A PARTIAL PUBLISHED WRITING CV

Available for freelance writing commissions on a variety of subjects including family history, nostalgic Belfast and its famous people, shops, shoppers & shopping, the golden age of Hollywood (esp westerns) and humorous pieces on life's weird and wonderful. Op-eds, columns, non-fiction book reviews too.

 

CV of published material available on request.

joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

Some of my published writings:

PUBLISHED POETRY

November 2017 LAPWING POETRY

Collection – Feathers Ruffled

July 2016 THE GALWAY REVIEW

When Elvis Presley died….

When Johnny Weismuller died……

Book Signing (Unreliable Memoirs)

Clumsy

Lauren Bacall Taught The World How To Whistle

An Accident On The Glen Road

June 2015 INK SWEAT & TEARS

In Chartres

November 2015 TEMPLAR POETRY ANTHOLOGY ‘MILL’

Two poems

Summer 2009 THE DALHOUSIE REVIEW

8 x Haiku

PUBLISHED FICTION

March 2018 FAIRLIGHT BOOKS

Flash Fiction – Sweetheart

November 2017 FAIRLIGHT BOOKS

Flash Fiction - Twist

PUBLISHED FEATURES

January 2015 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On leaving Belfast

June 2015 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On my father, the stranger

July 2015 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On singer/songwriter David McWilliams

August 2015 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On the golden age of television

August 2015 LAGAN PRESS ONLINE

On actor James Ellis’s short stories

December 2015 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On my father

April 2016 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On the closure of retailer BHS

June 2017 FAMILY TREE

On family history

August 2017 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On my runaway father

August 2017 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On examination results and my education

September 2017 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On homelessness and begging

November 2017 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On the Royal Ulster Constabulary

March 2018 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On my mother

May 2018 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On a 1928/29 Belfast tourism guide

August 2018 BELFAST TELEGRAPH

On the death of my brother

Also, amongst others, 

A near-40 year career.

N Irish Hollywood film star. Ben Hur and more.

ENDOSCOPY: THE MOVIE & ENDOSCOPY 2: THE SEQUEL - A MAN HAS HOSPITABLE TREATMENT

Available for freelance writing commissions on a variety of subjects including family history, nostalgic Belfast and its famous people, shops, shoppers & shopping, the golden age of Hollywood (esp westerns) and humorous pieces on life's weird and wonderful. Op-eds, columns, non-fiction book reviews too. 

CV of published material available on request.

joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

For a year or more, I have had trouble swallowing some foods, the sort you have to chew into submission like steak. Liquids and 'wet' food such as pasta have been okay. But after a few quite anxious moments of trying to dislodge food from my throat or feeling on a couple of occasions that I was completely powerless to stop choking, despite gulps of water which only seemed to make matters worse, I finally did the right thing and consulted a doctor.

I was on some one-a-day pills but they were pretty useless. I became quite scared of eating, especially the aforementioned chewy foods. I lost weight, estimated at around a stone. I always enjoyed my food but I didn't enjoy the feeling of being strangled by it.

Any road up, the doctor recommended an endoscopy which in layman's terms (for that is what I am, medically speaking) is a way of making movies of your innards. The routine is that you show up at hospital, choose from the medical menu whether to have a sedative or a throat-numbing spray that, they suggested, tasted like banana. I shunned the sedative because I was lucky enough to see a man who had opted for the drug. His body was rubber and he had to be accompanied by a carer. He would not be in control of his functions for twenty-four hours. I chose the spray. And no, I didn't get no banana taste. Can't describe its disgustingness. But it froze the throat.

So, there I was all throat-sprayed and lying on my side on a bed. I was told to bite on a thing with a hole in it and await the endoscopy cable which is about as thick as an adult's little finger. I was expecting a more wiry affair. This cable has a light and a camera, as well as some tools to take samples of tissue between throat and stomach.

