I have to get up on my rickety sopapbox for a minute as an online trader living and working in rural Ireland.
     I sell my stuff online. I get my clients online. I read in various places about how online shopping is killing the High Street.
     I sort of disagree with this, if that's allowed.
     I go to my office in the wilds of Sligo every morning. I do my drawings with pencils I bought in Sligo Supply. I then go and get prints made at Digicreativ, two miles away. I frame my piccies 100 yards further down the road, with Kevin Woods. While I'm waiting for Kevin I go to Chapters Coffee and have a bit of a chat and a cuppa. I make a few calls in Cafe Fleur and naughtily steal a bit of their WiFi to tweet about some daft thing, and answer emails from people in Hong Kong and Mullingar asking about work they need done.
     Later on I have a couple of meetings with clients who , by the way, have come to Sligo to meet.         We have lunch in Hargadons or Lyons Cafe and once the meeting is over I say *While you're here why don't you take a walk up Knocknarea*. One client did that and he's still here, six years later. So that's good. One more city dweller who succumbed to the charming yet irresistible witchcraft of Sligo.

      Being able to say you can safely and efficiently run a business here is half the battle. That and the Cake.
 
     Back to the office having bought a load of Cake in O'Hehir's Bakery , parcel up some stuff people have bought online. I call the local Fastway courier or post them from the post office down the road.
       Later on I phone Caroline in Printfix and get a couple of quotes. I realise I have one of those meetings tomorrow that requires the Suit, so I run to Master Dry Cleaners.  A quick visit to Liber Bookshop to see how the book is selling- the book which, interestingly, would never have existed because I would never have been introduced to Eoin Purcell online, the idea would never have been suggested and the book would never have been published.
       Because the work is coming along nicely, or because I made a hideously huge series of mistakes, I buy more paper from Art Upstairs.
       For me it's simple: some might say too simple. Sue me for oversimplifying but if I couldn't sell online I don't think I'd be living here at all. The internet allows me to live and work anywhere. I use local suppliers for nearly everything. I spend a fairly sizeable chunk of my business and personal income in Sligo town and county, as far as is possible at any rate.
        I make a decent living by working in rural Ireland and doing business online, without personally being responsible for closing any high street shops.  If it weren't thus, and I had  to try and stay here without running an online business I think I'd spend every day sprawled on the couch in my jim jams, watching Judge Judy and eating beans from a tin. And then I'd leave.
       Online shopping doesn't kill the high street. It gives it another reason to be there. Both can (I think), if allowed, exist happily together.

www.anniewest.com

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                                                                                                                                           In 1990 I was working in the Art Department of Neil Jordan's film "The Miracle" with Top Production Designer, Gemma Jackson.
       On the list of things to do was "Bring Elephant into St. John's Church, Sandymount for interior scene".
       With a note attached reminding us and the Elephant handler and the property department to "make sure the Elephant has performed any and all loo business beforehand".
       We showed up at the Church in good time. I checked and checked again to make sure Nepal (for it was she) had done her business early. All was well.
        I should mention at this point St. John's Church, Sandymount is a lovely example of
neo-Norman Architecture and has a typical early example of underfloor heating, ie. a set of heating pipes set below the floor and covered in an ornate cast iron grille the length of the aisles.
        I should also mention, and we did not previously know this, if you have one Elephant in a place you also have to have their child within eyesight. Otherwise Mother Elephant goes berserk. We found that out fairly early on while filming on Bray promenade a few days earlier. So the brief now was "Bring two Elephants into St. John's Church, Sandymount".
       As is the norm with film production, there were a few delays before we got the proverbial show on the road. The Elephant handler finally got both Elephants into the Church without much drama. It was a bit of a squeeze but after a bit of squirming and shoving everyone got into position.

       After about twenty minutes I slipped outside as I was no longer required and it was getting fairly warm in there.
   
        I was outside chatting to the neighbours when the doors opened and the entire cast and crew emerged gasping and roaring and laughing.
       Five minutes after that I and every member of the production office were on the phone to every  contract cleaner in south Dublin. Finally I managed to find one still open at 5.55 pm.
       "What is the nature of your accident?" says he.
        "Yes, well an Elephant has peed in St. John's Church Sandymount and all the pee has gone down through the lovely ornate cast iron grilles into the underfloor heating system" says I.
        "Really", says he. "How much pee?"
        "About forty gallons".
         They laughed and hung up.

