Seven days and one week

A round-up of the week's major news stories as seen through the eyes of an inattentive, misinformed moron.

WAKE UP MAGGIE I THINK I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY TO YOU

First up we had recreational grief and now we have recreational rage. It can be defined as follows; the need to prove that you and you alone are the most angry out of all the world's social networkers. As soon as the news broke the competition began. The Iron Lady had barely breathed her last before the internet was awash with thousands of less than favourable epitaphs. She was a cunt of a woman, of that there is no doubt. But what struck me was the demographic of those revelling in her passing. People that weren't born until long after her reign of terror had ended. People who grew up in parts of the world largely unaffected by Maggie's iron fist. And yet, to them, this was one of the greatest days of all time!

Isn't it a bit crass to celebrate the death of anyone other than the most wicked of beings? Were it Ian Huntley or Peter Sutcliffe who had kicked the bucket I could fully understand the joyous reaction - but a politician? Again I don't wish to make light of her actions, she deprived me of my school milk after all, but surely the time for partying was when she was removed from power? By exulting in her passing and regaling in her demise all we are doing is giving further credence to an era best consigned to history. She's probably loving it you know, all those grimy proles drinking themselves stupid and causing public disturbances, it's what she would have wanted.

REST IN PEACE SAVITA

Is there anything so heart-wrenching as the death of a young person in the prime of their life? All of that hope and ambition wiped out leaving nothing but sorrow and loss. Those affected do all they can to carry on, to piece their lives together and make sense of it all. But in truth nothing will ever be the same again. The Savita Halappanavar case will likely change the face of Irish legislation for years to come but is this inquest really necessary? Her family's need for answers and their desire to take it to the courts is wholly understandable. But perhaps those on the other side of the argument could have saved Satvita's grieving relatives yet more heartache.

A simple admission of guilt, that's all it would take. No more interviews with her solemn-faced widower, no more tawdry headlines detailing the events of her final hours and no more pictures of a smiling Savita in happier times. Because someone was at fault in her death. Whomever he, she or they were is yet to be disclosed. But when the inevitable happens, and an ashen faced member of University Hospital Galway is held accountable for their actions, the end result will be yet more salacious news reports and finite details of this never ending case. All of this could be avoided if only someone had the courage to put a stop to it, if someone had the courage to admit fault in their actions and spare the Halappanavars one more moment of this harrowing ordeal. Sativa's name is already ingrained in our history so let's give the family a break eh?

IRELAND: A LOVELY PLACE TO BE A CHILD

And sure why wouldn't it be? The little fuckers have everything they want nowadays. Oh I tell thee back in my day it weren't like this, oh no. So anyway, according to UNICEF, Ireland is the tenth best place to be a little 'un these days. Who knows how they come up with this shit? But according to the boffins it comes down to a few simple things; food in your belly, fags in your mouth and babies in your tummy. More of the latter and less of the two former that's what we're after and it seems Ireland scores well on all accounts. Our children are now fat little fuckers who neither smoke nor have sex. Sounds a bit boring to me but they're happy and that's the main thing.

The survey goes onto say that one in three Irish kids exercise for at least one hour per day. Well fuckin congratulations! Fair played to ye lads! Dragged yourself away from the cakes and Ipods for an hour? Praise the Lord. Even more astonishingly Ireland scored first in this particular discipline. What the fuck are children in other countries doing? Not much by the sounds of things. And the worst thing of all is that this exercise is probably carried out in some supervised area, an astro-turf pitch, an indoor arena or wherever. Not for this lot the epic games of football which started after your dinner and carried on until either the street lights broke or our mothers came a-calling.

'OLE MAN TROUBLE

Steve Collins is feted as one of Ireland's great boxers, his exploits in the mid-nineties have earned him legendary status and his victories over Chris Eubank will never be forgotten. That The Celtic Warrior fought both Eubank and Nigel Benn when both were past their prime is however, rarely considered, and his decision to retire rather than fight the up and coming Joe Calzaghe further tarnishes his legacy. But, for many Irish people, he is something of a folk hero. So his decision to return to action at the grand old age of 48 is mystifying to say the least. What can he possibly hope to achieve?

If you ask him that question he will tell you he wishes to right some wrongs, to fight the man who dodged him during his previous iteration as a middleweight firebrand. The man in question is Roy Jones Jr, the greatest boxer of the 1990s and one of the sport's most skilled combatants. RJJ, unlike Collins, hasn't even bothered to retire. Despite being the wrong side of forty himself he has continued to fight and has subsequently smeared his own legacy with ugly defeats to fighters not fit to lace his gloves. I stopped watching Jones Jr fight a long time ago, preferring to remember him in his pomp when he was without peer in the sport. But I do hope he beats Collins, firstly because I never bought into the whole Celtic Warrior shtick and secondly because it might knock some sense into the clearly deranged Irishman.

READY OR NOT HERE I COME

And here was me thinking that Osama Bin Laden was the hide and seek champion of the world. He's got nothing on this fella. Twenty-seven years, that's how long Christopher Knight spent living in isolation. For reasons as yet unknown he took himself away from humanity at the tender age of nineteen and there he stayed until his recent arrest by Maine police. His crime? Stealing food. Well what else was he supposed to do? He's a hermit for fuck sake. Rather brilliantly Chris hadn't spoken to another living soul for at least twenty years, preferring to while away his time listening to rock music on his rickety old radio. There was times in my teens when I'd disappear to my room to listen to some angst-ridden rock but I had nothing on Christopher.

The question now is what will become of Mr Knight. Will he return to the woods and carry on his simple existence or, more likely, will he be forced to re-integrate by do-gooding locals eager to see him right. Imagine leaving the world as you know it in 1986 and returning in the present day. Liverpool won the League and Cup double that year, and look at them now! Christopher could probably head into the woods for another twenty-seven years and they still won't have recaptured those glory days. Whatever he ends up doing it is unlikely that anyone will ever break his hide and seek record and for that alone he should be applauded to the rafters.