In went the cable and, jeez, the first few seconds as it negotiated the turns of the throat to the straighter food channel were extremely uncomfortable. I gagged and coughed but was reassured (not) that I was doing great. This cable jiggled about inside as the endoscopy person (EP) watched a screen that I couldn't see.

When the torture was over, the EP gave me the results. She said there were some worrying things down there, a too-narrow food channel, ulcers and stuff and, emphasising that she was erring on the side of caution, she said she could not rule out cancer. Feck. The C-word. She said the notes of the tests would be sent to a consultancy panel and I would hear their results in a couple of weeks. The EP said she was amazed that I was not in more pain. I was prescribed fairly strong two-a-day pills.

Moving on, I got the results, mostly benign, but I was invited back for a follow-up endoscopy. I looked forward to it rather like a wasp on a window looks forward to being battered by a rolled up Belfast Telegraph.

To keep this short, the second endoscopy gave me the all-clear. The pills worked a treat and I had been eating and swallowing much better anyway. The EP showed me comparison photos of the first and second endoscopies. The first snap showed a very badly ulcerated patch somewhere inside. The second photo showed all the ulcers had gone. Zapped. I was discharged, and delighted! And thank feck, no C-word.

I still take the pills but I am no longer apprehensive at meal times. I put on half a stone.

So people, if something's wrong, go to the doctor. They know stuff. And thank God they do.

Oh, and as if I could forget, three cheers for the NHS endoscopy department's team, so welcoming, friendly and calming. 👏👏👏👏👏👏

POSTER TRIBUTE TO ANDREW V. MCLAGLEN

Available for freelance writing commissions on a variety of subjects including family history, nostalgic Belfast and its famous people, shops, shoppers & shopping, the golden age of Hollywood (esp westerns) and humorous pieces on life's weird and wonderful. Op-eds, columns, non-fiction book reviews too. 

CV of published material available on request.

joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

A Movie Poster Gallery Tribute to Andrew V. McLaglen - one of the truly great action film directors. And wasn't he a ringer for his oul fella, Victor?

Andrew V. McLaglen 28 July, 1920 - 30 August, 2014 - aged 94. Thank you, sir.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MICK JAGGER - MICK JAGGER'S CHATEAU

Available for freelance writing commissions on a variety of subjects including family history, nostalgic Belfast and its famous people, shops, shoppers & shopping, the golden age of Hollywood (esp westerns) and humorous pieces on life's weird and wonderful. Op-eds, columns, non-fiction book reviews too. 

CV of published material available on request.

joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

The old potter told us

that Mick Jagger's chateau
was not far away,

so we drove towards
Poce sur Cisse in the hope
that we would find it.

We think we did,
squinting through some snatches
of space in a high, thick hedge,

a magnificent white building,
majestic entrance steps,
immaculately tended gardens.

But, alas, in our vain search
for a glimpse or two
of rock star action,

we failed to spot Mick
and we didn't get
no satisfaction.

FREELANCE WRITING IDEAS FOR AUGUST

Available for freelance writing commissions on a variety of subjects including family history, nostalgic Belfast and its famous people, shops, shoppers & shopping, the golden age of Hollywood (esp westerns) and humorous pieces on life's weird and wonderful. Op-eds, columns, non-fiction book reviews too. 

CV of published material available on request.

joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

I can write a piece on any or all of the following - joecushnan@aol.com

8 - Corn flakes were invented by the Kellogg brothers 125 years ago.

8 - The Beatles were photographed on an Abbey Road zebra crossing 50 years ago

9 - Britains first nudist beach opened in Brighton 40 years ago.

9 - PL Travers, creator of Mary Poppins, was born 120 years ago. Died 1996 at 96.

12 - The Wizard of Oz was first screened in the US 80 years ago.

15 -The Woodstock Music & Art Fair happened 50 years ago.

12 - Battle of the Bogside, start of the N Ireland 'Troubles' happened 50 years ago.

