I'm putting them all on my site: www.garfieldsghost.com

The shops and pavements of Dublin are choked with hordes of Christmas shoppers intent on racking up their credit card bills to the limit. It's something I can't stand, as I like being able to walk to where I want to go at a brisk pace. So it's a good thing I'm not shopping. And it's a good thing my destination is away from the main shopping districts, in the more laid back environs of Wexford Street. The destination is Solas, a bar I've frequented ever since I first went to college in Dublin, and I'm heading there for a lunchtime rendezvous with Dr Shock.

As I enter the bar there's no sign of the good doctor, but the cheeky charlatan jumps out from behind me and announces that he followed me all the way down the street (he says he called to me, but I heard nothing...). We grab a couple of drinks, take a seat, and mull over the menu for a good ten minutes before discarding it in favour of the day's special. Today it's Hawaiian burgers. That'll do. A rather attractive Polish waitress takes the order ("you can have my salad if you want," the doctor says to her) and minutes later we're chomping and chewing on the tastiest burgers I've had for quite some time.

We end up staying in Solas for over four hours, having a few Coronas (or Kopparberg in the doctor's case), and talking incessantly. You see, it's been a while since I last met up with Dr Shock - which is unforgivable, really, as he's one of my closest compadres - but we take the opportunity to recount all that's happened since we last talked. Time flies.

At around five o'clock we leave Solas and head across town to my sister Laura's apartment. She's not there but we bump into her housemate Jason as he's going to work. So I get the chance to drop off my bag before going with the doctor to meet Laura.

We find my sister in a city centre bar drinking with some mildly inebriated record label executives. Surreal, eh? All we can do is order some drinks...

A few more rounds are ordered (I've since swapped Coronas for Jack and Cokes) and time passes. The good doctor takes his leave from us, while Laura and I make our way to the Olympia Theatre for the event that has drawn me to Dublin today: PJ Harvey in concert. Oh Polly Jean, how I love thee...

The show is an all-seated affair. Before we arrive at the theatre I'm not sure if PJ is going to have her backing band with her, or if she is going to perform solo. On seeing the stage, my question is answered: there's a piano, guitar and amplifier, a keyboard, and a drum machine grouped closely together while the rest of the stage is left bare. There'll be no backing band tonight.

Soon after, Polly Jean's slight figure emerges from the shadows wearing a decidedly Victorian dress. Whilst readying her guitar, she meekly welcomes the audience before launching into a hypnotic version of 'To Give You My Love'.

When artists perform 'stripped-down' shows and alternative versions of their work there's always the risk that the whole thing will go down like a lead balloon. Not so with PJ Harvey. Her powerful voice and the fullness of sound emanating from her instruments envelop you so much that you completely forget she has no band with her. It's that good.

The nature of the show is such that PJ can interact and talk with the audience, sharing jokes and playing requests ("Oh, is that a journalist? Can we lynch him?"). 'Big Exit', 'Down by the Water', 'Snake', 'Angelene', 'Electric Light', and new song 'When Under Ether' are all aired throughout the course of the evening, as the audience falls further and further under Polly Jean's spell.

When PJ bows and leaves the stage the audience gives her a rousing standing ovation. The clapping and cheering doesn't stop until she reappears for her encore almost five minutes later. Once again she works her magic, which includes a rawkus rendition of 'Sheela-Na-Gig'.

When she departs the stage this time she doesn't reappear, so we head for the exit.

Laura and I walk the short d

For the past while I've been reading a book entitled 'Absinthe: History in a Bottle', by Baranby Conrad III. While it may fall somewhat into the 'coffee table' variety of books, it provides a fascinating insight into the history, culture, and general infamy surrounding "lá Fee Vert". Conrad traces absinthe from it's early incarnation as an elixer and 'cure all' in Switzerland, through to its explosion in popularity in the café culture of 19th century France. He also delves into the complicated, and somewhat devious, circumstances resulting in it becoming contraband.

Most people know absinthe for being the drink of choice of many great artists and poets of the 19th and early 20th centuries, and this book reveals just how much the beverage went hand in hand with their creativity. It becomes apparent, however, that far from being the hallucenogen it was claimed to be, the attraction for people such as Baudelaire, Wilde, Hemmingway, and Picasso lay more with the methodical preparation required before the drink was consumed (the author compares the process to the ritual involved with a heroin addict and their paraphernalia), and perhaps to lend some kind of dignity to their alcoholism (with Baudelaire and his associates, at least).

Wormwood, the main ingredient in absinthe, is closely examined and one of it's components, thujone, is identified as having similar effects as marijuana - but only if consumed in vast quantities (interestingly, it is classified as a convulsive poison and an overdose results in fits and spasms, and even death). The level of thujone in absinthe was no greater than that found in most other liquers (although this level is now restricted by law). Of course, 19th century science and medicine was nowhere as advanced as it is today and many leading figures in these fields at the time formed their opinions of the Green Fairy on hear'say and experiments of a dubious nature (It has since been proven that the quantity of thujone in absinthe is so miniscule that alcohol poisoning would occur long before a person could ingest enough absinthe for the chemical to have any effect).

In the end, however, it wasn't absinthe's fabled hallucenogenic qualities that resulted in its downfall; it became the scapegoat for many other - unconnected - problems. Politicians in France blamed it for a variety of the country's many social ills of the time, backed by leading figures in the wine industry who saw absinthe as a major threat to their business. The flawed opinions of leading medical professionals at the time also contributed greatly, naming absinthe as the main 'cause' of alcoholism (whilst prescribing wine as a remedy for the condition).

By the end of World War I, absinthe had become illegal in every European country except Spain. Production fell into the hands of bootleggers, many of whom distilled the drink to supplement meagre incomes so that they could provide for their families. And so it remained for almost 80 years until the ban was repealed. Now, thanks to modern science setting the record straight and improved production methods, it is once again possible, in Europe at least, to sample the delights of this romanticised, and often misunderstood, drink.

If you haven't checked out this book already, I thoroughly recommend that you do (if you hadn't guessed that already). In the meantime, take the time to look at www.wormwoodsociety.org for more information on this opalescent tincture.