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        Yeats in Love is an illustrated, semi-fictional account of WB Yeats' obsessive yet ultimately fruitless pursuit of Maud Gonne, illustrated in detail on every painful page by award-winning Illustrator Annie West.
        To celebrate WB Yeats' 150th Birthday in 2015, Annie has gathered together remarks from those who bore witness to this unfolding story- Douglas Hyde, Katherine Tynan, Lily and Lolly Yeats and others- and mixed them together with some of Yeats' most enduring love poems in this richly illustrated, handsomely bound Collector's edition from New Island Publishers in Dublin.
        With an introduction by Theo Dorgan, and designed by Amy West, Yeats in Love promises to be the Book to delight and amuse lovers of literature, illustration and unrequited love for many years to come.




Yeats in Love is published by New Island Books, Dublin  €34.99
Special limited edition (200 only) cased, signed and numbered  €80.00
Pub. 14 November 2014 | 978-1-84840-392-5

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       We live in a house on the main road between Sligo and Grange. Most of the time we pay little attention to what's happening on the road, apart from the occasional prang or a late night joyrider making an exhibition of himself.
       It was only when the Village of Grange, two miles North of our house, announced they were doing their own St. Patrick's Day Parade many years ago that we realised the advantage of living in this particular spot.

       This is how it worked: The Parade in Sligo Town started at Twelve, ended around one. The Parade in Grange began at two sharp. As a result most of the floats from Sligo who also appeared in the Grange Parade had approximately one hour to pack up, get out of the traffic, arrive in Grange and set up again. Back in the day the whole operation would drive like hell out the N15, often held up by John Farrell on his Horse and Trap who, being first to finish the Sligo Parade would break into a gallop out the N15 in order to arrive on time, followed by Shiny Classic Cars, the drivers' green afro wigs blowing in the breeze, articulated lorries with men dressed as overweight women grimly hanging on to the endboard because there wasn't time to dismantle , Shiny Tractors driving at full throttle, Papier Maché Giraffes , Glittery Shamrocks, adverts for MIKE'S HOOF CARE ripping off the sides and permits flying off windscreens.
   
        Near our house was a straight bit of road and by extension one of the few opportunities for vehicles of all kinds to get up a head of steam and happily for us lazy gits this resulted in a brilliant, condensed version of the St. Patrick's Day Parade thundering past our kitchen window at sixty miles an hour.

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http://blog.volkswagen.ie/volkswagen-beetle-review-by-annie-west/

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          So there we were, two of us, testing out the new www.ireland.com website. The one that cost a King's ransom to build.
                                      http://www.broadsheet.ie/2013/01/24/gather-this/
         We pretended to be a couple of potential visitors to Ireland and wanted to see what's on. We were simply having a look to see what two and a half million buys you in the way of excellent British Web Design.


          I would like to mention , parenthetically, apropos of nothing, that there's a place in North Sligo called Maugherow. It has so many roads, byroads, boreens, lanes, back alleys, driveways that look like roads but aren't, tracks, trails, boulevards and cul de sacs you could drive around it for weeks and still never find the place where you started. It has been said that some people have gone for a drive around Maugherow, never to be seen or heard from again.
        



              We open the page and are blasted by a bewildering , shape shifting array of images, captions, tabs and buttons. There is an abundance of green. Which I suppose is fine but there are other colours in this country.
              And yet, somehow, it seems so silent. Not that I personally would enjoy the wailing of Uileann pipes any time I open a web page. But maybe a bit of witty banter that we're famous for might...never mind.
                                                                             ***


[What follows is an abbreviated version of what happened. All profanity, cursing, shouting earclipping and namecalling has been removed in the interests of good taste].


