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Wednesday 23 February 2022

SOME FREELANCE WRITING SUBJECTS









Over the last few years, I have written and had published pieces on these subjects, amongst others.

Hollywood's Stephen Boyd

Film and TV star, Sam Kydd

Coco the Clown


Collecting Autographs


James Ellis, Actor, Director, Writer


Ben-Hur at 60


Famous Christmas birthdays


Cinemas's Biblical Epics


Alan Whicker and his (lost) Belfast episodes


Hollywood's Burt Lancaster and his possible Belfast roots


Ballykissangel's Birdy Sweeney


Hollywood's Don Murray in Mullingar


Hollywood's Thelma Todd's tragic story


Character actor Eddie Byrne


Z Cars 60th anniversary


Frank Carson, 10 years gone but still the gag man's gag man.


And quite a few family pieces.


Much more.


Books:


Retail Confidential (2010) a career retrospective


Stephen Boyd: From Belfast to Hollywood. A film star biography


Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly? A personal memoir about my vanished father and heroic mother.


If you are stuck for a freelance writer on any subject (research is FUN!), contact joecushnan@aol.com

Monday 21 February 2022

MINOR INCIDENT BETWEEN MY MOTHER AND THE REVEREND IAN PAISLEY

This happened sometime in the early 1970s in our Belfast living room.














In an uncharacteristic burst of anger,
my mother once took off her slipper,
concentrated hard, took careful aim
and let fly at the television set.

On impact, the vase on top wobbled,
we kids tranced between gasp and cough,
and the reason for mother's missile -
Ian Paisley shouting his mouth off.

WINNIE JOHNSON - SOME THINGS JUST GET TO YOU - MOORS MURDERS





 






News item Saturday 18 August, 2012: "The mother of Moors Murder victim Keith Bennett has died, her solicitor has confirmed.  Winnie Johnson, 78, fought a long campaign to get her son's killer, Ian Brady, to reveal his grave.  Twelve-year-old Keith was abducted on his way to visit his grandmother in Manchester on 16 June 1964."
Forty eight
of the long, long, longest years,
grieving, waiting,
grieving, waiting,
mother grieving,
mother waiting.........

1964 to 2012, of her son Keith, 
nothing, nothing at all,
no truth, no sign, no clue,
just prayer to pray, her quest to pursue.

His whereabouts -  
secret of the vile,
secret of the repulsive,
secret of the wicked,
secret of the heinous,
secret of the dead bitch,
secret of the live bastard.

And today,
the news of Winnie's Johnson's passing,
a mother who never gave in, gave up or gave way,
lays a new layer of sadness on her story.
Life is finite and thus at some point must cease,
even if her one question remains unanswered,
we think of her and hope she rests in peace.

 


Sunday 20 February 2022

BEFORE AMNESIA - SOME OF THE THINGS I REMEMBER













I remember being told that I was stung in the face by a wasp when I was a baby but I don’t actually remember the sting. Apparently, I sobbed for ages, not for the last time.

I remember the click-click of my mother’s knitting needles and, as if by magic, jumpers, hats, scarves and gloves appeared.

I remember my father bringing home triangular tailor’s chalk. He had a job as a cloth cutter.

I remember Sally from the upstairs flat bringing us a bag of fruity sweets every Monday and some magazines for my mother. I liked Sally as much as I liked the sweets. I liked Mondays too.

I remember Farley’s rusks and someone on the TV singing that there was all-round goodness in them.

I remember my mother baking apple and rhubarb tarts, curn squares on Sundays and stew on Tuesdays.

I remember at a young age wanting to be a writer but I had no idea what to write about, so I doodled instead.

I remember Coco the Clown visiting our school.

I remember my father leaving home when I was six or maybe I am remembering someone else’s memory. Whatever. He never came back.

I remember horrible Camp Coffee.

I remember ho-ho-hoing along to The Laughing Policeman record when it was played on radio’s Children’s Favourites.

I remember thinking that Fry’s Turkish Delight tasted like soap.

I remember scraping my face on the rough bricks in the bus shelter and wearing my badge-of-honour scab on my First Communion morning.

I remember wanting to be the Milky Bar Kid but I didn’t have blonde hair and I didn’t wear glasses.