12 - Les Paul, guitarist and inventor, died at 94 10 years ago. 

13 - Alfred Hitchcock, film director, was born 120 years ago. Died 1980 at 80.

16 - The Peterloo Massacre occurred in Manchester 200 years ago.

19 - James Watt, Scottish inventor, died 200 years ago. Died 1819 at 83.

20 - Phil Lynott, Thin Lizzy rock star, was born 70 years ago. Died 1986 at 36.

25 - Senator Edward Kennedy died at 77 10 years ago.

27 - Lord Mountbatten was murdered 40 years ago. He was 79.

28 - Napoleon Bonaparte born 250 years ago. Died 1821 at 51.

30 - John Peel, radio presenter, was born 80 years ago. Died 2004 at 65.

31 - Richard Gere, actor, will be 70.

FED UP WITH FEEDBACK

Available for freelance writing commissions on a variety of subjects including family history, nostalgic Belfast and its famous people, shops, shoppers & shopping, the golden age of Hollywood (esp westerns) and humorous pieces on life's weird and wonderful. Op-eds, columns, non-fiction book reviews too. 

Published CV available on request.

joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

Nowadays, whenever we do any kind of transaction or have any interaction with a business, there is the inevitable request from them for 'feedback'. Sometimes the request comes with a polite 'please' and other times an incentive of gift cards or discounts is added.  Mostly I ignore these requests but occasionally if I have a point to make, I'll respond.

One of my pet hates in shops is the loud music blaring out of the ceiling. This music is selected by someone who is either hard of hearing or wearing ear plugs. This someone is a huge fan of screeching divas, mostly female, who relish the challenge in any song to hit a lung-busting note. These shrillers must rattle and weaken the shop's foundations, for they certainly rattle mine. I have used the feedback form at least 10 times to make my point about the same shop. Only on one occasion have I had a response - 'sorry about that....we'll sort it out'. Is it ever sorted out? No. So, on that flimsy point alone times 10, what is the point of feedback if nothing actually happens?

Companies must have bulging data banks of customer comments, so why is service, particularly supermarket service still so erratic. I'm going back nearly forty years man and boy as a retail manager. I know how hard it is to offer consistently high standards of service because of staff absenteeism, some lazy employees and the unpredictable nature of shoppers' habits. On the flip side, I have been a customer for decades, so I have witnessed service in all of its good, bad and ugly forms. Not much has changed and requests for feedback have not improved things one iota.

On feedback forms, I have made my feelings known about service charges and tipping to restaurants and hotels. I despise expected and pressurised tipping. It is and always has been a horrible practice. I am not talking about tipping that is entirely voluntary, where a customer makes up his or her mind to add a personal token of appreciation. That is fine by me. But, take America. I love the thought of going to America but the excitement is dulled by the thought of the rabid, nasty tipping culture. Go Stateside and budget 20% more spending money or else risk incurring the wrath of Jekyll & Hyde waiting staff. I once had a growl from a Chinese guy in a self-service - self-service! - restaurant for not leaving a tip. The response from hotels and restaurants to my feedback over the years? Mostly, zip. It is no surprise that there are news stories exposing wicked hospitality employers for pocketing tips. There was a story some time ago about a customer in Northern Ireland leaving a £1,000 tip. That’s great and generous – too generous? – but for me, the key point is the gesture was entirely voluntary.

I often get the feeling that business, as well as government, internet companies, the secret service and gangsters know more about us than we do ourselves. I'm fed up being asked for feedback and I have made a flexible resolution not to respond to any more requests. As I type that, I am reminded of a car company, after servicing my vehicle, phoning me the same afternoon to advise that someone from their service centre would be in touch and would I mind giving 10 out of 10 for all the service questions. Eh?

Not long back from London, within 24-hours, emails from the hotel, the restaurant, the train company and the booking service, all mad keen to know about my experience. All emails, of course, deleted.