-Are you sitting comfortably? Then we'll begin.
-Try this button. What does that do.
-Oh here I am in ..oh.  Huge picture of plastic shamrocky hat.
-Stop distracting me. I'm trying to find the page that tells me what's on in Clare.
-What. I thought we were looking at Dublin.
-We were. But I can't find that page now.
-Press the Back Button, silly.
*Presses Back Button*
-Oh.
-We're at the Home Page again.
-All right, start again.
-What's that button for.
-Oh well that's perfect. Now we're at the Sports section.I'm not interested in Sport.
-Well there's "Endurance events". That might suit. Har har.
-Go back to the Dublin What's on page.
-I don't know how to ge...
-Here. Let me.
-Oh. What's this.
-I thought you just pressed the back button to go back to where you were.
-Apparently not.
-Where are we.Can you remember what we were supposed to be looking for.
-I can but I can't remember how you get to that bit.
-Must be here somewh....
-Oh.
-Just wondering. But say you wanted to just have a look and see *IN GENERAL* what's interesting in , say, Dublin, but not get bogged in specifics. Just an overview.
-An overview would be good.
-Also. What if you want to see about literary things. But not...what. Is that.
-Now I've lost my place. That huge shamrock hat distracted me.
-What happens if you press this button here.
-Now look what you've done. We're back at the Home page again.

Twenty minutes later


-Ohforgoodnesssake. Try Sligo.
Tum te tum...

Ten minutes later

-Right. Now click Places Here. Just do it will you.
-What the blazes is that. It's an alphabet.
-I know it's an alphabet. An alphabet of what.
-But only some of the letters work.
-But if I'm not from Sligo how do I know what letters to pick if I don't know wh...
                                                                           ***

Fifteen minutes later

- Let's try looking for something else. Say we want to go to the Patrick's Festival , in DUBLIN, and we want campsites. Try that.
Click. Click. Click. Clickety.
-Here we are. Oh. Campsites all ov....Portrush?
-Ah here. Give me that. Click on that arrow in the green box. What does that do.
-Oh. Well that's great. Now everything has moved to the other side.
                                                                          ***

Forty minutes later


-I think I need to draw a map of where I am on here. Get me a pencil and paper would you.
                                                                 

                                                                           ***
-Stop sighing. Okay. Be specific. Look for Dublin Pubs.
Click. Click.
-397 results. Right. Click on the first one there.
-Dublin Zoo?

Twenty minutes later


-Wait. Are you crying? Stop crying. This is not helping at all.
-Click on 'About Ireland. There. Up there at the top.
Click.
-But it's just an empty box. There's nothing there.
                                                                           
                                                                             ***

         My friend walks outside and plunges his head into a bucket of freezing water while I check the maximum, reasonable, allowable dosage of aspirin.
    

       In summary: If you're interested in this website, and want to safely navigate around it and actually get the information you're looking for, or simply wish to browse in a casual way,  may I suggest you leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

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"Here, Mike. Have you got anyone to design your album cover yet?"
"No, why?"
"Can I do it?"
"Okay"
Well it might have been a bit more involved than that, but that afternoon I sat down and drew a rough design for the new Waterboys album.

The rough.

The title track made me think of Funfairs . Well that and I also happened to be in the middle of working in the Art Department,  filming Neil Jordan's 'The Miracle' on Bray seafront, and we happened to have a Funfair hired out for the week, so it all fit together perfectly.
Or so I thought.
The plan was , shooting for 'The Miracle' was about to end, and I had asked Cullen's Funfair to stay on for another day on the seafront so that the Photographer, Executives from Chrysalis Records, Design Department, Road crew and all seven members of the Waterboys could conveniently assemble for a quick few photographs on their Waltzer.




Simple, you'd think.
But no.
Shooting overran on 'The Miracle'. I realised to my horror that unless I found an alternative Waltzer quickly I would find myself standing redfaced in the midst of Screen actors, screaming film crew, grumpy, tired rock stars and tetchy record company people all requiring the same piece of Fairground machinery on the same bit of Bray seafront at the same exact moment.
This is what I get for trying to be like Alasdair Paton.Who?

I can tell this story now because I know there is no way I am ever going to get a job in the Movies again. Which is fine.

Because this was 1990 and there was no Google or Twitter or Facebook or computers generally I was faced with the prospect of phoning Funfair operators around Ireland based on information from a maggoty old phone book and the old reliable,Word of Mouth. Mobile phones had literally just arrived. I remember standing on the roof of the Director's Driver's Mercedes Benz at the car park in Bray Head with  a huge phone (with a cord attached to a car battery) trying to communicate with a confused Fairground bloke in Bundoran, just as a gust of wind arrived and ended the conversation for good. There was also the point, made by several helpful onlookers, that the chances of a Funfair operatorr actually being close to his phone at any time of the day, never mind at the exact moment I was calling,  were slim to non existent. After several attempts, I realised I was not going to be able to sort this out here. Not with everyone watching.