WHAT WOULD SHE KNOW

Sometimes I overdose on news by listening to the radio and watching 24 hour news stations at the same time. It's not an easy feat, the tones of the radio broadcast permeate your brain and override the message portrayed by the images coming from the TV. This week, during one such news binge, I found myself watching Michelle Obama addressing a hollering and whooping crowd (at least I think they were). The rules of news binging state that you must mute the radio should an interesting piece present itself on the TV, they also state that you must never attempt to form an opinion based on images without sound.

But when I saw Michelle's impassioned speech I obeyed neither rule. My first thought was “What the fuck does she know”? Swiftly followed by “thinks she's another Hilary Clinton does she”? I admit to being only vaguely aware of Mrs Obama's skillset, a lawyer if I recall correctly. But this hasn't stopped me forming several spurious opinions on her merits as a public speaker and the motives behind this feckless act. Thus far I accused of her 'riding on her husband's coat-tails' in an attempt to become the first female and first black female American president all in one go, using her position to lead a group of finger-wagging sistas into war with North Korea and ousting Oprah from her number one talk-show host slot simply by fluttering her eyelashes at TV execs.

And I still don't know what her the subject of her speech was. 

Bananas in Pyjamas

You're not going out in that young lady!!


Is there anything so blissful as a good sleep? You snuggle under the duvet, revert to the foetal position and attempt to bury yourself in a wonderful world of warmth and wellbeing. Before long you’re in a land far, far away and the only signs of life are the contented grunts and snorts of a person taking full advantage of one of the finest pursuits available to mankind. However this picture of tranquillity is eventually broken up the by the invasive sounds of another day stirring into action and with it you awake from your slumber feeling refreshed and ready for what the day may bring. Once you’ve extracted your face from the pillow and casually wiped the drool from the corners of your mouth you contemplate the day ahead before arising to a cacophony of yawns, groans and creaking bones. You check the post and make a quick visit to the lavatory before heading out into the world at large. Just another day right? Except you’ve forgotten one major part of the natural, or at least what used to be the natural, daily routine. Some bloody clothes perhaps, you fuckin slob!

The decision by those at the Damastown Social Welfare Office in Dublin to ban the wearing of pyjamas by those attending interviews was met with much mirth across the country. Most welcomed the ruling but as ever there was a rumbling undercurrent of discord. Those opposing the decision claimed that it effectively labelled the unemployed as unkempt layabouts and was ignorant to the plight of single mothers around the country. But in truth there couldn’t possibly be any viable argument in opposition to the ruling. Pyjamas are for sleeping in and that’s all there is to it. You wouldn’t turn up to your place of work wearing your jim jams (unless you worked as a bed tester in a furniture store obviously) so why should you be allowed to attend an interview designed to help you attain work in such inappropriate attire. But aside from the issue regarding the association of the unemployed with the inability to dress themselves of a morning and all the negative connotations that brings there is a wider topic highlighted by this story.

The gradual ‘dressing down’ of society has arguably reached its nadir in recent years. Ladies dressed in the aforementioned nightwear flanked by gents head to toe in Umbro has become the norm and visitors to our country must marvel at all the dedicated women rising from their sickbeds to escort their sporting partners home after a straining session at the gym. Indeed upon speaking to a newcomer to our shores she was under the impression that some type of ‘sports day’ was in effect on her first day in the country. When she noted that tracksuits were still the de rigueur an entire week later she wondered just why Ireland performed with such consistent despair at the Olympics every four years. Eventually someone informed her that the Irish weren’t sports fanatics like she had previously thought, we just like being comfy.

It was the increasingly popularity of sportswear that summoned the change in how we dress. Previously the sole preserve of football hooligans who championed the ‘casual’ look the tracksuit eventually found its way into the public at large and with it consigned entire stockpiles of trousers to the deathly depths of our wardrobes. But rather than adopt the stylish Fila, Elesse or Sergio Tacchini labels worn by those fisticuff loving ne’er do wells the public went with the most garish and tasteless shell suits imaginable.“This is nice”, we thought to ourselves as we marvelled at the extra room with which to manoeuvre. No more endless adjusting of uncomfortable corduroys for us as we revelled in this new airy existence. That we looked like techni-colour hobos was of little concern to any.

But how did we allow ourselves to become such scruffs? I occasionally wear the odd tracksuit or hoody myself so I’m not going to attempt to condemn all those who wear such attire. But unlike some people I have modicum of self respect and will usually take into account the fact that other living beings are likely to see me before heading into the public domain dressed like an unused substitute at Lansdowne Road. I know I may be in the minority but for the most part these kind of clothes should only be worn when working up a sweat during any manner of physical exertion or perversely when slobbing around the house doing very little. Tracksuits and hoodies are one thing, they may be the least stylish items of clothing known to man but at least they’re intended for outdoor wear. Pyjamas on the other hand.  

Like the death of JFK or the World Trade Centre attacks we all remember where we were the first time we saw someone wearing pyjamas in public. I was in Aldi (where else?), circa 2009, sometime in the early evening.  The steady stream of shoppers looking for quick and easy dinner items was starting to die down when I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. At first I thought it was a pair of clowns looking to stock up on cream cakes before their shift at the circus. But despite sporting quite scary face paint these two appeared to be just normal citizens going about their shopping like everybody else. Were they escapees from the local asylum? I didn’t think they’d allow such brightly coloured nightwear in the nuthouse. Purely for the interests of research I moved a little closer with the innocent intention of perhaps hearing a snippet of their conversation. But despite my misgivings there was not one story about how they’d evaded their white coated nemeses or how itchy their heads were after that wretched frontal lobotomy. Just the usual high pitched nonsense that most young women spout and something which I have in time learned to tune out to within seconds.

