One day I discovered I was a success!

Thanks to caricatures-ireland.com

In 2003 I was incredibly down on myself. The emotions I needed to write the novel were too raw; too painful to access.

As I complained in my journal at the time, it felt like grabbing hold of shards of glass.

Feeling like a failure as a writer, I sat at the kitchen table listening to the radio, where a woman was talking about people who live off their writing.

She said that at that time there were less than 30 people in Europe who were making their entire living by writing whatever they wanted.

My head rose from its downward stare to soak up the sunlight coming through the window. My spirit made a similar journey.

That’s exactly what I was doing. I was one of those less-than-30 people.

I had my Double Vision column in the Connacht and City Tribunes, and my Diary of a Blow-In column was running in the Irish Examiner. The features editor of the Irish Examiner used everything I sent him.

I’d had a good few features published in the Irish Times and the inestimable Martin Doyle was then editor of the Irish Post in the UK, and he was buying my features regularly.

Living in a lovely farmhouse in North Mayo, paying €80 a month rent I was clearing over 400 quid a week (a fairc wad 20 years ago) by scribbling exactly what I wanted for all those different publications.

When people described me as a journalist I didn’t want to seem like a pretentious prat, but I never felt like a journalist, because I never wrote a news story.

I wrote exactly what I wanted, the way I wanted to. When I went on holiday to Greece, I wrote about my holiday to Greece. If I went to Galway and got drunk, I wrote about going to get drunk in Galway.

When the government pissed me off I wrote about that, and if I sat on my back step and watched the clouds and the birds, I wrote about clouds and birds, and sold the piece.

Far from a failure, I realised I was a privileged and successful writer. My work was pure pleasure. 

For 27 years my scribbling paid the rent, but there’s more to life than rent, so below is a list that I’ve been updating all my life, never really thinking I would use it.

As you read the list you will think ‘Oh my God, he’s milking every single opportunity!’ and that'ss exactly right. This is not a list of all my jobs.

This is a list of every single way I’ve earned money over the decades. Here’s the story of what this scribbler did to get by.

What are not listed are the thousands of freebies I (and every other writer) wrote for friends, colleagues, and anyone who asked for a little favour. 

1 - Unloading trucks, London
2 - Handyman/Driver, London
3 - Bakery Cleaner, London
4 - Santa Claus, London
5 - Envelope stuffer, London
6 - Transporting models to catwalk, London
7 - Children’s tutor, London and Bradford
8 - Lift operative, Harley Street surgery
9 - Photocopier marketer, London
10 - Barman. The Gate, Northwood
11 - PR, Equestrian Statues, London
12 - Roadie, Equestrian Statues, London
13 - Record shop assistant, Record Fayre, London
14 - Newspaper game designer, London
15 - Community Letter writer, London
16 - Sales Incentive Game designer, London
17 - Sales Recruiter, London
18 - Sales trainer, London
19 - Gardener, London
20 - Magazine distributor, London
21 - Car Washer, London
22 - Market Researcher, London
23 - Cardboard factory sales, London
24 - Truck Hire Administrator, London
25 - Snow Clearer, London
26 - Babysitter, London
27 - Video Shop manager, London
28 - Milkman’s Assistant, London
29 - Unistrut Worker, London
30 - Gas Station attendant, London
31 - Domestic cleaner, London
32 - Squash Club manager, London
33 - Meat truck driver, London
34 - Warehouse worker, London
35 - Industrial cleaners salesman, Cambridge
36 - Barman, The Mill, Cambridge
37 - Roadie, Perfect Vision, Cambridge
38 - Columnist, Freebase Kevin, Cambridge/Galway
39 - Venue manager/Kiosk attendant, Bradford
40 - Barman, The Biko Bar, Bradford
41 - Laundry worker, Bradford
42 - Barman, The Peel, Bradford
43 - Car Telesales, Bradford
44 - Beer festival organiser, Bradford
45 - Student Residence Cleaner, Bradford
46 - Pizza chef, Bradford
47 - Cinema advertising Sales, South-West England
48 - Paxo Stuffing Roadshow driver, touring
49 - Glass manufacturers stand operative, touring
50 - Car detailer, Melbourne, Australia
51 - Kitchen Porter, Kinsale, Ireland
52 - Flyer’s deliverer, Galway
53 - Columnist, Pink O’Bum - Galway
54 - Columnist, Lionel's Labours Lost, Galway
55 - Columnist, Andy Prince - Galway
56 - Youth Worker, Bethany, Galway    
57 - Youth Worker, Mon an Oige, Galway
58 - Youth Worker, Crisis Drop - in Centre, Galway
59 - Mail room worker, San Francisco
60 - Café bookkeeper, San Francisco
61 - Shelf-builder, San Francisco
62 - Document puller, San Francisco
63 - Accounts assistant, San Francisco
64 - Receptionist/Telephonist, San Francisco