So in short, I had to mitch the last two days of shooting on The Miracle. Philippe Roussellot , Neil Jordan, Beverly D'Angelo I'm sure would all have noticed I was gone. Hm yeah.

With only two days to go (there was no way I was going to call Mike Scott and cancel this photo shoot, nor Chrysalis records art department either. My reputation, after all, you know) I finally managed to make contact with the owner of the Funfair in Tramore Co. Waterford. Established that the thing worked, went round and round, looked reasonably okay and was available at 8.30 in the morning.
Frantic rejigging of various bits of drivers , accommodation and catering as I realised designing an album cover isn't a matter of sitting at a swish desk wearing a cravat and throwing shapes.
                                                                        

Everyone arrived in the deserted, freezing car park in Tramore at the ungodly hour of half eight,  as arranged, much to my surprise.

I can tell this story now  because I know there is no way I will never get a job with The Waterboys again, which is also fine.

John Pasche leapt out of his car and bounded across the car park like a puppy, grinning and shaking my hand with the enthusiastic grip of a woodworker's vice.
I did not at the time  realise it was the actual  John Pasche, and being youngish and uneducated in the history of album design, was unaware of John's impressive pedigree. All right sue me. I know now.
www.johnpasche.com
Mortified.
 My only excuse is I was an exhausted,hungry, panicky wreck and was busy thinking about being marked absent from 'The Miracle' Roll Call back in Bray. And the consequences of same.

John was charming, generous, modest, handsome, sympathetic and enormously helpful to me in my hour of terror. Between us we concocted an impressive air of authority and proceeded with loading the Waterboys into the Waltzer, yelling various instructions and getting down to business. After about ten seconds we realised it all looked a bit. Sort of.  Static.
"There needs to be, sort of, movement" we agreed.
All seven members of The Waterboys eyed us with suspicion. Noel Bridgeman started to wonder if it had been wise to have that full Irish Breakfast earlier.
 I drew the short straw and had to ask the Fairground guy to set the Waltzer in motion. "Very slowly please".
So there we were, spinning away at a snail's pace as the photographer snapped away. Then he turned to John and me and declared "Not enough movement"

Waltzer guy cranked up the motor. We all backed away a bit.

It wasn't long before we realised we'd better get a decent photograph soon because Sharon was turning a delicate shade of green as the Waterboys spun around and around and around and around.
"We have to go again, one of them blinked."
And again.
And again.
Anyone who has studied physics and /or photography will know already that the chances of seven people in continuous double circular motion are, in fairness, unlikely to all have their eyes open at exactly the same moment. At nine in the morning and breakfast repeating at an alarming rate.
Eventually the whole thing was brought to a conclusion, partly because the light was going but mostly because there was a good bit of complaining happening.
John  wrote to me afterwards and told me they'd had to "airbrush Steve in" back in the studio because his eyes were closed "in every photo" (ironic considering Steve had left the band by the time the album landed in the shops).

As rock stars staggered around the car park trying to regain their balance, like six divers released far too early from a decompression chamber (much to the amusement of Waltzer Guy) , John and I discussed what was going to be on  the back of the album, picturewise.
Oh Lord. Erm.
With that I had an idea. I spotted a lovely Buttercup Yellow wall of the Ghost Train nearby. I muttered instructions to the irrepressible John *nothing is too difficult, too mad or too annoying* Dunford, road manager, who rounded up some of  the country's most gifted musicians and piled them up in an inglorious  heap behind the Ghost Train wall.
For my pleasure.


The back cover of it

With that, everyone dispered, holding their heads and making small groaning sounds. I was reassured by John Pasche, iconic album cover designer, known to everyone, except me, that "everything will be fine. You did good Annie" .
Then he leapt into his car and was gone.

I returned to the set of 'The Miracle' the next day. I was asked where I had been. I said I'd been sick.

I still have a polaroid that shows the remarkable physical contortions that enabled the back cover photo to be taken. I keep it on my office wall to remind me of the glory and glamour of the olden days. And also to remind me why I will probably never be asked to work with musicians again.