I remember someone gave us a puppy and on the same day a bastard called Sammy took it from us and drowned it. 

I remember showband records playing in our house including Joe Dolan singing The Answer To Everything, Dickie Rock singing From The Candy Store On The Corner To The Chapel On The Hill and Brendan Bowyer singing The Hucklebuck.

I remember my Granny’s snuff. Sniff, sniff, nose blow.

I remember my Granda’s stammer and his beautiful singing voice. Nellie Dean.

I remember the clink-clink-clink of the milkman and, every now and then his whistling.

I remember I preferred to play cowboys and indians rather than cops and robbers.

I remember our garden had an ideal slope for tumbling.

I remember watching The Range Rider and Dick West on TV, after the Saturday wrestling programme, in my Aunt Sally’s on the New Lodge Road, Belfast. She gave us a bowl of hot peas and vinegar, thick-sliced pan bread and butter and a huge blue-striped mug of dark brown tea.

I remember the excitement of hearing The Lone Ranger theme only surpassed by the exhilaration of the burning map of Nevada and ding-ding-a-ding opening of Bonanza.

I remember where I was when JFK was shot. I was in Fruithill Park, Belfast delivering groceries and trying to figure out how to get past a yapping dog.

I remember a woman called Jean (Metcalfe) on the radio on Sundays introducing a programme from London called World Wide Family Favourites and my jaw-dropping as she casually spoke to a man called Bill Paul in Toronto. They were thousands of miles apart. 

I remember my first primary school report (I’m looking at it now). St Teresa’s Boys’ School, term ending 31 December 1960. Name: J. Cushnan. Form: 3B. Number in class: 45. Position: 8th. Marks out of 10: 7 for Sums, 10 for Spelling, 8 for Reading, 6 for Writing, 8 for Composition. Class Teacher: F. H. McKenna. Parent’s Signature: Rita Cushnan. Remarks: Pass.

I remember more than a couple of slaps on the hand by a leather strap-wielding teacher. I can’t remember my ‘crimes’.

I remember barber Owny Muldoon (my first stylist) gripping my young head in the palm of his hand and steering my skull like a joystick to complete a short back and sides, and a straight fringe. He was a bit rough but quick.

I remember hating clove rock but loving butter balls.

I remember warm school milk in the summer and iced school milk in the winter, the former torture to drink, the latter impossible.

I remember hating picnics.

I remember our neighbour, Mrs McAtackney, knuckle-rapping her window, a machine-gun rat-a-tat-tat, to get us off the wall between her garden and a field.  It wasn’t even her wall but we scarpered anyway. She lived alone and had time to look out of the window.

I remember telling my teacher that a sandwich was a funny thing to call something that you had for your tea.

I remember conning my brother Sean into taking me to the pictures to see Elvis Presley in Roustabout. I told him Mum said he had to. He was unhappy about it but he took me. I was excited but Elvis was cool.

I remember my mother knitted me a green bobble hat like Mike Nesmith’s from The Monkees.

I remember Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum for the rock hard sweet but especially for the little comic included in the pack.

I remember most Saturdays visiting my Aunt Brigid in her house on Maralin Street, Belfast. It smelled of biscuits and marmalade, and she gave me half a crown to share with my brothers and sisters. I’m not certain I always did.

I remember my Aunt Brigid’s catchphrase was ‘Bless the darlin’’.

I remember Radio Luxembourg’s signal fading in and out. Adjusting the dial made no difference.

I remember loving red, syrupy cough medicine.

I remember the first grown-up book I attempted was A Tale of Two Cities but I only got halfway through.  So, I’m unsure if it was a tale of one city or two halves of two cities.

I remember who got the most burnt skin from the top of a rice pudding caused a lot of arguments in our house.