The f-word "feedback", in my parlance, is always linked to the other f-word, followed by "off".

Let me know what you think! Ha, ha.

A RANDOM STORY ABOUT DEREK NIMMO

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Published CV available on request.

joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

In the early 1980s, I worked in the head office of the late, lamented British Home Stores located on Marylebone Road in London. The administration office where I was an audit manager was situated on the ground floor. It was a busy office with comings and goings all day and we became quite blasé about who would be next to walk in with a query, a bulletin, an armful of papers to be copied or signed. But one day, one of our team members let out a gasp and quite naturally we all looked up. Lo and behold, standing in the doorway was none other than actor, radio’s Just a Minute panellist and TV advertisement voice-over regular (‘P – pick up a Penguin’) Derek Nimmo. 

As I recall, he was dressed immaculately in a light grey suit, white shirt and what looked like a pink and green club tie. Someone clarified later that he was a member of the Garrick Club.

He came across as a little shy but spoke in a hesitant, breathy, quite plummy voice so familiar from his characters, Reverend Mervyn Noote in All Gas and Gaiters and Brother Dominic in Oh Brother! He said: ‘Hello. I wonder if you would mind awfully if I used your phone. My car has broken outside and I need to call for help.’

Of course, we invited him to use the telephone and when he had finished, he stood for a little while and chatted to us. He thanked us profusely and left the office to wait at the front doors. We all agreed that he was a very nice, friendly, charming gentleman, and so grateful for our assistance.

Of course, he played more than clergymen roles, but that is how the 1970s generation remembers him. I knew he had done a turn as Bingo Little in the 1967 World of Wooster and starred in various other sitcoms and feature films, even popping up as an English Lord in Neighbours.

It was very sad to read about his death at 68 in 1999. It is a strange thing but sometimes ‘lay people’ when they cross paths with celebrities feel a kind of emotional ownership. Some celebrities are cold fish, but Mr Nimmo was a joy to encounter for a few minutes and it was refreshing and memorable because of his genuine charm and gratitude.

BOOK REVIEW - A RIVER OF BODIES BY KEVIN DOYLE

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A River of Bodies

by

Kevin Doyle

The Blackstaff Press

https://blackstaffpress.com

https://www.kevindoyle.ie

'Noelie Sullivan, disaffected ex-punk and grassroots activist, has every reason to be afraid.  His investigation into Danesfort Industrial School and the boys who went missing from it is attracting attention. Special Branch want him to disappear and he's made enemies of the powerful Walsh and Donnelly families. But Noeli is determined to get to the truth. He won't walk away. At least that's what he tells himself until his friends and family start paying the price.

A River of Bodies is the gripping sequel to To Keep a Bird Singing and the second part of Kevin Doyle's Solidarity Books trilogy.'

I have not read the first book of this trilogy and I may have been disadvantaged by missing out on back story details and character connections but as a stand-alone novel A River of Bodies works extremely well. It didn't take long to get me up to enough speed to understand what drives the plot.

I like thrillers where the reader feels part of the gang, in this case a group of like-minded people out to uncover child abusers from the past. I was drawn in to their world, enjoying being party to their secrecy and plans.

Mix together the dark abusive side of the Catholic Church, local gangsters, corrupt cops, undercover shenanigans and mysterious deaths and there is a concoction of murky deceit, lies and cover-ups to make retrospective investigations feel like a mission impossible.

But Noelie Sullivan and his cohorts have good personal reasons and much determination to cope with dead-ends and blind alleys. They operate in a world where trust is never certain, even amongst themselves. They disagree. They argue. They console and reassure each other. They hit the ropes and bounce back. They suffer loss. They find themselves in cul-de-sacs. But they get lucky too. And, whilst failure outweighs success as they plough on, they gradually pull enough strings together to get as good an explanation of the past as possible, to identify the names of guilty individuals and to gather enough evidence to hopefully deliver justice.