As they paid for their goods and headed out into the quickly darkening evening I felt my entire faith in humanity begin to crumble. Had I really just seen two relatively sane inhabitants of Planet Earth walk into a convenience store wearing their pyjamas? Maybe I was the one going mad and this was just the start. My mind buzzed at the prospect of seeing women bedecked in increasingly sexy forms of lady nightwear. But if I was going mad then so was everyone else because upon recounting my tale to my friends and family it seemed that they too had fallen foul to those who just couldn’t wait to get ready for bed. This was incredibly confusing. When did they put on their pyjamas? Once they’d gotten home from school in anticipation of bedtime? Just before going out as some sort of skewed fashion statement? Or did they just never take them off at all? Did this mean that it was okay for me to go to Aldi wearing nothing but a pair of rather snug boxers and an old United jersey from the mid nineties? If that was the case then bring it on!.

But no, it emerged that this phenomenon only applied to those of the fairer sex and us blokes would have to make do with our boring, regular clothes when out and about. And as with most things once the initial shock had worn off we rarely batted an eyelid when encountering groups of girls apparently on their way to a slumber party at three o’clock in the afternoon. Just like we’d grown used to, and accepted, the wearing of sportswear by the most unsporty so we took this new curiosity in our stride. We couldn’t help but marvel at how these people didn’t contract frostbite during the Irish winters though. The fuckers most likely had hot water bottles stowed away under their jammy tops! As ever the continual ability of the Irish to say “Ah sure leave em alone they’re not doing anyone any harm” (usually uttered in the defence of a group of young psychopaths burning a cat to death) had won through and this new breed of casuals went about their business unhindered, and obscenely comfortable.

That was until the aforementioned case in the Social Welfare Office of Damastown. Finally some sanity has been restored. Finally someone has stopped for a second and though “Hold on now this isn’t fuckin right”! Finally Ireland is gaining a collective set of bollocks and making a stand. This is the first step towards a new Ireland, an Ireland we can be proud of. Now that these urchins can no longer sign on wearing their nightly best maybe we can drag ourselves out of this seemingly unending stream of shit that we find ourselves in! Okay I’m most likely getting a tad carried away there and the likelihood is that visitors to Damastown will just wear long overcoats concealing their guilty pj’s, but still it’s a start. The next obvious step is to outlaw the tucking in of tracksuit pants into socks, usually white, in the manner of a latter day BA Baracus. Then perhaps we could reintroduce the wearing of braces, shoe cleaners on street corners, pocket watches, monocles, top hats, those little fluffy things which you see in.......

Without wishing to sound like someone at least 50 years my senior (which I’m told I’m prone to do) I can’t help but feel that some sections of Irish society could do with taking a look in the mirror and asking themselves could they do better. Again I’m eager to stress that I am no fashionista and there’s certainly days when some soul searching of my own could be done. But I’ve honestly lost count of the amount of times I’ve walked down a street and thought to myself “Will I give this homeless fella some spare change” before noting that he was only waiting outside a shop for his mates to come out. The advances that mankind has made over the last 100 years are incredible and there’s very little we have to be envious of when looking back at our ancestors. However if you are lucky enough to possess grainy old photos of your great grandparents, or even further back, then take a look at how they’re dressed. Chances are the men in question are standing to order in nice, trim suits befitting the occasion. And the women? I dread to even think what the consequences of getting your picture taken in your pyjamas would have been in those days.

Aware?

Depression in modern day Ireland...

If you were to roam the streets of any major city throughout the world and ask the locals to sum up the Irish in a few, short sentences the chances are that terms like jolly, friendly, laidback and fun would  surface on numerous occasions. Inevitably less flattering adjectives such as ginger, drunken and imbeciles would also be used but hey nobody’s perfect. All in all the general consensus would be that we’re a quite likeable bunch the presence of whom would be sure to enliven even the most sedate of evenings. The accuracy of this stereotypical view is up for debate but like it or not that’s how we’re generally viewed by those on the continent. Much in the same way that Americans are viewed as brash ignoramuses, Italians as gesticulating Mother’s boys and Germans as humourless prudes so those of an Irish persuasion are seen as the merry buffoons of the world.  But just as our perceptions of other nationalities are generally far wide of the mark so the depiction of the average Irish person as a beer swilling, life and soul of the party type is, for the most part, wildly inaccurate.

One of the great intangibles of Irish culture is the omnipresent air of melancholy which resides all around us. Perhaps a remnant of the Saints and Scholars (or more likely the years of hardship and poverty brought about by our eventful history) this sense of barely concealed misery permeates Irish life at every turn and is much a part of us as Guinness, potatoes and the Ole, Ole chant. But not being the type to complain we take a deep breath, put the head down and just get on with things. For better or for worse this was the way of things for many a year and while the country made huge steps economically and socially there was still one great taboo in Irish life which went unspoken. I’m talking about the word which up until a couple of years you wouldn’t dare utter in public for fear of being openly mocked and derided and told to ‘get over yourself’. I’m talking about the Big D. Depression.

In some ways it almost feels like mental illness is a relatively new phenomenon in this country. We’ve now become accustomed to being continually buffeted with adverts advising us to look out for tell tale signs among friends and family and numbers to call should we be concerned about those we love. But for many years this simply wasn’t the case and those who suffered did so in silence. The notion of being open about succumbing to depression simply wasn’t plausible and if you feared negative connotations then you were most probably justified in doing so. For those who struggled for a voice within an archaic society the current explosion of ‘depression awareness’ must be bittersweet. Better late than never you might say but there is a certain irony in the fact that it took the fall of the Celtic Tiger and all that came with it to bring about this new found sympathy for those in suffering.

What can’t be denied is that more and more people in this country are presenting the classic symptoms of mental illness and requiring the help needed to overcome their difficulties.  A nation which rode high upon the wave of the nineties and early noughties has come crashing down to earth and for many the fall out has been simply too much to take. Are we the victims of our own greed? It may seem like a harsh thing to say but for those people whose illness stems from horrific childhoods, traumatic ordeals or being unfortunate enough to inherit depressive tendencies from their parents the idea of having all your cares washed away by the easing of financial woes is incomprehensible. I am not for one second suggesting that the woes of those most affected by the recession are in any way less serious than that of a person struggling to come to terms with the events of a harrowing childhood but I can’t help but wonder how quickly the focus would move to another topic should the country find itself flourishing economically once more.

