Oh To Be Frank

Yesterday I passed a recently built development of twelve houses. At the entrance stood a huge estate agent's sign which proclaimed excitedly that there were “only nine left”. Because let's face it erecting a sign which says “On the market an entire year and only three of the tasteless, overpriced mangy kips sold, Jesus H. Christ what's wrong with you people?” on it would probably be considered a no no from a PR perspective. There would have to a certain amount of goodwill which would accrue from its refreshing honesty though, I would have thought. Candid advertising; it'll be all the rage by this time next year, mark my words.

Ballyhoo Tube

There is officially nothing that cannot be found on You Tube. You can put in the most outlandish search parameters and a plethora of options will instantly and miraculously appear. It’s at the point now where I genuinely believe it to be under the control of fairies, such is its magical power. There I was the other day, having just viewed and enjoyed some decidedly grainy footage of me winning the sack race at the Parish Sports in 1979 when I decided to search for my five year old son duetting Moon River with Frank Sinatra. The sound quality of the resultant clip wasn’t brilliant but was still good enough to showcase my son’s promising booming baritone voice and certainly did not dampen my excitement. The picture was quite twitchy but it still managed to remind me of just how impressive a setting Carnegie Hall really is. The biggest revelation however had to be the posting which showed me and several of my primary school contemporaries disembarking from a lunar module during our third class nature trip to the moon in 1980, footage which I was sure had been long since lost. Not to mention the likes of the clip with Che Guevara joining Christy Moore on stage at The Beaten Path in Claremorris to play the spoons on Joxer Goes to Stuttgart. Stop the lights. Gas altogether.