Events of 2004:Saturday March 13 2004I think the general ill-feeling people have for Paris Hilton has manifold reasons. Firstly, she is saddled with a man's name, which also happens to be the capital of France, which also happens to have hotel owned by her father. How could he not have seen the derision coming? How much double entendre did he think was enough? We may never know. Secondly, she has achieved no small order of fame, which although seemingly arbitrary at the best of times, is, even in this fickle age, conferred only upon having actually done something, or said something, or made something. This leads many to ask, correctly in my view, "What does Paris Hilton do?" (a more hurtful variant of which (although equally correct in my view) is "What is the point of Paris Hilton?") If we take at random some other celebrities whose fame seems to outstrip their entitlement thereunto, we can see a pattern of sorts. For instance, Pete Doherty, although undoubtedly a prat of the highest order and a hopeless junkie, can at least justifiably claim that he is a singer/songwriter, and some of his songs are quite lovely (unlike him). Paris Hilton just seems to soak up valuable oxygen. She is often described as a "society heiress", which, when you break it down really doesn't mean anything. A "society [something]" just means that the [something] is part of society: aren't we all? The word "heiress" just means that her father is rich - hardly a qualification or indication of any merit on her part. Thirdly, there is a vicarious and hypocritical thrill in seeing Paris Hilton being pilloried in the gutter press and the type of magazine which trumpets in large pink writing on the front that there is contained within a special photograph supplement of celebrities without their make-up. This particular brand of media outlet is wont to castigate her many appearances in those same media outlets, but without any sense of self-awareness which might occasion any shame in your average sub-editor. These magazines sell. It can be deduced that people want to know what Paris Hilton gets up to for no other reason than the people who make these magazines believe that people want to know what Paris Hilton gets up to. Where does this cycle end? I have no idea. Where does this entry end? Here. Saturday July 17 2004Another wedding. All my friends are getting married, to whom I can only say that I got married at a time when it was neither profitable nor popular. I have noticed, on my travels, that the Irish wedding fits into a very clearly understood, but never explicit, formula. There is the wedding, which starts, according to the invitation, X o'clock. We always arrive well before X, and of course usually we're the first there. Around X.45, the bride decides to show up, and flounces down the aisle in a tight white satin dress, shoulderless, with a train, and perhaps something white pushed into the back of her head. Her father will walk her down the aisle. This is called "giving" her "away". There follows a standard Catholic mass, interspersed with various candle-lighting and promise-making tomfoolery. In the middle of all this, there comes the exact moment when the couple cross the Rubicon and they are officially married, when five seconds previously they were not. Applause follows. Roughly a half hour after this, the mass ends, and the newly married couple march out of the church to take their positions immediately outside, greeting the friends and family they have chosen to join them. Again there is much waiting, as the photographer prepares the "group shot". After this, we all break up and drive to a hotel, where the reception is being held. The time from the end of the "group shot" to the start of the meal in the hotel can be as much as four hours. What people are supposed to do during that four hours is not made clear. Mostly they hang around the lobby, or a lounge, drinking the free wine that has been provided just so, and perhaps some light cheesy snacks. Dinner starts about 7 o'clock. Speeches ensue. There is a hired band, the first dance, and then all hell breaks loose as the hours of drinking takes its toll on the members of the party who, while sober, just about manage to maintain a non-violent existence. We leave. Thursday 10th August 2004A lady came into the shop today. She's the mother of a friend of mine, over from the Philippines for a holiday. I mentioned something about the tenuous political situation in the Phillipines, and the conversation starts there.
[brief pause; satire check negative; carry on]
[she pauses briefly, and says some sort of prayer while rubbing my arm]
That's the edited version. I seem to be the local evangelical's project. There's another lady who keeps discreetly mentioning baptist get-togethers in a local hotel. Please help me.
*around 10 a.m. Saturday October 23 2004We have decided to visit my friend Kevin (see "friends" below), who works in Vienna. He is kind enough to meet us at the station. On the train to the city, an Austrian ticket inspector tries to rumble my "can't speak German" act. However, I actually can't speak German. Not for the last time, Kevin has to dig me out of a potentially embarrassing situation. Before arriving here, I was given specific instructions to not mention anything about Nazis, or the Anschluss, which pretty much stymied my entire planned patter at committee level. Imagine my surprise when I discover that everyone everywhere is using the word "Anschluss"! At the railway station over the loudspeaker: Anschluss! At the metro station where we connect for the buses: Anschluss! Even when I call Kevin's work number in the morning, when the lady on the answering machine tells me what to do in German, I'm sure she says "Anschluss". So, basically, everyone in Vienna is allowed to talk about the Anschluss except me. Sunday October 24 2004There are few people in Vienna on a Sunday. Even the hookers stay at home. The only people allowed out are confused old people who like to collar foreigners and give them incorrect directions. Friday October 29 2004On our last night in this highly weird town, we hook up with my cousin Catherine and Kevin to watch The Third Man, a wonderful post-war movie with Orson Welles as the eponymous anti-hero. Yes. I just used the phrase "eponymous anti-hero" and if you're going to make a big thing about it, go read someone else's blog. Or whatever this is. 
Myself, Kevin and Catherine in Vienna. Kevin told us that his apartment was burgled just two weeks before our visit. He came home to find that the lock on his door had been obviously forced, so he called the police. They arrived swiftly, and entered to make sure it was safe. The police woman came out and said regretfully that the burglers had trashed the place, but that it was safe to enter. When he went inside, everything was exactly the way he had left it that morning.
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