 On a more positive note the offshoot of this heightened awareness is that the shame and stigma once experienced by those who suffer from depression has lessened somewhat as we as a nation have become better educated about what it is to be suffering from any form of mental illness. More and more people in the public eye have come out and spoken openly about their battles and no longer should anyone feel afraid to discuss their innermost fears with friends and family.  All of this is incredibly positive and we can only hope and pray that our country is putting a system in place which will be able to offer the kind of specialised support required by those afflicted. Traditionally most vulnerable the twentysomething male is still considered the most likely to suffer from forms of mental illness and paradoxically the most unlikely to seek help but even they must feel that they are not as isolated as they had once imagined. But as is so often the case in modern society there is a danger that we might be going too far and in the process harm those who we wish to protect.

As someone who has firsthand experience of this terrible disease, and that’s exactly what it is, a disease, I tend to notice any mention of it in the media and have found myself somewhat bemused by the sheer proliferation of features on this topic over the last couple of years. From a position where sufferers welcomed the exposure which mental illnesses were receiving it now appears that we have gone from one extreme to the other. Is it actually possible to go an entire day without hearing at least one news item relating to depression in Ireland today? I fully appreciate the need to inform those in need of the options available to them but I can’t help feeling that we are in serious danger of overkill. How long will it be before we begin to mirror the situation in other Western countries where even the slightest downturn in fortunes sees people scurry to the doctor for help when all that’s required is some patience and resolve.

Allied to the danger of convincing every second person that they may indeed be suffering from depression is the far more sinister threat of haunting those genuinely afflicted by the disease. Attempting to piece your life together once you’ve been diagnosed with clinical depression, or any other form of mental illness, is a particularly hard process and a battle that can span the entirety of a person’s life. In a scenario like this the sufferer may be glad of those all too precious times when they can simply forget about their troubles and live their life in much the same way as anyone else. But when the media insist on filling each and every outlet with reminders of this terrible disease it must sometimes feel like there’s no escape for those who are affected most deeply. Nobody is saying that these issues should not be highlighted by those charged with providing our daily news but when it gets to the stage where it feels like stories, features and adverts are just being shoehorned into the news because it’s the current hot topic then we have a problem.

While it may feel like the tone of this article is a negative one it is in actual fact more cautionary. Now that we have, belatedly, addressed the issue of depression in Ireland the challenge is to move forward and not repeat the mistakes made in other countries. Chief among those mistakes is the quick fire prescription of anti-depressants as a means of treating those with deep rooted issues or worse still prescribing them to those who did not require medication at all. By learning from these errors and ploughing our own furrow we may in time be able to boast a system which deals efficiently and sensitively with those who suffer. But no matter how much professional help may or may not be currently available to sufferers one thing which each and every person dealing with this illness needs is a strong circle of people around them. The role of family and friends in the life of a person dealing with depression can never be understated. Because ultimately it is they, not any of the health service executives or earnest politicians, who will be the ones to provide the sort of comfort and reassurance that not even a million awareness campaigns could hope to reproduce.

Memoirs of a Misspent Childhood

Part 3: Over the Hills and Far Away

'C'mon lads I'm sick of hanging round here all day let's go off up the fields or something'! And so another adventure in the lives of your average group of pre pubescent boys circa 1990 begins. Before sex offenders lurked around every corner and daily traffic amounted to a handful of cars children roamed the country with abandon. After school you were expected home for your dinner but once you'd grimaced your way through the bacon and cabbage the evening was yours. But this was nothing compared to the joy of school holidays and in particular summer holidays. Eight weeks of the type of exploration and adventuring that the likes of Bear Grylls could only dream of, and even though you never strayed far enough to cause alarm at times it felt like the world was your oyster and in a way it kinda was.

Upon awaking to a beautifully sunny morning you bolted down your Rice Krispies, whilst reading the back of the cereal box for the millionth time, and headed out onto the estate to see who was around. The fact that it was only nine thirty in the morning mattered not as already a small smattering of children had begun to gather in various pockets of this most hostile environ. Like the plains of the Serengeti differing species steer well clear of each other for fear of conflict with young toddlers eyeing the slightly older kids with all the mistrust of a prey that feared imminent attack from a hunter. But negotiating this wildlife scene was second nature to a world weary eleven year old and having done so you took station amongst your brethren to discuss what the day would bring.

The usual suggestions of a game of football, some random vandalisation or goading the local pet life into fighting each other are brushed aside wearily as the need for something new and exciting is required to enliven this promising Summer's morning. It's then that someone pipes up with the suggestion of an excursion of sorts, a sortie into foreign lands perhaps? Some immediately attempt to shout down this idea knowing full well that leaving the confines of the estate is not something readily agreed upon by their parental units. However all of those with an alcoholic father and a mother too depressed to care about the well being of her children commit themselves to the jaunt with abandon. Others nervously scurry inside to plead permission to go on this covert mission in the hope that their beloved will buy the story about 'just going over the road to play football and I'll be back in an hour, promise!!'. Once the weaklings have been weeded out and those that have chosen to oppose the wishes of those in command have joined the fray it's time for the journey to begin, already the excitement is palpable.

As this merry tribe of miscreants set off into the mid morning sun the possibilities are endless. The horizon consists of nothing but greenery and those of an ambitious dent ponder what it would be like to gallop through that faraway field which on this day seems only a stroll away. But the first priority must be to escape the prying eyes of those likely to act as informant should any of the days activities be the kind that are likely to frowned upon. So having stocked up on a suitable amount of Mr. Freezes and leaving humanity as we know it behind the tomfoolery can commence. In this heightened state of liberation anything and everything are fair game and it's not long before derelict houses are being giddily trashed, rusty bicycles are being lobbed into rivers and those unfortunate enough to be driving on this road on this day are met with the sight of half a dozen pale derrieres. A dog has also attached himself to the group of intrepid travellers and having being christened 'Pajo' he is now as much a part of the team as another.

