Declan Cashin

Writing: the art of applying the ass to the seat

My Upfront column in ‘Day & Night’ in today’s Irish Independent

Remember that episode of Friends where Ross can’t flirt with the attractive pizza delivery girl, and ends up talking about gas and inadvertently inferring that he finds young boys attractive?

Well, if I work really hard, and concentrate intently, and make a real effort to change, then, one day, maybe, fingers crossed, I might reach that level of competence when it comes to flirting.

Because, right now, my ability to make suggestive, sexy small talk is up/down there with another pop culture icon, The Simpsons’ Ralph Wiggum, purveyor of the flirty corker, ‘So…you like…stuff?’

Think I’m exaggerating? On a date a few weeks ago, I held the guy’s drink while he went for a pee, and when he thanked me on his return, I found myself saying, ‘No problem. And I only spiked it with three pills, rather than my customary two, hahaha…Ha?’

Let’s just say he didn’t get my nervous attempts at flirty humour.

I used to cling to the deluded, comforting idea that all Irish people were hopeless when it came to this area, but that that clumsiness, conversely, was charming in its own right, making us flirty by default.

Alas, I suspect now that that might only be the case in chicklit and romcoms.

However, that doesn’t mean we can’t all have chicklit-y or romcom-y moments now and then, as I learned myself last week.

Let me set the scene by mentioning an e-card a friend sent to me at the start of the week on Facebook with a message that perfectly, spookily encapsulated my lifelong approach – or lack thereof – to flirting.

“My version of flirting,” it read, “is looking at someone I find attractive multiple times – and hoping they are more brave than I am.”

Cut to Sunday evening, where I’m barrelling through a busy Tube station in central London on the way home from dinner with a friend.

It took me a moment to register a tall guy, around my age, walking a bit ahead of me. He was wearing shorts, and I’ve always liked a nice leg of a man.

This guy was – to adopt the formal language of medieval courtship – a ‘ridebag’, but I lost him in the crowd a few seconds later. C’est la vie.

Reaching the platform for my train, I looked up casually from the magazine I was reading – and, lo, I spotted Legs Lad sitting on a bench a few feet away.

Being an inveterate stare-flirter – a la that e-card – I stayed on that spot, trying to sneak as many sideway glances towards Leggy as I could.

On one such recce mission I was sure I could see him look directly at me. No, I’m imagining it, I reasoned.

Another sneaky look. Yes, definitely maybe looking at me too.

At that moment the train pulled up. Leggy got on, and I followed into the same carriage, pretend-reading all the while.

We were now standing practically side-by-side, and the alternating stare-flirting continued for a few more stops until we eventually locked eyes at the same time.

He smiled and said hello. I was shocked. This was unprecedented. This never happens. To anyone.

My first thought was, ‘He must be a serial killer or sex offender’, followed quickly by, ‘Meh, beggars can’t be choosers’.

But he spoke with a posh accent – and posh people are always sane, right? – and he was funny and charming, and we swapped numbers before he switched trains again.

He called me a little later to chat some more. “Why are you so shy?” he asked. “I was staring trying to get your attention for ages on that platform. I wanted you to say hello.”

We’ve been on two dates since, and from what I can tell he’s not an axe murderer. He even laughed at my spiked-drink joke.

The lesson: just don’t stare at someone you like. Say hello. What’s the worst that can happen?

My ‘Upfront’ column in ‘Day & Night’ in today’s Irish Independent

Stumbling downstairs last Sunday lunchtime, exuding an air of fetid stale ale, with my head banging and ‘The Fear’ looming ever larger, I was greeted by my concerned-looking housemate BD, who had just arrived back from staying over at his fella’s.

“Did you come home alone last night?” he asked with an odd, fixed smile on his face.

Red flag raising. “Yes,” I croaked, my suspicious spidey sense starting to tingle even more intensely than that first hit of a soluble painkiller on the tongue.

“Oh,” BD said, evidently trying to raise an awkward subject. “It’s just when I got back this morning, the front door of the flat was wide open.”

At that I could feel the hot molten lava of embarrassment and shame spread all over my face. Flashback time: I could remember getting home, and having to go for a pee quite urgently, meaning I could very well have left the door open in my race to the bathroom (at least, I hope it was the bathroom).

