Author Archives: fústar

Owp! (or “The Mother Who Came to A Crisis Point”)

have read Judith Kerr’s The Tiger Who Came to Tea aloud many times. I have had read it aloud, perhaps, 6322 times. That’s no exaggeration. Or if it is, it’s only slight. I’ve read it in day-lit rooms. I’ve read… continue reading »

Woah! Woah! Woah!

o there I was, on Saturday afternoon, chatting with Dave Fanning about Hergé, his (great) works, and the (not-so-great) Spielberg/Jackson adaptation of said works, when we got to the sticky issue of “faithfulness”. I may have (accidentally) ended up sounding… continue reading »

The Campaign Poster Debaffler: 8 – Gay Mitchell’s Quantum Head-Fuck

The presidential election. 15 days away. It will happen in a place/time called “the future”. A contested place/time that does not yet exist, or maybe does. We live, after all, in a time of uncertainty. I don’t mean a “Will… continue reading »

Send…More…Paramedics…

Had a blast and a half, with the Outbreak Festival crew, in the old Daghda space (St. John’s Sq, Limerick) last night. A healthy (or suitably unhealthy) crowd shuffled horrifically down to enjoy local film-maker Dermott Petty’s Gothic Country ‘n’… continue reading »

Brainstorm: Dawn of the Damp

Achill Island. 1999. A different decade. A different millennium. Driving, interminable rain sweeps in over Keel strand and down from lofty Slievemore. Dark thunderous clouds roll and boil in the grim skies overhead. And there, huddled and damp, in a… continue reading »

Family Album: The Terrible Agony of the White Phone When it Doesn’t Ring (Or Maybe When it Does)

There really wasn’t that much to do. Back in damp-priest-riddled, early-80s Ireland. Especially if you were a wife and mother. Choices were stark and choices and simple. And really limited. You could sit munching a communion wafer (or sucking an… continue reading »

The Museum of Cultural Waste: Uncle Arthur’s Bedtime Stories

When I was a child I had a fairly good nose for moralising that masqueraded as entertainment. I’d see it coming. I’d spot the signs. A tingly sensation warning me that the adult world was trying to insidiously slip one… continue reading »

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