I blame myself. I never listen to the The Joe Duffy Show. And I'd rather have this procedure here done to me without anaesthetic than listen in on anyone talking to Joe about literary matters. But yesterday afternoon a friend texted me to say, 'your man is on Joe Duffy', or words to that effect.
She did not actually mean that he, the aforementioned 'your man', was actually 'on' Joe Duffy in the physical sense. She meant that the afore not named individual was talking to Joe about grants for literary readings and the like. About being refused a grant, to be precise.
For many hours I resisted. I can't abide those who appear to spend most of their time complaining rather than doing.
Here's a quote from a piece I wrote in The Galway Advertiser earlier this year profiling one of the readings at this year's Cúirt Festival:
“[The] Cúirt [Festival of International Literature] will always have its critics; they are for the most part people who, between them, could not organise a pleasurable half hour in a house of ill-repute.”
Shortly after midnight, when I should have just continued to happily browse a few more Satanist websites, I succumbed and listened to this on The RTE Player.
I know that people who send texts, such as the one that sparked off the tragedy of me listening to this, mean well. But in future, just come around and give me a DIY cystoscopy instead. I'd far rather it.