65 - Escrow Assistant, San Francisco
66 - File clerk, San Francisco
67 - Receptionist, Architect’s office, San Francisco
68 - Assistant to the Dean, University of San Francisco
69 - Receptionist, Family Mosaic, San Francisco
70 - Receptionist, Allied Digital Technologies, San Francisco
71 - Administrator, University of San Francisco
72 - Receptionist, Engineering Office, San Francisco
73 - Mail distributor, Goldman Sachs, San Francisco
74 - Assistant, Law Office of Donna Brorby, San Francisco
75 - Assistant to Real Estate Appraiser, Santa Rosa
76 - Telephonist, NA Mortgage Company, Santa Rosa
77 - Receptionist, Donald Judd, CPA., Santa Rosa
78 - Rewrite editor, Jim Boulden, Cyberspace
79 - Claim expediter, State Farm Insurance, Rohnert Park
80 - HR Assistant, Homecoming Financial, Petaluma
81 - Construction labourer, Pacific Heights, San Francisco
82 - Shipping clerk, Kendall Jackson Winery, Santa Rosa
83 - Company Secretary, Monterey Import, Cotati
84 - Columnist, ‘Addled Impressions’, Galway City Tribune
85 - Geriatric care worker, Taylors Hill, Galway
86 - Fundraising consultant, NUI Galway
87 - Age Action Charity Shop Manager, Galway
88 - Arts Festival Crew, Galway
89 - Feature writer, Magpie Magazine, Ireland
90 - Cleaner, Bellissimo, Galway
91 - Feature writer, Irish Post, U.K.
92 - Cleaner, Nimmo’s Wine Bar, Galway
93 - Minority Sports interviews, Irish Examiner
94 - Diary of a Blow-in Column, Irish Examiner
95 - Fish farm, Palmerstown, Killala
96 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner ‘Bricks and Mortar’
97 - Tutor to autistic child, Crossmolina, Co. Mayo
98 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner weekend supplement
99 - Copywriter, Target Communications, Barcelona
100 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner weddings supplement
101 - E-zine writer, Target Communications, Barcelona
102 - Off Licence Worker, Ballina, Co. Mayo
103 - Wine Shop worker, Salthill, Galway
104 - Youth Worker, Ballybane Traveller Youth Project
105 - Columnist, ‘Double Vision’, Connacht Tribune
106 - Youth Worker, Salthill Traveller Youth Project
107 - Feature writer, Irish Times health supplement
108 - Craft of Writing teacher, Killala, Co. Mayo
109 - Craft of Writing teacher, Galway Arts Centre
110 - Craft of Writing teacher, 1-1, Salthill, Galway
111 - Craft of Writing teacher, Westside Community Centre
112 - Craft of Writing teacher, Co.Tipperary

 

Don't think they'll all go on my CV.

“What’s the deal with the arm thing, dude?”

Thanks as always to Allan Cavanagh at Caricatures Ireland

  

I saw a ghost, but it was only frightening later.

On a late Somerset Summer’s evening in 1977, my friend Bruce Wallace and I were stumbling back to the farm from the village pub.

Towering hedgerows are a feature of England's Arcadian south-west, so the narrow lane was shaded as dusk. Before the road curved toward the farmyard, there was a gap in the hedge, looking across to gentle river and the little stone bridge.

Sunlight hit us through the gap, and we both turned our heads toward it, where we saw a tall uniformed man, standing by the bridge.

As the hedgerows returned, we lost sight of the man, who was gone before we crossed the bridge ourselves.

It was an entirely unremarkable encounter. Doubtless the farmer and his wife had taken in more guests. The farm was listed in several guide books, so later, when the new arrival failed to turn up for dinner, I asked John the farmer who he was.