A River of Bodies is well-researched and well-written. The main characters are interesting personalities, with Noelie as the central 'lost soul' guy trying hard to decide what to do with the rest of his life. The writing has addictive pace, the plot thickens nicely, and as it is part of a trilogy, book two ends with a cliffhanger. Damn it! Now I'm hooked!!

Kevin Doyle is to be congratulated for producing a thoroughly entertaining and edgy novel. 

BOOK REVIEW: TWELVE THOUSAND DAYS BY EILIS NI DHUIBHNE

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joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

Twelve Thousand Days
A Memoir of Love and Loss

by

Éilís Ní Dhuibhne

The Blackstaff Press

https://blackstaffpress.com

Éilís Ní Dhuibhne's candid and moving memoir tells the story of her thirty-year relationship with the love of her life, internationally renowned folklorist Bo Almqvist, capturing brilliantly the compromises and adjustments and phases of their relationship.

Twelve Thousand Days is a remarkable story about love, grief and time, shot through with wry and sharp observations on Irish life, culture and morality.

One of a number of events I attended during the 2019 Belfast Book Festival featured Éilís Ní Dhuibhne talking about her memoir, Twelve Thousand Days, the approximate amount of time she knew Bo Almqvist. It was a mesmerising conversation with Bernie McGill, emphasising the depth and strength of a loving relationship from its exciting beginning through to some desperate, frustrating and heartbreaking times in Bo's final years of illness exasperated by health service incompetence. 

But love shines through the book, a love of stories, of travel, of two people: 'I was in love, in love with Bo. I had been in love with him for a long time, in a way, ever since I had read in his eyes that his heart was broken. And there were other reasons. His good looks. His Swedishness. His enthusiasm, brilliance, learning. His fearless and confidence and wit.'

There are other passages in the book of great warmth and happy times with family and friends, and of many irritations and red anger at the way her husband was treated, or rather not treated in hospital. 'Bo suffered and untimely, painful, and unnecessary death. It is difficult for me not to think of the Irish public health service - sloppy, careless, and ageist - as a murder machine.'

The desperately sad ending to the memoir - the feeling of guilt: 'Bo stepped on a weak spot in the health service. The thin ice gave way. He was pulled to the bottom, and I could not save him' - is tempered in a way by the eventual acceptance that grief needs to be recognised and managed on a road to coping with the loss and allowing life to go on. It is handled sensitively and emotionally in the wonderfully descriptive, poetic and always honest writing. 

There is much joy here and much sorrow too. As a reader accompanying Éilís Ní Dhuibhne on her journey, it has been easy to smile along with the good times and impossible not to shed a tear on the other path.

I recommend her book highly, and I will treasure my signed copy. 

MEL BLANC, THE MAN OF A 1000 VOICES

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joecushnan@aol.com & @JoeCushnan

The sublime voice actor, Melvin Jerome Blanc, died at 81 thirty years ago today. He was, is and will forever be the cartoon king, at least to my generation. He was the voice of (deep breath):

Bugs Bunny

Daffy Duck

Tweety Bird

Sylvester the Cat

Pepe Le Pew

Porky Pig

Yosemite Sam

Wile E. Coyote

Road Runner

Foghorn Leghorn

Barney Rubble

Mr Spacely

Woody Woodpecker

and many, many others in the golden age of TV cartoon shows.

He was born in San Francisco in 1908. He started out on a radio career in 1927, using his talent for voices in variety shows, including those of Jack Benny, Abbott and Costello and Burns and Allen. He built a reputation as a versatile voice actor and was snapped up by Warner Brothers (Looney Tunes) and later, Hanna-Barbera (The Flintstones and The Jetsons). His place in television and cinema history is secure. There was no one like him and today, I salute him for his talent and for the hours and hours of entertainment he provided with all those quirky, unforgettable voices.

He died on 10 July, 1989 and is buried in Hollywood Forever Cemetery. This is his gravestone.