John Dunford holding the whole thing together as always

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Got a very nice invitation recently to donate some piccies to the permanent illustration and cartoon archive at the National Library of Ireland.
Here's their blog about how I came to be (sort of) obsessed with poets : http://www.nli.ie/blog/index.php/2012/02/10/yeats-in-love-joyce-skateboards-and-dreamboat-laureate/

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           As I neared the warm, inviting dining bus I was approached by the First assistant Director.



            “Daryl Hannah?” I yelled back above the din of lorries parking, tracks clattering and people shouting orders.
            “But I don’t…”
             “And we need you in a wedding dress, up there on the parapet of the Tower”.
             What should be made clear is that unless you're a senior crewmember, or Daryl Hannah, if you're given an order you must act on it without asking questions.
             I immediately repaired to the wardrobe department and asked them where this wedding dress could be found.
            “We haven’t got any wedding dress here. They'd have it back in Shepperton. You’ll have to go and get one. And make sure it’s exactly like the one we’re going to be using” she added, at the top of her voice.
           “What does the real one look like?” I shrieked.
           “ We haven’t designed it yet” came the reply.
           Back to the First assistant director, standing hip deep in a lake, shouting orders, and told him about the non existent wedding dress problem.


             In fact  at that very  moment a blind man passed by on a galloping horse and shouted “She looks nothing like Daryl Hannah”, and continued on his way, laughing hysterically.
            I pointed out to the First Assistant Director that  one of the Riggers working on the scaffolding tower over there looked more like Daryl Hannah than I did or ever would.
            I waited for a reply, or at least an explanation. When I realised I was getting none I made my way to the Transport department to see if I could be driven to Limerick to find a wedding dress in a hurry. No one was available. Sighing with exasperation I jumped on my Kawasaki125 and headed for Limerick, freezing and starving.
            Not being familiar with the city I spent at least half an hour asking puzzled passersby if they knew where I could find a Bridal Wear shop in a hurry. At half eight in the morning. People started moving quickly away from me as I ran down the street, muttering and cursing.
            The Lady in the Bridal shop remained unruffled, in fairness to her, when I burst into her shop on the dot of nine and yelled “I need a wedding dress, quickly please. Anything will do. Anything. Here, give me that one.”


           “Quick. Get dressed, we need you up there now. Hurry UP” shouted the First Assistant Director, hustling me into a roofless, doorless shed to get changed.
            I emerged in all my finery, minus something old , something borrowed and the only blue thing being my frozen face.
            I was shoved in front of The Director, who glanced in my direction, muttered “Yeah, grand”, and shuffled off  to his nice warm caravan for coffee. It did at that point cross my mind that he could have cared less. But I kept my powder dry.
            I began my ascent up the tiny stone stairs, followed by a trainee with a length of rope.
            “What’s that for” I asked, as the rest of the crew snorted into their tea and choked on their Custard Creams.


            Still no word as to whether there was any resemblance to the proper wedding dress; but then I decided this was only a minor issue as the person wearing it bore as much resemblance to Daryl Hannah as Peter Lorre would to Cary Grant.
           “Hurry up. HURRY UP” shouted the Assistant Director as I bumbled and tripped up the stairs.
            The stairs ended. I was faced with a long ladder for my final ascent. What follwed is best left to the imagination as the Trainee almost smothered trying to help me and my gorgeous train up the ladder to the parapet. Things were said. Profanities were exchanged.

           “Up you get, love” shouted the First Assistant Director through his loud hailer . I tuerned to the trainee and asked, in the most menacing voice I could muster, that if by chance I did fall off the edge of the parapet, would he be able to hold on to me with that skimpy bit of rope and haul me back up again?
            “Oo er. Hadn’t thought of that” he sniggered.
             I did not snigger.
             To cut a long story short, I walked along the parapet. Several times. I did not have to worry about getting into character or what my motivation might be.
              I had a feeling anyway that this was probably not going to work, cinematographically. Turned out the Editor agreed with me and somewhere in a rubbish bin  in Shepperton studios there’s a tiny strip of film showing a short, grumpy, frozen, hungry female in a cheap, muck- stained wedding dress, muttering swearwords as she inches along a crumbling castle wall.

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Come on you Wolves

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