John turned his tanned creased handsome face to me.

“By the bridge was he?”

“Yes, in some kind of army uniform.”

“Ah, that’d be my granddad. He likes to stand by the bridge.”

“No, couldn’t be him. This bloke was youngish, in his 20s I’d say.”

Flicking his pitch black fringe out of his eyes, his deep Somerset accent betrayed nothing but nonchalance.

“Flat hat?”

“Yep.”

"Arr, that’d be him. Went off to the Somme. Tends to pop up around this time of year. Always loved standing by that bridge. More spuds?”

Hunching our shoulders, staring wide-eyed across the table, Bruce and I made stupid faces and went “Bleeeeeaaaayyyyaaarrr!”  at each other, allowing comical shivers to run through our bodies.

To our hosts, raised and steeped in folklore and mysticism, it all seemed perfectly reasonable. In the memorable words of Dr. Who, it was nought but a “...timey wimey jumbly wumbly thing.”

A proud atheist-pantheist mutant, I accept wholeheartedly that there is much to the universe we cannot see. We sense so little compared to other animals, it’s clear there’s more to life and death than we can perceive.

One encounter truly spooked me. 20 years ago I was living in a fine old North Mayo farmhouse.

When you live alone, in a house off the road, deep in the countryside, you simply cannot allow yourself to feel in any way spooked out.

So when friends told me about the warm and friendly vibe they felt in my home, I felt slightly less worried about the arm that came through the bathroom window.

There was no point mentioning it to anyone. Why would I scare others?

Talking about it might make it more real in my head too, that long male arm, clad in a red-checked shirt, reaching through the window behind me, as I sat vulnerable on the loo.

The hairy wrist, the forearm that tried to strangle me as it pulled on my throat…

Just my imagination, running away with me.

Sing it, Charlie.
Forget the horror.
Think of the song.

I successfully ignored the recurring apparition for years, mentoning it to nobody, until my friend from Canada came to stay.

As he walked into the living room after a visit to the loo, he turned to me.

“What’s the deal with the arm thing, dude?”

“What arm thing?”

“The arm, man! The red chequered shirt, hairy wrist thing that just tried to strangle me in the bathroom.”

Oh poop. Buggeroo and buggeration. That’s torn it.

“Oh that arm!” I said, as nonchalantly as possible. “Yeh, I don’t know. I decided that I’d just invented it. I mean, there might be ghosts in this house, it’s old enough, but the bathroom and kitchen are brand new builds, so I can’t see how there’d be a ghost there. And anyway, there’s way too big a gap between the window and the loo. Nobody could have arms that long.”

“Sure they could. Before I came in here I walked round the house and checked and hey, from outside you can reach anything sitting on that toilet!”

“No! No you can’t! Even if you can, I have to believe you can’t, just so I can live here in peace.”

“Sorry dude."

Silence fell upon us, as I desperately tried to come up with a solution that would allow me to live a terror-free life in my home. Thankfully my friend was ahead of me.

“Hey, man, I got it! Look at my shirt. It’s the same damn shirt on that arm that came in the window! I think what you saw was just a manifestation of me trying it out just now, and I picked up on the scary vibe you created, and thought I was being strangled by… by…by my own goddamn arm! Now that’s spooky You must have some powerful creativity, man!”

“Either me or you!” I retorted, as the two of us sat, avoiding eye contact, each knowing that the truth lay elsewhere.

The wonders of the Cosmos are truly awesome, as in ‘worthy of awe’, rather than ‘awesome frappaccino.’

Good luck over Halloween and remember: your brain is the scariest weapon in the universe!




©Charlie Adley
31.10.2024

This relative poverty is worth a fortune!

The other day I was feeling a bit blue. After two courses of antibiotics and some not insignificant physical pain, I was feeling washed out; a tad lonely; a bit sorry for myself.

I do not wear self-pity with comfort, so off I went, in search of some perspective, turning to my old journals to give myself a proper kick up my voluptuous arse.

One of the benefits of being a writer is that we’re allowed to call our diaries ‘journals.’ All mighty fancypants and pretentious, yet despite the name, they’re not daily affairs.

For consistent entries (Oooh Matron!) you’d have to go back to the years 1975-1981, when I spilled onto paper my adolescent pain, each and every night. Looking back at those diaries now, I see a whole lotta heartache and much fiction presented as fact.