The frivolity of reigning terror on these deserted terrains is quickly realised however and it's not long before greater challenges are sought out. Thankfully something interesting is always only just around the corner and like River Phoenix and his companions the mother lode for this group comes in the form of a carcass. Although the object in question turns out to be only a cat, or perhaps a fox it's kind of hard to tell, it's no less dramatic a find. They gather round with a mixture of fascination and disgust as the bravest amongst them pokes the deceased with a stick revealing gaping sores and puss ridden wounds sending the hitherto brave warriors scattering like a group of terrified hyenas. Once composure has been regained those who fled quickest mollify themselves with claims that 'they only ran because you ran' or 'I thought it was still alive', but they know the truth and more importantly the others know the truth aswell, they bottled it and in the process failed the first test of the day. Redemption is soon at hand however as what at first just appeared to be an innocuous barn reveals itself to be housing golden barrels of joy. A cursory check to ensure there isn't an irate farmer skulking on the premises is undergone before bodies are flailing through the air with glee and abandon as this all too rare treat is savoured to the fullest. The once neatly assembled hay bales now resemble the remnants of a two year old's lego

The first incandescent roar brings proceedings to an abrupt halt as the straw strewn scamps stare at each other in stricken fear. The sight of the red faced bellowing beast and his instructions to 'Get outta there ye little bastards' is all the encouragement they need however as adrenaline overrides the fear resulting in several land speed records being broken by all in sundry. The chase is now on but this isn't like the chases of before where the pursuer is known to them and the worst that could happen is a kick up the arse or a clip round the ear. This farmer is an unknown quantity and as far as the fleeing mob are concerned is capable of anything up to murder and beyond. The desire for freedom is gauged by the lengths taken to aid escape, some leap unabashed over ditches and gates into territories unknown whilst others plaintively cry 'Will we stop lads he won't say anything to us'. Stopping is clearly not an option as in the background their pursuer has taken the quite unfair step of manning his jeep and continuing the chase by road. Any thoughts of unity and togetherness are dismissed by this sight and inevitably it's the weak and slow who are left behind to become the sacrificial lambs.

Watching the scene unfold from behind the relative safety of the nearby foliage it at first appears that our boys are going to take a hell of a beating. But other than a good shaking and a warning that future transgressions will be met with fire and brimstone they appear to get off unscathed. As the ashen faced quarry is let free into the wild the farmer departs with one last calling shot 'And the rest of ye can just consider yeerselves lucky I didn't catch ye aswell'. Yeah right they say to themselves, we're far too cunning and clever for the likes of that fucker, he never stood a chance. Once the coast is clear the group reconvenes and the war stories commence. The escapees slap each other on the back and seek praise for their fleet footed feats whilst those who faced the full blooded wrath of Khan take solace in the fact that they faced the devil himself and lived to tell the tale. It's decreed that perhaps enough excitement has been had for one day and the road home stretches out ahead, the thought lost forever Pajo suddenly emerges from amidst a corn field to great whoops and cheers and the drama of before is at once forgotten.

Before returning to face the music a detour to the swing, their swing, is in order, what better way to wind down and relax than a hour or two spent lazily drifting through the sky. Having risked life and limb to create this swing there is a justifiable pride in it and any opportunity to sample it's delights is a cause for excitement. Offering a death defying journey over a hill top surely born for just that purpose and a view of the vicious river beneath as you did so it rivalled anything DisneyWorld had to offer and was the best swing in the country as far as they were concerned. With claims and counterclaims as to who'll go first ringing through the air they approach their swing with reckless disregard and for the second time that day are left stunned and aghast by the presence of interlopers. There on 'their' swing are a group of heathens desecrating the very thing which they toiled over for hours on end and doing so in a manner that was likely to render it beyond repair before long. A feeling of dizzy nausea descends upon the group, a feeling which would only be matched by seeing future girlfriends ride into the distance on the back of motorbikes belonging to bearded buffoons with access to alcohol. A quick headcount reveals them to be not only outnumbered but also outranked as the rival group clearly hold the upper hand given their longer years. Defeat is inevitable and all that remains is to decide the manner of it. Discretion becomes the better part of valour as the lads meekly turn on their heels and walk away with lumps in their throats and insults in their ears. The memories of creating and manning that beautiful swing quickly forgotten as it becomes tarnished for evermore in their sundered hearts.

The day is now unquestionably over and as home springs into view the first voyagers return to base. Goodbyes are summarily dished out with no arrangements for later or tomorrow required. Mothers greet them at the door with 'Where the fuck have you been?' and not surprisingly the response of 'Out' is insufficient to prevent the cursory blows which hurt about as much as the threats to withhold pocket money. What do I need pocket money for it's the Summer Holidays you silly woman. As you retire early for the night you think of your mates and how you'll always be friends, unaware that those seemingly unbreakable ties will be severed by the emergence of the shapely young harlot in number 53. Little do you know it at the time but in a way this is as good as life will get and as free and happy as you'll ever be. Not for this young mind the stresses and worries of the adult world, as he drifts into sleep his only concern is whether the boys will be up for another jaunt tomorrow.

Summer Time and the living is easy

And it burns, burns, buurns...

It begins with snippets of gossip which are summarily dismissed, you overhear excited murmurings in the post office “......giving it lovely for tomorrow......” and receive texts with tentative plans for outdoor activities but still you refuse to believe. This so called 'heatwave', ie anything upwards of 17 degrees Celsius, is most likely just an elaborate hoax started by an ice cream van man tired of playing his jingle to a series of empty avenues. Despite your best intentions you chance upon a weather report that evening and it appears Jean Byrne is in on this whole ruse as she cheerily informs us to get the suncream out and avoid UV Rays between the hours of 10 and 4. The first quiver of excitement coarses through your veins and you curse yourself for being so foolish. Better to just banish all hopeful thoughts from your mind you think as you retire for the night certain that upon waking you will be met with the usual drab dismal morning you've become accustomed to.

