Decided to tackle the short story I’ve been attempting to write for the last two weeks, AGAIN, and find things are flowing well. I’ve put this down to the fact that amongst my mother’s terrible cd’s (Celine Dion and Leona Lewis OVERLOAD) I have struck musical gold, by locating a Barry Mannilow one, which not only has covers of very excellent songs by the Beatles and the Carpenters and the Hollies, but has an accoustic section at the end, which includes such poptastic tunes as Mandy, Weekend in New England and Looks Like we Made it!!! I am in Fannilow heaven, and hoping I have a job soon and that I can get a ticket to see His Amazingness when he comes to Dublin in May.
In a haze of musical-induced writing, I am also texting Trevor about a lunch date next Monday, which happens to be the day I officially sign on to the dole. I should be in a spiral of depression and comfort eating will be required, so we are having burgers. Trevor says she will take a few minutes to get to the intended lunch spot, so can I order for her, and has texted me her lunch order already. Today is Wednesday. We are not lunching till Monday. It’s scary, but it makes me realise how much I love her.
I am also reminded of my run in with Barry Mannilow in Howth, in north Dublin, one autumn day many years ago. This would have been in 1992 or 1993, because this is around the time I was in college in Coolock in Dublin, and my friend lived in Kilbarrack nearby (don’t know Kilbarrack? Watch ”The Committments” for a shot of the train station, which was given lights for the filming, which were promptly taken away again. For more Kilbarrack, watch ”The Snapper” which was filmed on my friend’s road, and in her local pub – the car scene – ”That was A1 Sharon!”). To get home to Tallaght, I used to walk to the Howth Road and get a bus to town, if I couldn’t hack the gangs and drug dealers at the station. Sometimes, because I used to have a sense of adventure, I would take the bus in the opposite direction and head straight up to Howth, which I did on the day Barry Mannilow nearly killed me.
There I was rambling around, looking at the expensive houses (still a pastime of mine, a sad one I admit) when I must have wandered out onto the road, in a state of posh-housing induced rapture, and not noticed, for I heard a bit of a screech and I turned to see a big black car (I presume it was an expensive one, but knowing nothing of cars I can only describe what I saw) about to hit me. Luckily, expensive cars have excellent brakes, and the driver screeched to a halt mere inches from my bod. I looked up, shocked at my close encounter with death, and realised it was Barry Mannilow behind the wheel! Imagine my tears of joy, not at being alive, but at being accosted by Barry in his Deathmobile. He knew I knew him too. He shook his head, laughed, and screeched, and sped away again, leaving me breathless, as if touched by a famous angel.
I love Barry Mannilow.