Over the decades the ingredients of my journals grew organically: records of each play, book and project I was working on, along with a mosaic of letters and emails depicting my extraordinary life lived on three continents, with all the love and loss you’d expect from a scribbler.

Often the edges between journals and colyooms blurred, and I enjoyed the supreme luxury of being paid to publish my egocentric personal ramblings. It was one of those colyooms that delivered to me the blow that kicked me out of my self-indulgent slump the other day.

From the City Tribune, November, 2001 (check out the dated references to cassettes and videos!) 

*

For me, there is no point in earning moolar if it comes in the form of compensation. Some can spend lots of money, and it makes them feel better. For me it doesn’t, and it never will.

Happiness to me means having time to live, so in exchange for the fat wad of folding green every Thursday night, I take a walk on the beach. Instead of buying CD’s and videos, I listen to the radio and play old cassettes. Instead of the brimming bank balance, I have all the time in the world.

When I talk to almost anybody else, the stress in their lives is palpable. I see the tired black rings around their eyes, listen to their frantic gabbling about how they are trying to ‘fit it all in’, and in those moments, I remind myself that this relative poverty is worth a fortune.

It ain’t all easy. This is a life as tough as any other, just a lot calmer, even if these colyooms sometimes tell another story!

My life is less about acquisition, more about introspection; less about buying things, more about less things; less about climbing social ladders, more about watching the tide turn.

Sometimes it is a lonely path, especially when I’m home alone, aware that others are out, living life on the pig’s back.

Still, I’m hardly a slave to suffering, and when a particularly smart editor places one of my features, I drive to the city and splurge a wad in an orgy of consumerist conformism, and each shared whiskey and bite of restaurant food tastes better for the utter badness and excitement of it all.

This colyoom is not pre-scented with smugness. I couldn’t look my loved ones in the eye if I suggested that my life is a breeze. I feel inhibited when generous souls drag me out to the pub, knowing that rounds only go one way, but hell, they seem to love me, and who am I to say no?

Well, sometimes we just have to say 'No!’ Sometimes, even when you know your friend or loved-one really wants to help, you just can’t take any more generosity.

And then you get over it and say "Well, a wee whiskey would be lovely, thanks Dave!” 

* 

 These days thankfully I have a little more dosh in my account, but the things that make me happy have not changed one iota. Reading that old piece made me feel grateful for all the time I have to do those wonderful things, so I pulled my head out of my hole and moved on.


©Charlie Adley
08.08.2024

RACE WEEK: The triple-distilled spirit of Ireland!

Winner more than alright by Allan Cavanagh of caricatures-ireland.com/blog/

The horse’s name was Minesadouble. I mean, come on. I had to, right? I’m a whiskey drinker.

Back when I lived in 80’s London, I was a whisky drinker, without the ‘e.’ Before your triple-distilled Jameson became my liquid home, Scotch whisky was my tipple.

That old English 6th of a gill measure barely dampened the glass, so I always ordered a double. Famous Grouse, because it was my Dad’s choice too.

In those pre-digital days of stark reality, placing a bet involved going to the bookies. On the morning of this bet, I was strolling down Portobello Road.

Now those street cobbles are polished, the area gentrified and sterilised, but in those days there were two distinct parts of that 'manor.'

Notting Hill Gate was yuppie frappaccino wine bar bliss, an ideal location for Julia Roberts to meet Hugh Grant in the movie.

Around the corner, the streets of Westbourne Park and Portobello were poor and dilapidated. All Saints Road served as West London’s Front Line for street drug deals.

I was hopelessly in love, wandering the legendary market, looking for something that might put a smile on the face of the lucky winner of my obsessive attention.

Taking a breather from the packed streets, I turned up a side road, and spotted Ladbroke’s familiar Golden Circle.

Ah go on. Why not? It’s Saturday. All bets are off, so put one on.

You just can’t argue with that kind of logic.

That bookies was absolutely tiny, crammed with punters, mostly Rastafarians. There was a symphonic buzz of secretive whispers, angry shouts and joyous laughs, the air pungent with hash and grass.

Taking deep breaths for a free secondary high, I eased my way to the wall, where I stared at the Sporting Life's tipsters grid.