Irish people are built not physically nor mentally for warm weather climes. A skin tone best described as being slightly south of pale and a approach to life which rests somewhere between sombre resignation and joyless melancholy means that a climate of intermittent rain and drab grey skies suits us just fine. Our relationship with our weather is one built upon trust, it remains thoroughly predictable and in return we don't complain too much about it. Those that aren't happy about it can sod off to another country and deal with hurricanes, tsunamis and the like, everybody else is content to moan incessantly and occasionally threaten to 'head off to the sun'. But for all our acceptance of endlessly overcast days turning into weeks and months we all secretly yearn for guaranteed balmy summers and each and every year without fail we get our hopes up only for them to be dashed time and time again.

So when all of this is taken into account is it any wonder the entire country goes stir crazy at the first sight of that giant behemoth in the sky? Ancient folklore tells of men driven wild by the sight of a full moon but nowhere in the history books does it mention the crazed antics of the Irish once the rarely spotted Sun comes out to play. We take to the streets like stupefied zombies, unsure as to what to do but knowing that we have to be there, attired in all manner of clothing depending on how prepared we were for this momentous time. Straight away you can see those that have been somewhat prepared and those that haven't. You have the types that lie in wait for the summer like stealth ninjas who are dressed like something straight off Bondi Beach determined to not only blister in the heat but look good whilst doing so. Then there's the ones who are moderately equipped and manage to rifle through their wardrobes producing an ensemble that although not exactly 'chic' is passable enough under the circumstances. Then there's everybody else.

Like the result of a fashion parade for the mentally unwell many Irish bask in the heat with little or no self awareness and in some cases little or no items of clothing. You have your stereotypical young white males wearing nothing but a pair of GAA shorts and a well worn pair of Reebok classics, this character will generally only be spotted on the first day of nice weather as he will spend at least a fortnight tending to excruciating wounds caused by first degree burns. Then there's the mix and match brigade, totally taken aback by this sudden increase in temperature they get into a mindless panic throwing on whatever items of clothing they can find before rushing out into the sun without so much as a glance in the mirror. I can only presume that they don't take the time to peruse their appearance before heading out as some of the ensembles witnessed can only be worn by those short of sight or indeed completely blind. Bermuda shorts coupled with tshirts urging you to be part of 'Jackie's army' are casually draped on to bodies which haven't seen the light of day since a sweaty coalescence on Christmas Night. Sunglasses ordinarily worn by pop stars in some futile attempt at irony are brandished without shame and Fedora hats are jauntily perched atop the heads of those that should really know better.

Accompanying this carnival of insanity is of course the ubiquitous 'drink'. Beer gardens which had hitherto played host to nothing but hardy smokers are now bristling cauldrons of drunken reverie as afternoon beverages turn into days on the lash, all fuelled by the blazing sun. But this self contained environment is just the tip of the iceberg, all around the country local parks, fields, avenues, estates, beaches and open spaces of any shape, size or form are awash with topless youths (and some not so youthful) hosting impromptu outdoor shindigs with not a care in the world. Music is provided by whatever means necessary and for once the neighbours aren't compelled to bring complaint such is the feeling of togetherness brought about by the tropical temperature. Untold criminal offences are committed in broad daylight but passing police officers choose to look kindly upon the young ne'er do wells seeing as it's 'a nice day and all'. Fights break out, vomit is spewed, cherries are popped, tears are shed and everyone has splendid fun until it's time to limp home for a night of restless writhing beneath blankets that are far too warm under the circumstances.

avengeance.

Suddenly you can't move for whinging people. Not just the elderly and the goths either, everybody is complaining about the heat and how they can't cope with it anymore. The bonhomie of the previous few days is forgotten as we seek solace by any means possible, grown men hold ridiculous miniature fans to their faces and any outdoor space offering a modicum of shade is snapped up vigorously. We're now content to enjoy the sun but only from afar thank you very much. The government issuing warnings over reservoir levels is the final straw for some, they now have a justified reason to want that odious ball of fire to scuttle off to wherever it came from and aren't afraid to voice their concerns. It doesn't take long before we become a nation on red alert. Scenes of scorched earth with nothing but dying crops are aired on the news as a tearful farmer lambasts the Gods and their cursed weather. Supermarkets tell of record spring water sales as waterworks become increasingly unpredictable in households all around the country not helping the already less than fragrant ambience of many abodes. Where will it end we think, damn you global warming and your devious ways we never asked for this!!

Then just as quickly as it arrived it's gone. You wake up one morning and instead of pitter pattering around the house in a state of undress you notice a slight chill in the air and rush to put on a tshirt. You look out the window and there's these strange yet slightly familiar fluffy objects in the sky obstructing the source of all this commotion just like they're supposed to. You reach into a sock drawer that hasn't seen the light of day for aeons and pull on a lovely woolen pair with relish as your flip flops lie neglected in the corner. It's all over, we've had our fun now things can return to normality. We had a lovely time we really did and look at how brown we all are, I did get roasted at first but sure it was worth it in the end. That was some session we had that Friday, great craic, can't beat slugging a few flagons on a sunny afternoon, ah the memories. Wouldn't want it to get that hot again though, feckin scorching it was how did we manage at all. Thank God for the nice predictable Irish weather and it's cuddly little clouds and cooling minor showers, we wouldn't change it for the world.

A week or so passes, it's the middle of August and the weather is typically Irish, grey, occasionally warm but thoroughly depressing. As you enter your local post office you hear someone speaking to the teller “This weather is a bloody joke isn't it, are we going to get a summer at all this year”.

Diary of sobriety

A night out like no other....