MARTY FELDMAN

eyE Marty

The Newly Discovered Autobiography Of A Comic Genius

by

Marty Feldman

Coronet

2015

Marty Feldman was born on 8 July 1934 and died after a heart attack on 2 December 1982, aged 48. This autobiography was discovered 30 years after his passing. “None of his writing has been changed and all of his attachments have been included,” says Mark Flanagan, trustee of the Marty Feldman estate.

“I can never see myself as an old man, not because I don’t want to but because I just don’t feel my distance will be that far.”

“My looks are my comic equipment, and they are the right packaging for my job. Not the right packaging for a brain surgeon or the pilot of a 747, but I have the right packaging for a clown.”

I must admit I had forgotten about Marty Feldman but as soon as I was aware of this book and saw his distinctive features on the cover, a lot of very fond memories came flooding back.  His wild and crazy TV shows were, in the main, big hits and at least half of his ten or so films were popular successes. He was always a writer first and then a reluctant performer when he was encouraged to take centre stage.

Marty Feldman was the son of Jewish immigrants and saw himself as a solitary child, a sort of odd-one-out as a kid in the war years when he, the city boy from the East End of London, was farmed out to country families as an evacuee. He left school at fifteen and worked in a Margate funfair before getting the showbiz bug writing and performing as part of a whacky variety trio. He developed a huge love for jazz and in his early years as a budding musician, he was considered to be the worst trumpet player in the world. His passion to learn and his devotion to jazz kept growing throughout his life. He got some gigs with bands and made some money but, more often than not he would have no idea where he was going to sleep or what he was going to eat on any given day or night. But, it seemed, nothing was going to get in the way of his independent spirit.

He had the good fortune to meet, befriend and eventually collaborate with Barry Took, the two occasional performers finding their niche as a brilliant writing team. They wrote for “The Army Game” and “Bootsie and Snudge” on television and “Round The Horne” on radio. 

Marty Feldman became script editor on “The Frost Report” and one of his many classic sketches involved John Cleese, Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett doing the famous “I look down on him, I look up to him” sketch. He was firmly part of the group that became Monty Python and included John Lennon, Harry Nilsson and Ian McShane amongst his closest pals.

His TV career as writer/performer hit gold with “Marty”, a series of sketches and was followed up with more of the same, pacy, crazy and very funny shows loved by millions. (There’s a ton of Marty Feldman stuff on YouTube.)

He moved to Hollywood with his wife Lauretta, “the love of my life”, and first with Gene Wilder and then with Mel Brooks, he found a new lease of life as an actor and a new level of fame worldwide in movies. He liked Los Angeles but found out fairly quickly that you are only as good as your last film’s box office receipts. His most famous role was as Igor (pronounced Eye-gor) in Young Frankenstein. He also featured in “The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother”, “Silent Movie” and “The Last Remake of Beau Geste”. He died during the production of the pirate film “Yellowbeard”, a project that included his friends Graham Chapman, Peter Boyle, Peter Cook, Eric Idle and many others. His body was laid to rest in the Hollywood Hills Cemetery in a grave close to that of his comedy idol Buster Keaton.

This is a beautifully written book with a flowing narrative style, descriptive, funny in parts and told from the heart. Occasionally, the flow is paused for poems about love and life with all its distractions, foibles and beauty. On the whole it is a happy autobiography but it is difficult not to read it without a degree of sadness now that Marty Feldman is no longer with us. Towards the end of the book he gets more reflective about politics, religion and the absurdities of life. But the overriding features of his story are twofold; he was happy in his own skin as a clown and he loved his wife Lauretta to bits.

It is amazing and wonderful that Mark Flanagan not only found this book but also that he ensured it was published as a lasting tribute to Marty Feldman, a journeyman writer whose life’s path took him from the golden age of radio comedy in the 1950s to the British comedy explosion in the 1960s to the heights of Hollywood in the 1970s.

It is not exaggerating to say he was unique.