who believes strongly in its power. It was an honour to have been a part of something so ancient and mysterious, and despite the sickness, I feel that I pushed my boundaries and extended my comfort zone enough for it to truly count as a unique and amazing experience.

I would probably pack more toilet-roll the next time I take it, though...

Yet another memory

Well, another South America memory has popped up...having a lovely sing-a-long-a-ling into the wee hours of the morning with the ballsome boys from the country - Cormac, James and Liam. The guitar was in full flow, the rum was in even fuller flow, and our singing was going above the beyond beyond. Fun times!

So, general songs were being pulled out of the hat, and we were all having a great time, lying in our hammocks and lapping up the happiness of a sweet Colombian sun rising above the Caribbean sea, when the guitar was passed to Kee. He plucked away for a while, as we all chatted and lazed, foggy with the edges of drunkeness bordering on hangover, then began breaking into Nirvana's 'My Girl'...so we all sang along to the first half of the song with enthusiasm, when suddenly we all simultaneously broke into the unplugged version. So, with the first twinges of a red dawn lighting up the sky, most of the hostel asleep apart from our handful of Irish lying about in the hammocks, we belted out the WHERE DID YOU SLEEP LAST NIGHT at the top of our lungs, screaming it into the sky with passion, laughter, and not a little rum! One of the best nights out of the entire trip, and a memory that will stay with me for such a long time...

God, those nights can never be again, but as Ed always tells me, don't be sad it's over, be glad it happened!

Keano, Keano, Keano!

Our newest Irish player gives his first interview to the Liverpool FC website....and I'm very excited! I really think he's gonna work well with Torres, and I look forward to seeing him play....WELL DONE, ROBBIE!!!!

And, another quote from the website shows Robbie's what we can expect in terms of commitment to the team - The lifelong Red was just nine years old last time the club won the league back at a time when he slept under Liverpool bedsheets and walked around in his club tracksuit. Keane added: "I was a little bit too young to fully remember the last title. Hopefully I can contribute to changing that as part of this team. Obviously that would be great for the people of Liverpool. "My whole family are Liverpool fans. I remember every Christmas asking for jerseys and tracksuits – it's great now that I get the tracksuits for free!"

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Robbie, you're a Liverpool fan – this must be a dream come true?

It is a dream come true. I have been a massive fan all my life and to be sat here today is overwhelming.

Why is now the right time to come to Liverpool?

Because the opportunity came along. You know, Liverpool came in for me and it was something I always dreamed about as a kid. I am at the stage now where I want to kick on a bit and win a lot of trophies. I believe that Liverpool can do that with the squad of players we have.

Is it right you had the opportunity to come here when you were a teenager?

I had the opportunity when I was 14. I could have signed but I just thought that, at the age I was, I might have a better chance of playing first-team football at Wolves – and that's how it worked out. I don't regret it, because I got into the Wolves team when I was just 17. I never regret things in life. By being at Wolves and going to the clubs I've been to – these things have led me to where I am today. There has been talk and speculation about a transfer since then but until now it has always been speculation.

What has Rafa Benitez told you about your role here?

I have spoken to him about the situation. He knows how I play and hopefully I can do a job for him. It is up to me to prove that I can stay in the team every week. You don't just come into a club and expect to walk straight into the team; you have to earn your place and I am looking forward to doing that.

You'll be working day in, day out with Rafa – was he a big factor in you signing?

Yes, he was. He is a fantastic manager and has done a lot for Liverpool Football Club. He has won the Champions League. That is a massive factor. But no one has to sell Liverpool Football Club to me. It sold itself a long, long time ago. When an opportunity like this comes along, you have to grab it with both hands.

You've played with some of the best strikers around in the last few years and I guess you are chomping at the bit to get out there and play with perhaps the best forward in the world, Fernando Torres…

He has been a revelation since he came to the Premier League. He was absolutely outstanding last year and also in the Euros with Spain. It is hard to leave Tottenham with some of the players they had – like Dimitar Berbatov, who I had a great relationship with – but Torres is probably the best striker in the world right now. Hopefully we can play a lot of games together and do well.

Do you see yourself as a second striker, someone who can play a bit deeper behind, say, Torres, or as a striker in your own right?

I see myself as a second striker. I can play off the shoulder, link things up and play in the hole. You are always judged on scoring goals as a striker and I have always scored a lot of goals. Hopefully I can continue that here at Liverpool.

How keen are you to pull on that number seven shirt here at Liverpool?

Yes, as a Liverpool fan the number seven jersey is massive. It is a fantastic opportunity for me that obviously I'm relishing. The people who have worn the number seven here, like Kevin Keegan and Kenny Dalglish – if I do half the job they did at Liverpool I will be happy.

Was the lure of the Champions League a big factor?

I have only played in Champions League qualifiers before but, you know, it's the whole package. I have always wanted to come here but, yes, the Champions League and being able to win things is a major factor.

At 28, would you say you are in your prime?

Yes, I think so. The last four years have been great for me and I believe I am at my peak. I am at a good age and if I didn't come to Liverpool now, maybe the opportunity wouldn't come again. It has worked out perfectly for me and, hopefully, for Liverpool Football Club as well.

You scored two against us last year – was that strange, as a Liverpool fan?

It is difficult. I support Liverpool but you have to blank that out of your mind. It was nice to score at the Kop end but now I am looking forward to scoring at the Kop end in a red shirt.

It's Villarreal on Wednesday, then Rangers at the weekend. Either of these would be great to make your debut, wouldn't they?

Regardless of who it's against it will be fantastic. It's something I am really looking to. I'm not too bothered who it is against, I'm just looking forward to pulling on that red shirt and playing for Liverpool. It's something I've always dreamed about and sometimes dreams do come true.

You are famous for your cartwheel celebration – might we see that at Anfield any time soon?

I will probably bring it out once for the Liverpool fans as I've done it down the years, but after that it will probably go back in the box.

And this must be a nice way to end a brilliant summer for you, what with you getting married as well?

Yes, it's been a fantastic year for me all in all, with Tottenham doing well and winning the League Cup, then getting married and now coming to the club I love. I will never, ever forget this year.

Was it a difficult decision to leave Tottenham?

It was, because of the relationship I had with everyone there, and being vice-captain. Ledley King has been injured quite a lot, so I've had to take on the role of captain quite a bit. The relationship I had with the fans and the chairman meant it was difficult to leave. I am leaving good friends behind, but if there is one club that could take me away from Tottenham it is Liverpool.

Do you have a message for the Tottenham supporters?

Sometimes in life you don't get many opportunities to go somewhere you have dreamed of going. The Tottenham fans have been absolutely brilliant with me and I want to thank them for their support over the years. I look forward to seeing them again and I will never forget the way they treated me.

And what would you say to Liverpool fans who are obviously very excited about seeing you here?

I can't wait to put the jersey on and hopefully they are looking forward to it too. I will always give 100 per cent for this club and hopefully score and create goals.

http://www.liverpoolfc.tv/news/drilldown/N160687080729-0826.htm