DROPPED THE MOON

  BOOK REVIEW - THE GOOD SON BY PAUL MCVEIGH The Good Son by Paul McVeigh Salt Publishing BLURB: 'Mickey Donnelly is smart, which isn't a good thing in his part of town. Despite having a dog called Killer and being in love with the girl next door, everyone calls him 'gay'. It doesn't help that his best friend is his little sister, Wee Maggie, and that everyone knows he loves his Ma more than anything in the world. He doesn't think much of his older brother Paddy and really doesn't like his Da. He dreams of going to America, taking Wee Maggie and Ma with him, to get them away from Belfast and Da. Mickey realises it's all down to him. He has to protect Ma from herself. And sometimes, you have to be a bad boy to be a good son.' REVIEW:  I was born and raised in Belfast and I understand the challenges of growing up and trying to live a normal life in the late 1960s and 1970s against the backdrop of 'The Troubles', with all the fears, divisions, a

  I swear to you that this is a true story, albeit embellished for entertainment value.  It happened in my presence and it illustrates that even after three decades of dealing with customers, there is always one to surprise you.  Here goes. One day, in the phase of my career when I was a hypermarket general manager in the Midlands, I took a call from a Mrs. Parker (name changed to protect the insane). “I’m really upset,” she began, positioning herself on the front foot and me on the defensive back foot. “Oh, I’m sorry.  Please tell me about it and I’ll do everything I can to put things right.” “I don’t know where to begin”, she replied with a slight choke in her voice and, I envisioned, a tremble on the lower lip. “Why not start at the beginning?  It’s a very good place to start”, I suggested without the slightest hint of sarcasm, even though Julie Andrews was singing the do-re-mi song in the back of my head. “Well, I do all the catering at home for my husband’s business clients.  We h

1965 - 1970, I was taught at a Christian Brothers Grammar School in Belfast. Some of those brothers were fantastic. Others were, well, see below...... A teacher from long, long ago carried a stiff leather strap, he was more of a gunslinging guy who was swift to give us a slap. He was super-fast, quick on the draw for slow learning or giggling in class, lost homework or picking your nose, dozing or scratching your ass. You would stand, hand out, palm up as he took two or three practice swings, then four rapid thumps 'cross your fingers guaranteed lasting bruises and stings. It taught us all about discipline, it taught us about wrong and right, he was one of the best of our teachers but also a sadistic wee shite.

  Over forty years ago, I wrote a song called October the Fourth.  The date has no significance.  I thought I would share the lyrics for no reason  whatsoever.  October the Fourth Rocking chair and pipe tobacco, sitting, thinking by the fire, a photographic memory with any scene he may desire from his younger days. Dark-haired woman reaching out to hold him by his hand and his heart is always willing but his head can't understand the reason why. And he says to himself: "The last time I kissed her was at midnight on October the fourth, I can't remember the year, when I have the time to sit and think awhile I spend the time wishing she was here." Music on the radio, playing to an audience of one and endless living memories come to haunt him when the day is done, and he's alone. Haunting visions in the flames of love and times and places, of people he knew well among unfamiliar faces, he sheds a tear. And he says to himself: "The last time I kissed her was at mi

  She never gets sick of Elvis But she sure gets sick of me. She says she gets lonesome at night, That's something I can't see. She says: "He's in my CD rack, No, of course, he's not dead, He's in my speakers singing, Performing in my head."   1 I met her in the 50s, When Elvis changed the world. I was her only boy And she was my only girl   We danced a lot to Hound Dog And our love was tender too, But now she taunts my wooden heart And there's not much I can do.   Chorus She never gets sick of Elvis But she sure gets sick of me. She says she gets lonesome at night, That's something I can't see. She says: "He's in my CD rack, No, of course, he's not dead, He's in my speakers singing, Performing in my head."   2 Our walls are full of pictures Of Elvis through the years. She loves to sing the songs While I like drinking beers.   Elvis when I wake up, Sunrise to sundown, He's her king of rock and roll And I'm her jest

More than a few years ago, I had a stab at writing a country song.   I have a long-held ambition to hear Willie Nelson singing this song, hence the country music use of the word "don't" rather than "doesn't" in the chorus. It started out as summer love, warm days and loving nights, picnic fun and country walks, feather kisses and dizzy heights. Riding horses across the fields, wind blowing our cares away, stetson hats to shade the sun, on every one of our summer days. But now it’s over, we’ve drawn the line, summer’s gone and the sun don’t shine, what are the reasons who and how, we’ve closed down for winter now. Once this room was light and air, sunbeam rays played on the chair, we would talk all afternoon, 'til we witnessed the evening moon. Now the room is dark and cold, young love is now feeling old, windows locked and shutters down, and I look like the saddest clown. But now it’s over, we’ve drawn the line, summer’s gone and the sun don’t shine, wha