It starts off pretty much the same as any other night on the town, as soon as the football's finished texts begin to roll in with suggestions of where and when to meet up, requests of a bed for the night should things not go according to plan, lists of who exactly might be coming out and all the other inane details that go towards making a Saturday night out on the piss the most eagerly anticipated time of the week for a certain section of Irish society. But even at this early stage something feels not quite right, you ponder what to eat safe in the knowledge that no matter what you ingest it will remain safely ensconced in your body with no harmful fluids accompanying it and forcing it to return from whence it came. But even this thought brings little or no comfort, wasn't eating a meal fit for a king, and in the process 'lining your stomach' for the battles ahead, part of the fun? You'd fill yourself to bursting and proclaim yourself ready and able for whatever the great breweries of this world could throw at you only to be left choking on your words and your dinner just five short hours later, this was of course until you became a seasoned drinker and scoffed at the thought of wasting not only the fine pre pub meal but also the tasty beverages that followed it.

Once the arrangements have been made and you've treated yourself to the most lavish of meals preparations can begin in earnest. You lovingly lay out your most coveted threads and after much internal debate give your oh so uncomfortable shoes a quick polish in readiness for a rare outing on their part, but even as you do this you find yourself thinking that in a few hours time you'll carefully remove these expensive items of clothing in a very particular manner rather than wake up in them as would once have been the case. You shower, shave and make yourself as presentable as humanely possible before considering whether a few 'going out tunes' are in order before you brave the elemental forces that surely lie ahead, on goes the kind of song that you can only wish they'd play in your local pub and one that never fails to get you in the mood, but after a half hearted shuffling dance around your living room you decide enough is enough, sulkily grab your coat and you're away out the door, your Saturday night has just begun.

As you march in the general direction of your favourite pub, already feeling inconspicuous amongst the early evening revellers, you ring ahead to get the lie of the land, “Well, whereabouts are ye?”, “We.......n........eo.......s”, “Wha, I can't hear ya”, “IN.......G...H......”, “Grand I'll see ye there”. Despite having no idea as to the whereabouts of your companions for the night you hastily hang up as the sounds of laughter, mirth and general joviality coming from the background are almost too much to bear for your tortured soul, you consider texting but think better of it as any response is likely to be as illegible as the conversation was cryptic. And anyway you know that your friends are only ever going to be in one of a handful of pubs so you decide to track them down reasoning that this will most probably be the most fun you'll have over the course of the night as you cheerily barge and buffet your way the throngs grimacing at the sheer joy of it all.

You finally spot the reprobates you have the fortune to class as friends and after greeting them all in the manner they deserve and finding a less than salubrious pedestal to perch yourself upon it's finally the moment you have been dreading all night. “You drinking tonight then Si?”, multiple responses flash through your mind, “I fuckin am boy and I'm gonna go nuts”, “Yep think I'll get a double Jack Daniels to start”, “You know what, I just think I might”, but no these are the responses of a past you, a younger more carefree you, tonight's response is “Nah man not tonight”. They expected this answer but you still feel like you're bearing the brunt of disapproving looks from all those that are present, you tell yourself that these are your friends and they would never judge you no matter if you never drank again but still the feeling of letting everyone down gnaws at you like a tapeworm gorging on your insides.

sniggers from the table behind, sneering looks from the patrons at the bar and a general air of pity as you patiently wait for the drink which you hope can be mistaken for Captain Morgans or any suchlike before scurrying back to the relative safety of your table. You've survived this time but only barely and you feel sick in your stomach as you realise things are only going to get harder as the night progresses.

But look on the bright side you tell yourself, you're amongst friends, everyone is happy and joie de vivre fills the air, it's a Saturday night for Christ's sake lighten up!! And yes this does work for a while, you sit and chat and have the kind of no holds barred enjoyment that you can only ever have with a group of your mates, but an hour or two passes and you notice a slight change in the cadence of the conversation. Suddenly you don't quite get the jokes or even worse don't even notice that there was a joke, people are doubled over with laughter as you sit there nonplussed as to what's going on and even the mate sitting beside you who at one point had been incisive and cutting in his wit has now begun to make less and less sense as he rambles on about something that you swore he told you just the other week. There is no point in denying it for any longer, the people around you are all now well on their way to intoxication and your feeling of being the pariah of the group has returned and this time it's intensified beyond comprehension. A cowardly man would at this point make his excuses and leave but you tell yourself that ,whether through a moral duty or otherwise, you will see this night out to the bitter end whilst inwardly groaning as the first set of Jagerbombs are presented to great joy and merriment around the table.

It's now a little after midnight and rather than being 'well on' and discussing with great passion which nightclub would be best to round off this quite splendid evening you are instead feeling a little tired and have decided to switch to Ballygowan due to the various minerals making your tongue feel a little furry. Once inside the meat market that is your local nightclub you can't help but notice just how different everything appears through a sober eye, provocatively dancing women bring to mind geriatric pensioners with a bad case of the trots rather than lustful thoughts and you daren't catch the eye of that group of rough looking lads over there for fear they'll come over in search of violence. You pause for a second wondering just what this strange feeling in your chest and stomach is and come to realise that it is fear, that's right you're scared, without the gentle caress of alcohol to desensitise you from the mayhem laid out before you you can now only fully realise just how manic everything appears. It's like travelling back to prehistoric times as man is witnessed in his most primitive modern day state, you imagine yourself viewing all this from afar as mating rituals are carried out, tests of strength abound and pack mentality rules throughout. Ladies that were a lesson in demurity just a few hours ago are now lasciviously pouting their lips whilst grinding scantily clad derrieres into whomever's to hand and lads that looked every inch the apple of their mother's eye as they set off for the night are now dangerously weaving their way around the dance floor as they attempt to create their very own version of Saturday night fever.

Eventually it becomes all too much to take as a feeling similar to that of a fully clothed man at one of Caligula's parties consumes you and a discreet but hasty exit is made without any thought of informing your friends lest you be dragged into the inevitably dramatic farewells. The scene on the street is even more terrifying than the one you've left behind but you'd readied yourself for this and a head down walk fast modus operandi is enough to see you home and into the safety of a place where the nasty neanderthals can no longer bother you. You smile to yourself whilst undressing and muse that all in all it was actually quite an enjoyable night and without even realising it you'd played your part in some new stories created for future telling, but as you lay on your pillow and drift into a restful sleep the main reason for your perma grin is the knowledge that upon awakening you shall be free of the pounding headaches and volatile stomachs which are likely to plague the rest of the participants in this Saturday night out in Ireland.