For my ‘shot to nothing’ bet I look for a race where all the tipsters have chosen the same horse, except for one.

Then I’ll check to see if it’s run the distance and deeply technical stuff, like does it have a leg at each corner?

That’ll do for me.

There it was: Minesadouble, picked by one expert, who had also napped it, which implied he knew something the others didn't.

Minesadouble? Named for me, and 20/1? Luvvly bloomin' jubbly! I’ll 'ave summathat.

A fiver on the nose, which then felt like betting €50 to win today. A decidedly decent bet, which looked even prettier when the nap proved the tipster’s inside knowledge.

As Minesadouble came on in the final furlong, I started pumping the air with my fist.

Repeatedly grunting inaudible words, as men do while their horse is passing all the others, I was unaware of the attention I was receiving from everyone in the minuscule space.

They’d all turned to watch me, 30 or 40 pairs of eyes focused on me, willing my horse to win, and when Minesadouble flew past the post, the place erupted in shouts and yells and general testicular jubilation.

Instantly I became the centre of attention.

“Wha’ odds ye ‘ave, man?”

“Twenty to one!”

“Ya say wah? Bloodclaat! Ye ‘ave wha? ‘Ear that? ‘Ear that! Man here ‘ave ‘is ‘orse at twenty to one! Bloodclaat! Whass in da next race? Go on! Whass ya nex’ ‘orse?”

“ ’Ow you know? ’Ow you know? You give me a tip, yeh? C’mon, give me a tip and I give you some of me personal!”

After much handshaking, shrugging and smiling, the others realised I was just a lucky mug punter, who'd liked the name of a horse.

Pocketing my hundred, I invested my stake of five quid on a little local green, and arrived home to my beloved, laden with strawberries, cream and a bottle of champagne, which we consumed, drenched in sunshine, lying on the grass in Golders Hill Park.

If Galway is pure Ireland, and Race Week is the triple-distilled spirit of Galway, then Ireland is essentially Race Week.

Every year, immediately after hosting the nation’s biggest arts festival, Galway slips into the largest social and sporting week in the country’s calendar.

Race Week is mad, bad and wonderful. Whoever you are, whatever you’re doing, if you’re around Galway, as sure as gee-gees love carrots, Race Week will infect you, working its way into your mind and body like a metaphysical tapeworm.

This week should come with a health warning: “The Galway Races may empty your wallet, destroy your liver and send you stark staring cuckoo.”

Be kind to your bar-people, servers and cooks. They’re working their backsides off for you. Tip them well.

Last year I was in a Salthill bookies, jostling for space by the newspapers on the wall.

A well-dressed elegant woman in her 60s tapped me on the shoulder.

 “Sorry, now, excuse me, but do you know, how do ye spell that horse’s name? Jesus Mary Mother of feckin’ God, can you bleedin’ believe my eyesight? Is that an ‘R’ or a feckin’ ‘A’? Good God almighty, sweet Jesus, it’s fucking unbelievable, isn’t it?”

The slang of my adopted home might be slightly different to that of the Rastas in my native London, but as Del Boy would say:

 “Plat du jour, my son, plat du jour!”


©Charlie Adley
31.07.2024

Staying at a good hotel feels like visiting a friend!

It will come as no surprise to several hoteliers when I reveal that for the best part of a couple of decades, I've been writing hotel reviews for various Irish and UK publications, under a scattering of noms de plume. 

The reason I’m breaking cover from this obsolete secret is that I’ve recently chosen to cancel a commission to review a London Premier Inn.

An Irish paper noticed I often go back to my native city, so they asked me to write up a weekend visit to London.

The reason you're reading this now is that it all went wrong, weeks before I left home.

Whenever I review a place I ask for a top floor room, and if there’s a noisy road nearby, I ask to be at the back of the hotel.

I do this both because it’s what I want, and to find out how the place deals with simple requests.

Premier Inn turned the everyday task of adding a request to a booking into a nightmare. I ended up emailing their Press Office and a Media person (with a capital 'M'), but each time was forwarded to an Escalation process, where I was patronised and reminded what I already knew.

Point being, I’m not going to review a place that has managed to annoy me before I get on the plane.

I will never write a purely negative review, because wherever it is and whatever has happened, there’s a good human in there somewhere, underpaid, working long and inconvenient hours.

