Author: damienowens

As part of my ongoing series “Things That Are Harder Than They Look”, I now present Module 8: Interviewing People. Many (many) years ago I briefly worked for the worst publication in Sydney and quite possibly the world. It was a freebie listings sheet called On the Street, which was evidently where the owner had picked up most of his staff. I remember conducting a survey one boring afternoon and discovering that only half of those present were “confident” or “very confident” that they knew what day it was. Don’t get me wrong, nice people and all. But you shouldn’t come to work drunk, much less drunk and drugged up and severely depressed. Anyway, the lack of coherency and in some cases clothing among the regulars meant that any old tosser who happened to be standing around – me, for example – was occasionally sent out to interview bands and comedians and so on. The first time it happened I was dancing on the spot with excitement. My big chance! I felt like hugging the editor – think stick with a beard – as he wished me luck and tried to remember the word “dictaphone” (I think he went for “tapey-tapey” in the end.) The band I was to interview had been formed about a week previously and were keen to advertise the fact that they were almost definitely getting a gig in a local pub soon. In the interests of brevity I will present everything I learned about interviewing that day in bullet point form: 1) Make sure you switch on your tapey-tapey. Don’t just put it out on the table and smile like you do this all the time. 2) Find out the name of the band well in advance. Don’t have that as your first question. 3) Think of other questions in advance too. Don’t end up sighing and terminating the awful silence by asking them if they like being in a band. 4) Take written notes (see point 1) so you don’t end up having to more or less make the whole thing up when you get back to the office. Interviewing. I’m telling you – harder than it looks.

I spent a lot of time this week standing around town blinking very rapidly  as Joe and Geraldine Public hurried past. It was a neat effect, like flicking through a clothes catalogue that was not only Autumn/Winter but also Spring/Summer. For the weather has turned (or has it?!?) and no one knows what the hell to put on them. In the same place at the same time you see t-shirts and scarves, sunglasses and mittens; some dressed for the beach and some dressed for the peak. How we relish those brief periods during the day when our choice is proved correct. Slicing through the sunshine in cool cotton while our pal tugs at the thicker of his two jumpers or grinning snugly from the depths of foot-thick coat while he hugs himself against the wind. And how we hate to get it wrong; it’s always a peculiar shock to the system when you find your clothes at odds with the weather. You thought you were smarter than that. You thought you knew a nice day when you saw one and this wasn’t (or was) it. Clear skies, sunshine – dress lightly. Grey skies, rain – wrap up. It seemed so simple. And now lookit … Sometimes it’s enough to make you wish you lived in the desert or on the tundra where life, hideously complicated in any event, is simplified in at least one regard. Mind you, they say the people reflect the climate and we’re probably better off being moody and changeable. Or are we? How should I know? Ah, feck off the lot of yiz.

I was stuck in traffic in Dublin city centre the other day – no, really – when a girl of about twenty walked past my trapped car. I looked up just as she drew level and was fortunate enough to catch the precise moment when she decided to void her nasal cavities all over the footpath. First she furrowed her brow and wrinkled her nose as though she had just smelled something foul. Then she raised her chin, frowned like Judge Dredd and, well, hawked. I heard it above the general city din and through my closed window. HAWWWWWWWK. My stomach had no sooner begun to flip than she pursed her lips and expelled whatever goopey material her exertions had gathered together. The projectile hit the ground with an audible splat and, I swear to you, it bounced. Am I the only one who finds this deeply erotic? No wait, not erotic, what’s the word I want … oh yeah, revolting. I presume not. I presume that anyone with a modicum of civility finds the idea of women gobbing snot on the footpath utterly repellent. But here’s the rub – is it any more repellent than the idea of men doing likewise? Is it sexist to even propose such a notion? I don’t know. On the one hand, bad behaviour is bad behaviour. On the other hand, we expect better from women, don’t we? But then again, that’s sexist in itself. Damn, this is giving me a headache. The whole thing is a moral minefield and I’m sorry I brought it up. But she brought it up first.