Happy Bloomsday!

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay

I’m having a grand time listening to the installments of Ulysses on BBC Radio 4. There’s no temptation to venture outside since the weather is about as dreich as it’s possible to be a few days before Midsummer. It’s been at least 10 years since I last read Ulysses, so I bought a copy at our local second-hand bookshop, The Old Bookshelf. The owner had none in stock, not expecting any interest at all in this heel of the woolly sock that is the Kintyre Peninsula, and had to order one.

We are what is called a backwater, though Argyll and Bute has catapulted into media infamy these last few days, when the council banned 9 year old blogger, Martha Payne, from taking photos of school food. Only to be forced into a humiliating U-turn less than a day later. Martha – 1, Argyll & Bute…

View original post 260 more words


Bloomsday countdown: Mashup



The best guide I’ve seen.

The Drunken Odyssey

First, get quite soddenly drunk.

Second, sit yourself outside, in a comfy place, like a hammock, rocking chair, settee, or else a blanket spread on a tufty patch of lawn, and remember of course to bring more drink with you.

Third, and this stage pertains only to the more radical readers, read the book.  This stage is not absolutely necessary to read the book, for several studies of Ulysses can furnish you with readings of the book that will prove to be much less inconvenient to your brain than actually reading the book.

Now for those intrepid readers who will read Ulysses by reading Ulysses, I offer this plain advice: in reading Ulysses, two types of nonsense shall manifest themselves: (1) nonsense worth translating into sense, and (2) nonsense that cannot be translated into sense.  Regarding the first: this category can be greatly reduced if you read the…

View original post 471 more words


Brie Encounter

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.  Mr Leopold Bloom dreamed, hankered, pined and lusted after rillettes.  Lusted and craved, much like his vague lusts for the fragrant French girls he imagined gliding around the markets, the boucheries, the charcuteries of the belly of Paris the ventre de Paris as some might say. Some more refined than he, refined in the tastes of the European if a taste for sickly liquorice absinthe can be considered refined maybe not around here of course. A cup of tea was refined around here and of course it is.  Refined is relative.

Molly knew things.  Secret things mainly.  Unspoken things.  Unthought things.  Molly knew the recipe for rillettes and it was hers and would never be his.  Not never.  Maybe Boylan knew it.  Maybe he didn’t.  You shouldn’t ask if you don’t want to know the answer.  Mr…

View original post 1,176 more words