GAYBO

Today the sun is shining and my flash has gone. I'm on a bit of a downer and have been so out of it I ended up reading Gay Byrne's 1972 memoir "To Whom it may concern" written 10 years after he started the late late show and the triumphalist register of a successfull media baron reminded me of a chord present within my own writing. The need to justify decisions and take the high ground. But whereas Gay was hard working man and over achiever incarnate, I am his mirror opposite on that score, although we do share a broadly similar facial appearance, a fact that thrust itself into my consciousness this morning after washing my hair in the communal bath at the kip and trimming my sideburns. I'm saving on a haricut until I'm less skint. Gaybo had all the work stitched up from the word go, alternating his time in the early 60's between the UK and Ireland, putting himself about in as many formatts as possible, from serious news to lightweigh knockabout, he was there to waffle and chat.

Gaystar began in Realto compering at the church socials round Dolphins Barn and his dream was to become Eamon Andrews. He started out in insurance and quit to work for another driven inner city boy in the motor trade who wrote the penny apples book, but Gay retraced his steps back to the insurance game via cinema managing and amatuer showbiz until RTE came calling in the form of his sibling Ernest, who trained in American TV.

Gay filled a Cuchullan spot in the Irish pysche of the youth who can and does get it all. Ryan Tubriddy is the contemporary equivalent and as the old timers fall by the wayside to the new kids on the block, so the anecdotes spill out and then we have around 6 or seven TV folk all droning on about why they are the ones who know best.

I saw Gybo give Terry Wogan his lifetime gong and it was obvious they couldn't stand each other and it was obvious that Wogan went to the UK because Gaybo had all the work stitched up this side of the water. But fair play to the old pro and long may he blather. I will finish his CV off when I get home from the trials of the day.

Today is speakers corner and I will go and give it a bash. Usually Dave McSavage is there doing his comedy and he must take around 2-300 every time for his half hour. Although I read the other week he was in court for selling his CD's. If only I could find a way to sell my poems.

Jangler on a global soapbox
gravely begrudging from deepest Dublin
talent elsewhere oozing freely from the page
in a full weight of class which beguiles,
draws the eye to soak amongst and run along

become her light warm wind
in late May smells of meadow flowers
melting inner daybreak.

Do not drop or draw across
the line her laughter
will return to paint past when a
promise of summer pervades the air

Sacred loyalty stolen from a passing breeze
rise the veil of sorrows
steer your way earward and over-quench
my lonliness inherently roll
roll rolling the night show
of memory glow blowing annon
in the water goodbye.