You never know the day or the hour…so there are still copies of Going Postal mouldering away in files of “Best Bits” in people’s attics. I always thought of it as being utterly disposable, a folded sheet of A4 distributed anonymously in small piles on the counters of record shops and video rental places. The name was neither original nor apt – I don’t think a single copy was posted anywhere, to anyone. It was just a chance to rage, a kitchen-sink broadside, two Hunter Thompson fans living out gonzo fantasies on coffee and hash. He provided the rage and the ideas, and I tried to translate from spleen into English. The DMC Championships piece that Paul mentions was our purest collaboration, and the best thing to appear in GP. It’s amazing to hear that people outside of Dublin were reprinting it off their own bat. It was also the last issue – I don’t remember why; fecklessness, probably. We should have kept going. The gombeen commercialism of that mid-90s dance scene is replicated on grotesque scale across Irish society in the 2000s. Nobody is supposed to utter a word of complaint against boomtown Dublin – sure, aren’t we all better off now? Oh, we are, but some of us are much better off than others. The economic windfall of the last decade has been squandered for the benefit of a few, and the looming recession promises the edifying sight of the man behind the curtain pulling the same old levers on a machine that is still running on patchwork parts from the ’80s.
