I wish I wasn’t where I am, because to be there means I know what I’ve always denied, that there’s a thought inside me that fights to get outside. I don’t recall writing this but memory’s such a tragedy, a wretched thought, of forlorn and unhappy incidents, best forgotten.
Forty years ago, October 1977, I watched The Clash play two shows in one night in the Exam Hall of Trinity College. Joe Strummer was bleeding. The house was heaving in a blur of body sweat, smoke and saliva. An entire row of venue security, volunteer students, lined the stagefront, soaked by waves of gob…Read more Mick Jones’s Strides
Not for the Squeamish The horses were his friends and understood him as much as he understood them or so he believed. People called him a whisperer and thought the horses read his mind. He didn't know but after a day spent slaughtering his four legged friends, he felt reluctant to say he's knackered.
Isn't it unfortunate that a word like 'blanket' can be so misused and abused it's become a shorthand phrase for corporate smothering, indiscriminate bombing and wholesale exploitation? Growing up, a blanket was something a cowboy toted with his saddle and bags, it kept you warm and gave a child comfort.
Municipal officials argued the city needs a symbol, a monument. So they commissioned artists for ideas. The winning entry was a 120 meter tall, stainless steel, pin-like structure. Oblivious to the irony of a city devastated by a heroin epidemic, they called it The Spire. Dublin people call it The Spike.
By Mehdi Hasan Where do you stand on the conflict in Syria? This question has become perhaps the ultimate political and sectarian Rorschach test of our time. Are you a leftist or libertarian who opposes U.S. air strikes and waxes lyrical about the paramountcy of Syrian sovereignty and international law? Or are you a…Read more The Syrian People Have Been Betrayed By All Sides