Tuesday 15 February 2022

MUSIC (AT LEAST SOME) FROM MY LIFE

 










Music from my life, in not much order and not comprehensive:

Theme from Bonanza (TV)
Faith of Our Fathers (Hymn)
Hound Dog by Elvis Presley
Theme from The Magnificent Seven (Film)
Buck's Polka by the Miami Showband, featuring Clem Quinn
Forty Shades of Green by Johnny Cash
Rocky Road to Dublin by The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem
In My Life by The Beatles
If You Could Read My Mind by Gordon Lightfoot
Story Of A Life by Harry Chapin

It's All Over Now by The Rolling Stones
The Twist by Chubby Checker
Bird on the Wire by Leonard Cohen
The House of the Rising Sun by The Animals
The Days Of Pearly Spencer by David McWilliams
The Sound of Silence by The Bachelors
The Hucklebuck by Brendan Bowyer and the Royal Showband
Unchained Melody by Joe Dolan and the Drifters
What A Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong
Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater Revival

These Boots Are Made for Walking by Nancy Sinatra
Galveston by Glen Campbell
Reach Out, I'll Be There by The Four Tops
Up Went Nelson by The Go-Lucky Four
I'm A Believer by The Monkees
I Only Want To Be With You by Dusty Springfield
God Only Knows by The Beach Boys
Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way by Waylon Jennings
Theme from The Rockford Files (TV)
The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me by Gladys Knight and the Pips

Dedicated Follower Of Fashion by The Kinks
Tequila Sunrise by The Eagles
The Streets of London by Ralph McTell
Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty
Oliver's Army by Elvis Costello
Whiskey On A Sunday by Danny Doyle
He'll Have To Go by Jim Reeves
Your Song by Elton John
Dock Of The Bay by Otis Redding
Lovely Day by Bill Withers

Apache by The Shadows
Dancing Queen by ABBA
Sylvia's Mother by Dr Hook & the Medicine Show
Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick by Ian Dury & the Blockheads
Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen
Band On The Run by Wings
Piano Man by Billy Joel
Albatross by Fleetwood Mac
The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face by Roberta Flack
Rio by Michael Nesmith

Telstar by The Tornados
The Young Ones by Cliff Richard
From A Jack To A King by Ned Miller
I Like It by Gerry & The Pacemakers
Here Comes My Baby by The Tremeloes
When You Walk In The Room by The Searchers
Mr Tambourine Man by The Byrds
Pied Piper by Crispian St Peters
Home Thoughts From Abroad by Clifford T Ward
Rex Bob Lowenstein by Mark Germino

Theme from The Big Country (Film)
A Mother's Love's A Blessing by Bridie Gallagher
Lily The Pink by The Scaffold
That's The Way God Planned It by Billy Preston
It's Not Unusual by Tom Jones

Hundreds, if not thousands more. But there we are.

Sunday 13 February 2022

PAIRS









A poem I included in a fun Valentine-related collection (Only Drools & Corsets) a few years ago.


We go together

Like crackers and cheese,
Like thank you and please,
Like skip and rope,
Like water and soap,
Like moon and stars,
Like jams and jars,
Like Morecambe and Wise,
Like pork and pies
Like seek and hide,
Like Bonnie and Clyde,
Like comb and hair,
Like table and chair,
Like Ant and Dec,
Like Fiona and Shrek,
Like peas and pod,
Like hook and rod, 
Like bread and butter.
Like mumble and mutter,
Like Minnie and Mickey,
Like glue and sticky,
Like Adam and Eve,
Like ho and heave,
Like Batman and Robin,
Like thread and bobbin,
Like Homer and Marge,
Like canal and barge,
Like Barbie and Ken,
Like cluck and hen,
Like Jack and Jill,
Like Ben and Bill,
Like Hansel and Gretel,
Like flower and petal,
Like Tom and Jerry,
Like Christmas and merry, 
Like bacon and eggs,
Like stockings and legs,
Like Black and Decker,
Like wood and pecker,
Like bow and arrow,
Like wheel and barrow,
Like click and clack,
Like train and track,
Like fish and chips,
Like walnuts and whips,
Like Watson and Holmes,
Like barbers and combs,
Like Wooster and Jeeves,
Like autumn and leaves,
Like finish and start
(And, I do apologise),
Like beans and fart,


Thursday 10 February 2022

THE RAPTURES BY JAN CARSON

 


















The Raptures


by


Jan Carson

 

Doubleday

2022

 

I finished this novel a couple of hours ago and went out for a long walk.  It was all I could think about.  It is that powerful.  It is the story of what happens when tragedy occurs in a sleepy Northern Irish village, Ballylack.  Friends of young Hannah, the main character, fall foul of a mysterious illness that is both scary and relentless in its spread through a group of young schoolchildren.  Hannah stays healthy and feels guilty about it.