After that it’s a bit of a blur, though a soggy bowl of cereal, a half-eaten tin of beans, and a paused episode of Friends on the TV suggested I had kept myself busy for some time.

My housemate laughed. “It’s grand, nothing was stolen, and the outside door was closed. Oh, and you weren’t murdered in your sleep, an important point too. But Christ you must have drank a ton last night for that to happen.”

I forced a laugh. “Erm, yeah…loads,” I mumbled, watching out for my pants to catch fire.

I’d say I’d drunk five pints of beer the night before. That’s it. Five pints.

Yes, beloved ‘Upfront’ reader: I’m a lightweight.

That realisation has been dawning for a while now, but I chose to ignore it as best I could.

I’d deployed all the excuses for not being able to handle my drink: I was over-tired. I didn’t eat enough beforehand. I hadn’t been drinking in a while so was out of practice. The percentage on this particular beer is higher.

All code for ‘lightweight’.

It wasn’t always thus. Time was when I could not only drink for hours on end of a night out, but mix my types of drinks, and even, Heaven forfend, do some shots.

And still I’d constantly remain upright, never get sick, always find my way home, and rarely be afflicted by any major kind of pain the morning after. Good times.

Not anymore. Now all I have are my memories in the corner of my mind. Whiskey-and-water coloured memories of the way I was.

I’d like to say that my decline coincided with turning 30 last year, but the truth is I’d probably started (d)evolving into ‘Two Drinks Cashin’ as far back as three years ago.

Suddenly it took next to nothing – maybe two bottles of beer – to make me feel not just tipsy, but sleepy, ranty, angry and weepy (I’ve coined a whole new set of dwarves if nothing else).

And the hangovers! Lordy, the hangovers. I was so fuzzy-headed that Sunday that I actually drew a blank on my PIN number, and it didn’t come back to me until six hours later.

I’m writing this column three days later, and I still don’t think I’m fully recovered. It’s a wonder that this sense makes any all at.

So I have to just accept that I need to scale back, or – the more realistic, fun option – find a drink that doesn’t leave me in such a forgetful, bleary-eyed, cereal-and-beans-eating mess.

[Cue montage of me clinking glasses with friends, falling over, vomiting, crying, kissing a traffic cone, and drinking out of a whore’s shoe].

However, like everything, there is an upside. This all means I’m now a cheap(er) date. Tell a friend. But just make sure they double-check that I’ve shut the front door behind me.

A last minute masterclass for those who need it in advance of St Patrick’s Day tomorrow.

*One of the best modern examples of Hollywood art imitating life imitating art was Colin Firth appearing as himself in the book Bridget Jones’ Diary, and then being cast as the love interest Mark Darcy in the movie adaptation.

Something similar is happening right now regarding British journalist Emma Forrest’s chronicle of her battle with mental illness, Your Voice in My Head.

The 2011 memoir is being lined up for a movie adaptation, with Harry Potter alum Emma Watson in talks to play Forrest.

However, it’s not certain who will play her lover in the book known only as ‘Gypsy Husband’ (or ‘GH’), or even how prominent a part he’ll get.

That’s because ‘GH’ is widely believed to be based on Forrest’s ex-boyfriend, Irish actor Colin Farrell.

The Dubliner has never publicly commented on the book, or the speculation around it. But seeing as ‘GH’ is a key element in the core part of the story, it’s hard to see how any movie adaptation could avoid using him in the narrative.

How mad would it be if Farrell ended up playing the part in the adaptation? Or, to get even more Charlie Kaufman on it, if a younger Irish actor played a version of Farrell? Reel Life will be keeping a close eye on this one.

*Casting its gaze over the reviews of films playing in the Berlin Film Festival, Reel Life is most intrigued about Iron Sky, a German sci-fi satire about a group of Nazis who have been hiding out on a secret moon base since 1945 and are now planning to return to power on Earth in the year 2018.

The best part about Iron Sky’s success is that discussing it allows Reel Life the chance to use its all-time favourite German expression, one that’s used to describe the bigger historical and cultural process of Germany coming to terms with its past: ‘Vergangenheitsbewältigung’. Say that ten times real fast.

*Fans of Nicholas Evans’ mega-selling book – and Robert Redford’s 1998 movie adaptation of – The Horse Whisperer should keep an eye out for the forthcoming documentary Buck, which focuses on Buck Brannaman, the real life equine counsellor who inspired the original story. Buck trots in cinemas in these parts in April.