  I know Damian Smyth a bit. We've had several coffees together on Botanic Avenue, Belfast. He is a passionate ambassador for Northern Ireland creatives.  He has been more than supportive of me and my writing efforts.  I love him for it.  I am grateful to him in so many ways.  We met on twitter but really met in 2013 at the Crescent Arts Centre, Belfast, home to so many brilliant writers and performers. It was pre Belfast Book Festival when I was invited to give a talk on film star Stephen Boyd, who was born and raised in these parts.  I had written a biography of Boyd' s life and work. I have all of Damian's published writings, some of which he signed.  Writing that takes you there and there and there. His latest collection - Irish Street - confirms his wonderful and creative sense of place - Downpatrick and its streets - locally, nationally and internationally. https://templarpoetry.com/collections/new-collections-pamphlets/products/irish-street  

  The actor James Drury was born on this day (18 April, 1934).  He died at 85 on 6 April, 2020. His early on screen appearances were bit parts, sometimes uncredited, and small roles.  He built up a CV of guest starring parts in many TV shows, mainly westerns, including Bronco, Have Gun - Will Travel, Lawman, Cheyenne, Death Valley Days, Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, Wagon Train, Alias Smith and Jones and many more. He also had suit-and-tie parts in Richard Diamond: Private Detective, Perry Mason, Ironside and The Detectives amongst others. I remember him in a great western, Ride the High Country (1959), directed by Sam Peckinpah and starring two megastars, Joel McCrea and Randolph Scott.   Of course, his biggest claim to fame was The Virginian, starring in 249 episodes from 1962 to 1971.  He had made a pilot in 1958, playing the same character, but it flopped. The Virginian was the third longest western TV show after Bonanza and Gunsmoke. So, today, I am happy to salute James Drury. Here'

  A Maverick Life: The Jack Kelly Story by Linda J Alexander I'm glad Linda J Alexander wrote the Jack Kelly story.  He's a bit of a forgotten man in some ways.  I have been a fan of westerns since I was knee-high to a cornflakes box and I had the good sense to be born in the golden era of TV westerns in the late 50s/early 60s - Bronco, Cheyenne, Wagon Train, Laramie, etc and, the greatest of them all, Maverick. The Jack Kelly/James Garner combo was terrific and even watching reruns as recently as last year, the magic is still there on screen. Garner left the show and went on to a great career in films and TV.  Kelly stayed a bit longer, was eventually "let go", the show folded and he found himself trying hard to capitalise on his TV fame and popularity.  He balanced his working life between screen and theatre, eventually abandoning both for local politics.  After Maverick, he was a kind of go-to-guest-star for TV series.  I remember him fondly in a couple of The Rock

  Seamus Heaney was born on this day (13 April) and died at 74 in 2013. He was and still is revered, much-loved and much-missed. He leaves an admirable body of work, mainly poetry but also prose. His first collection, Death of a Naturalist (1966), is as fresh and wonderful today as it was back then.  It is a favourite of mine, as are  Door into the Dark (1969),   North (1975), The Spirit Level (1996) and Human Chain (2010).  In fact, all of his books deserve to be stacked beside him on literature's pedestal. He won many awards including the Nobel Prize in Literature (1995) "for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past." He was the fourth Irish Nobel Laureate after W. B. Yeats (1923), George Bernard Shaw (1925) and Samuel Beckett (1969).  He said: "You hope you just live up to it.  It's extraordinary." In the early 1950s, the Heaney family moved to Bellaghy, near Derry and about 5 miles from Magherafelt.

  Burton Daniels, up to this point, had been a model employee, straight-laced, no trouble, to some a little dull and boring, a fixture like the wilting pot plant next to his desk. He was well-known for his impeccable timekeeping and a full attendance record. He kept his head down, worked hard and always enjoyed high scores in his annual performance appraisals. He was predictable. But all of that was about to change.   It was too beautiful a morning for a conventional sacking. Burton pressed the elevator button for the sixth floor, home to human resources. He had been summoned to a meeting with a manager about half his age and with less than one tenth of his years of service in the company. He knew his time was up. He knew on this gorgeous day that he was for the chop but he felt relaxed and more than ready for mischief.  Forty years in the same firm counted for nothing after the takeover. Loyalty and zero absenteeism in all those years were worth zip. The company, once as British as sa

  In 2012, I published a book called Hamish Sheaney: The Nearly-Man of Irish Literature. The book began with this disclaimer: Hamish Sheaney may not exist, so it might have been necessary to invent him. Hamish Sheaney might be Joe Cushnan or Joe Cushnan might be Hamish Sheaney. They are never seen in the same room together, but more often than not they are in the same room. Shirt collar, shoe size, dental records and preference for Mini-Cheddars are purely coincidental.  The book is still available from  https://www.feedaread.com/books/The-Poems-Of-Hamish-Sheaney-Remastered-Expanded-9781785100727.aspx This updated book is a remastered (regurgitated?) and expanded version that concentrates on the nearly-man’s specific biographical and observational poetry, and it leaves out the “and other funny stuff”. So as not to short-change anyone too much, other poems and witty gems have been discovered in a holdall in Hamish’s shed. They are printed here for the first time.  ISBN: 9781785100727 To