 

The story has many ingredients including family tensions, fear, worry, panic, mystery, strict religious convictions, flaring tempers, suspicion, crime, vigilantes, as well as imaginative weaving of aspects of the supernatural.  It is also a story well-laced with humour - darkness and light in the hands of a brilliant storyteller.  

 

In its way, The Raptures is a coming-of-age story as we follow and feel for Hannah, how she processes the tragedies around her and considers what her adult future will hold after, hopefully, the trauma eases.  (I am trying very hard not to dish out any spoilers!)

 

To use a favourite Jan Carson word here, there is a rake of twists, turns, surprises, emotions and comedy in this wonderful book.  

 

I began my interest in Jan’s writing with her award-winning novel, The Fire Starters, followed by her collections, Postcard Stories, Postcard Stories 2 and The Last Resort.  And I’m glad I did.  The Raptures is a fine addition to her impressive writing CV.  Jan Carson deserves all her successes.   

 

Bravo!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday 8 February 2022

SHOWBIZ AWARDS - WHO CARES?

There was a time many moons ago when show business awards events were exciting.  The announcement of nominations and the build-ups were quite something, and we held our breath as envelopes were opened and we waited for the name of the winners.

Now, just about all the fun and thrill has been drained from ceremonies as issues and campaigns hog the platforms.

The Academy Awards have always been the biggie, but I haven't watched them in over a decade.  It has been difficult to impossible to avoid news of controversial speeches, criticism of nominees, imbalances in race and gender and whatever the current topic-of-the-moment is. The actual films have dropped down the agenda.

As I write this, I am thinking: What's the point of awards anyway? Why do we need them? Money involved, obviously, but why not stop handing out gongs and let the movies find their place in history on their own merits.

BAFTAS, Brits, Golden Globes and all the rest. Who cares? Who?





Monday 7 February 2022

NOT A DOG (OR ANY KIND OF PET) PERSON

This post might lose me some social media and actual friends, but I don't like dogs around me or near me.  I respect people who adore dogs, cats and other pets and I expect a little of the same respect from those adoring their canine, feline and other friends. I choose not to like pets.

A thing that bothers me, not to any high degree, is that the media has latched on to the notion that we are a nation of dog lovers. The truth is we are a nation where there is a fairly high percentage of the population that love dogs. And I'm okay with that.

But count me out.

The media is increasingly obsessed with dogs and dog owners and the companionship, therapy and health benefits that dogs bring. Good for all those people who get their comforts from pets.

When booking hotels, restaurants and considering pubs, 'dog friendly' turns me off and I take my business elsewhere.

I don't like dogs and that's it.

Don't judge me because I'm not you.


 

Sunday 6 February 2022

SHE NEVER GETS SICK OF ELVIS (LYRICS TO A 3-CHORD COUNTRY SONG)

 Lyrics to an attempt at a three-chord country song written by me several years ago. When you strum, it kinda works.

 

Chorus

She never gets sick of Elvis

But she sure gets sick of me.

She says she gets lonesome at night,

That's something I can't see.

She says: "He's in my CD rack,

No, of course, he's not dead,

He's in my speakers singing,

Performing in my head."

 

1

I met her in the 50s,

When Elvis changed the world.

I was her only boy

And she was my only girl

 

We danced a lot to Hound Dog

And our love was tender too,

But now she taunts my wooden heart

And there's not much I can do.

 

Chorus

She never gets sick of Elvis

But she sure gets sick of me.

She says she gets lonesome at night,

That's something I can't see.

She says: "He's in my CD rack,

No, of course, he's not dead,

He's in my speakers singing,

Performing in my head."

 

2

Our walls are full of pictures

Of Elvis through the years.

She loves to sing the songs

While I like drinking beers.

 

Elvis when I wake up,

Sunrise to sundown,

He's her king of rock and roll

And I'm her jester clown.

 

Chorus

She never gets sick of Elvis

But she sure gets sick of me.

She says she gets lonesome at night,

That's something I can't see.

She says: "He's in my CD rack,

No, of course, he's not dead,

He's in my speakers singing,

Performing in my head."