Hopefully when I stay at this Premier Inn, all will be wonderful, but I’m no longer able to arrive as an open-minded guest. 

Left to my own devices I very rarely book a room in a corporate plastic menu hotel. I’ll always aim for the independent family-run outfit, because they are invariably the best.

My two favourite Irish hotels - Flannery’s in Galway City and Rosleague Manor in Connemara - are both independent and family run.

As different in style and status as they are in location, I feel part of both whenever I stay.

 

Flannery's hotel in Galway City

Flannery’s is my city home from home. Utterly unpretentious while offering every comfort, I’m greeted by a ‘Welcome Back Mr. Adley!’ box of chocs in my room, a bit of football banter with the Duty Manager who calls me Charlie, and last Christmas they sent me a card with a voucher for a night’s B&B inside.

Life feels lovely when loyalty is rewarded with more than spammy e-mails.

Rosleague is my otherworldly escape. Truth be told, I’m a victim of its well-deserved success, as proprietor Mark Foyle’s excellent instincts and superb team have combined to guarantee the hotel is always full.

  

 

 

 

 

I try to stay at the beginning or end of the season, when the price is lower. One night at Rosleague Manor leaves me as relaxed as a week by the Med. Two nights and I have to buy a bigger belt.

Flannery’s Hotel and Rosleague Manor offer me sanctuary, in different and vital areas of my life, for which I thank them.

Sounds like I’m thanking a friend?
Exactly.

Good hotels are not about how many stars they wear.

Staying at a good hotel feels like visiting a friend.

I made a new friend in April. Last year I went to Bordeaux, ostensibly for the Rugby World Cup, with three others from my school posse. We rented a house with a pool and it was tremendous fun, great craic; relaxing it was not.

The last time I went on a chill-time holiday was way back in 2017, before the marriage collapse and that mystery illness which almost killed me.

This Spring my confidence finally reached a level sufficient for me to try a solo holiday. I had trouble reconciling in my head the apprehension I felt.

After all, I’d travelled the world on my own, hitching with Blue Bag in the 80s, and in my early 30s went round again, ending up somehow in the country next door.

But travelling is different to being a tourist, and I definitely didn’t want to be in a vast resort hotel, surrounded by families with kids and couples on honeymoon.

It'd be no fun playing the part of a morbidly obese Billy-No-Mates by the pool.

I’m way too anti-social to go on a 'singles’ holiday. Even typing that sends a fearful shiver through me, but I remembered visiting the town of Tavira, in the East Algarve, a few times.

Liking its vibe and taking note.

  

Away from the thumping great resorts of the Algarve, Tavira lies on a river between Faro and the Spanish border.

Free from fast food outlets, hi-rise hotels and skyscrapers, Tavira is a place of beautifully tiled houses lining tiny cobbled streets.

After countless hours online I found the Authentic Hotel, which despite its name is more boutique than traditional. Usually I run a mile from anything that describes itself as  ‘boutique’, but the reviews for this little 2 star hotel were through the roof.

 

Located on what might be described as Tavira’s Left Bank, it was within stumbling distance of several excellent neighbourhood bars and tiny family restaurants, filled with locals as well as tourists, where no photographs of food adorned the menu.

I had the most excellent time, partly because Tavira is such a wonderful place, but also because the Authentic Hotel was so lovely, staffed by three or four friendly faces, who always go the extra mile to make you happy.

Hotel stars mostly just reflect services and facilities, and as the Authentic has no bar, no restaurant and no room service, it only qualifies for 2 stars.

However the bathrooms are five star, the breakfasts are quirky and excellent, with a freshly squeezed orange juice that sends a smile guaranteed to shatter your hangover.

The rooms are serviced my midday, and the rooftop terrace has a plunge pool with view of the town’s traditional rooftops.

 

I loved it, had a magnificent time, never once in any bar or restaurant feeling self-conscious about being alone.

In fact I found the opposite: it was pure luxury to do whatever I wanted whenever I felt like it.

If ever there was a definition of a holiday…

I will be back there next Spring. Checking into the Authentic Hotel will feel like visiting a friend.

As for the Premier Inn, well, you’ll never know.

I’ve cancelled the commission for the review, and will hope that the booking process does not mirror the hotel itself.



©Charlie Adley

24.05.2024