*Lastly, it’s Oscar weekend, and though it’s shaping up to be an eye-gougingly boring and predictable affair, with every pre-Oscar award-snatching frontrunner more or less guaranteed a win, Reel Life is determined to create drama and excitement where there is none.

So for what they’re worth, here are Reel Life’s last minute, no-guts-no-glory tips for Oscar surprises on Sunday night:

I predict that The Help’s Viola Davis will snatch the Best Actress gong from under the prosthetic nose of Meryl Streep’s Maggie Thatcher in The Iron Lady.

I’m also betting on Bridesmaids’ scene-stealer Melissa McCarthy pulling off an upset by winning Best Supporting Actress ahead of sure-thing Octavia Spencer.

Lastly, I see Terence Malick coming from nowhere to bag the Best Director prize for The Tree of Life. My reasoning? If the Academy made that much of an effort to nominate him in the first place, Malick must have support amongst voters.

*I’ll be live Tweeting (Twitter code for ‘being a sarcastic smartarse about’) the Oscars from 1am on Sunday night/Monday morning if you care to follow me @Tweet_Dec

My Upfront column from ‘Day & Night’ in today’s Irish Independent

You might think a noisy, busy crèche a strange place from which to work of an afternoon, but alas, owing to said establishment’s free wi-fi, and my own temporary lack thereof at home, that’s exactly where I’m writing this column.

The thing is, this place isn’t meant to be a crèche, nor is it advertised as such. Instead it’s a local coffee shop of mine, but one that has been taken over by an invading force of mums (for the most part), prams, babies, children and their toys of varying degrees of size and racket-causing potential.

This isn’t some freak abnormality either. In fact I’d bypassed three other places before this one as they were all similarly occupied by a mini-army of miniatures. And that’s just on a weekday. Weekends are another matter entirely.

Like all occupations, past and present, the brutal choice comes down to this: collaborate or resist. And, when it comes to the topic of children in places like cafes and restaurants, I feel as if I have to resist.

I had always assumed that when the great societal war came, it would be – as prophesied in the Book of Bridget Jones – between singletons and ‘smug marrieds’. Now it looks increasingly as if the battle will be between single/childless people, and those with kids.

Let me say outright that I’m not a complete crank. I don’t hate kids. I have seven young nephews and nieces that I adore.

However, I also accept that adopting that defence is somewhat akin to the line, ‘I’m not homophobic, because some of my best friends are gay, but do you guys have to hold hands or kiss in public?’

My problem isn’t with the kids. Rather it seems that when a lot of parents have kids, something clicks in their brain that causes them to find their children’s behaviour – especially the bratty kind – utterly adorable.

How else to explain the ‘aren’t you so cute?’ looks and smiles that I’ve seen mums and dads give their offspring in cafes when the child screams until (s)he gets a slice of cake, or when the child decides (s)he wants to cycle their bikes in between the others patrons’ tables, hollering and shrieking at the same time?

It might simply be that nobody has ever said the following to such parents: nobody, even people with their own kids, finds your child’s behaviour adorable but you.

There’s a reason everyone, parent or not, smiles knowingly when they hear the line: ‘children are like farts, you can just about tolerate your own’.

It’s a tricky one, because we’re all customers. But some people have been arguing publicly lately for bans on children in certain restaurants, while in London where I live, there’s talk of creating strictly child-free cafes for people like me who want somewhere quiet to work, or read, or chat with a friend.

Are bans and segregation ever the solution to anything? I think the essence of the problem is simply that some people have no concept of, or respect for, spatial awareness.

In fact, I’d go as far as to argue that most problems in crowded, urban places are caused by this lack of spatial awareness, be it in restaurants, on public transport, in offices, wherever.

So people park their bags and/or prams wherever they want. They speak loudly to their companions and/or on their phones. They play their music out loud on buses (I’ll never understand that one).

And they – and, by that, I mean some parents – let their children run, cry, shout, and play wherever they happen to find themselves, even though, by rights, the only jurisdiction where such behaviour is entirely appropriate is the home.

Parents think about that one, will you? And in return I’ll promise to minimise the noise from my incessant, w*anker-y computer tapping at the table next to you. Can’t we all just get along?