It's Just Not Cricket

 A chance for global success which cannot be ignored any longer...

As the Cricket World Cup looms ever closer, and the Irish as a nation pay it no heed whatsoever, ways of improving our chances of victory at a sport that the English so cherish must surely be at the forefront of many a mind. After a better than expected showing at the previous World Cup this years Irish team will no longer be viewed as a potential whipping boy and instead may hope to take on the mantle of 'dark horse', a title usually reserved for Eastern European teams in a World Cup of a very different nature. A quick glance through the squad listing reveals a smattering of South Africans, Australians and New Zealanders but also surprisingly shows a core base of seemingly home grown players with many playing county cricket across the water. For someone as completely uninitiated such as myself this comes as something as a revelation as I had hitherto believed the Irish team be a cricketing replica of Jack Charlton's famous footballing side from the late 80's/early 90's with most of the players being English born albeit with a tenuous connection to the Emerald Isle. Further investigation in fact reveals that some members of this Irish squad actually played for England in the last World Cup and that the star of Ireland's last campaign is now one of the shining lights of this year's competing English side! However the arcane intricacies of international cricket selection is of no concern to me, my only concern is ways of improving the chances of this Irish side and to me there seems to be a very simple solution to this admittedly seldom pondered conundrum.

We as a nation are rightly proud of our national sport and almost take a perverse pleasure in the fact that it is a sport that is rarely played outside of our shores, unless of course you count the endless scratch games played by homesick Irishmen on the beaches of Australia and the boroughs of America. I am of course talking about hurling, the self proclaimed 'fastest ballgame in the world', a sport with skills levels, physical bravery and levels of athleticism rarely seen in any other sport regardless of it's popularity. That hurling has never transcended to a level where worldwide participation could have been a realistic possibility owes more to it's utter 'Irishness' than any faults or flaws within the sport itself, I'm sure many a foreigner upon witnessing the game in all it's glory would have been moved to mutter something along the lines of 'crazy Irishmen' and vowed never to be coerced into actually picking up a hurley even to only engage in a gentle knockabout. Perhaps it's down to European sensibilities and a reluctance to partake in a game where many might view the hurl as not an instrument capable of producing moments of beauty but more so a weapon to be brandished at will should your fires be stoked, in fact if you were to find comparison in worldwide sport the closest thing to hurling would probably be ice hockey, a sport favoured by Scandinavians, Canadians and other nations where men continue to be men and don't take kindly to being told otherwise. Seeing as it looks unlikely that hurling, and it's skilled participants, will ever receive the audience they deserve through playing the game they love perhaps there's another way of letting the world know all about Henry Shefflin, Lar Corbett and all the other doyens of the game. 

I realise that to automatically assume that converting from one stick wielding, ball catching sport to another should be as seamless as a worn cricket ball is the practise of the foolhardy but I can't help wondering if, given the opportunity and correct training, our hurlers could make the transition and in the process lead the Irish side to global success in that most un Irish of games. Perhaps this year's World Cup has come too soon and even the most intense of accelerated crash courses in cricket couldn't ready the hurlers for facing the best Australia, India and the West Indies have to offer, but if we start now and put the wheels in motion for the Cricket World Cup in 2015 then victory on a global scale could easily be ours. There is the small matter of the ever covetous GAA intervening and preventing the hurlers from carousing off to foreign climes for what they would see as nothing more than a jamboree, but until they dig deep in their pockets and re numerate their players for their efforts they can have no grounds for complaint. I'm sure the various bosses and foremen of our the hurlers would have no qualms about letting their staff head off to do their country proud and anyway such would be the groundswell of support from an increasingly enthusiastic cricketing fraternity they would have no choice but to let them go for fear of being lynched.

As I said earlier I am aware of how foolhardy this idea is, even more so seeing as I've never even played hurling never mind cricket, but surely even the most casual of observers can see that so many elements that go into making a great hurler could be equally utilised in the more sedate game of cricket. A batsman in cricket takes to the field wearing enough padding and protection to survive a nuclear war as he faces up to the prospect of having an admittedly rock hard ball flung at him continually for potentially hours on end, obviously a huge amount of concentration and cojoneshurleys attempting to rearrange his features. With batsmen and fielding roles all fulfilled there is obviously one glaring problem with my argument, namely who would bowl? Although many handpasses can seem like throws to the naked eye hurling is a sport where although sleight of hand is encouraged throwing the ball is not, so how do we acquire bowlers for this new revolutionary Irish side? Well the answer lies within. 

Over the last ten years or so the populace of Ireland has changed in a manner which none of us saw coming, whereas at one time an English voice would have been considered exotic we're now in a situation where seeing an Irish face on your local high street is something of a novelty. But what of these new immigrants, how can they help us in the way we've undoubtedly helped them? I'm sure there's many ways they can help us ( yes I'm talking about you Polish women ) but in the context of this argument then the finger is quite squarely pointed at our new brethren from the lands of India, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, all of these nations have a quite strong cricketing pedigree and I'm sure amidst the many folk that have made Ireland their home there's surely at least a few hundred who brought some cricketing expertise along with them. I'm not suggesting an army style draft where we send menacing posters proclaiming 'Your Country Needs You' to their houses, but it's possible that these people quite miss playing their national game and would relish the opportunity to be part of a new potential cricketing revolution in their new home. Whether they wish to take on the role of coach, player, sporting director or merely advisor is purely up to them but if our new team is to learn the finer points of throwing a googly and other such peculiarities then we're going to need such expert assistance.

So now all that remains is to convince a few hundred people of the inspired nature of this idea and how it is our destiny to become the finest cricketing nation on earth. There will most likely be plenty of opposition to the idea from hurling fans worried by the prospect of losing some of our players to professional cricketing contracts but come on now, our hurlers have been reared on the thrust and counter thrust of the national game and any sortie into another sport will merely be an entertaining diversion, albeit a highly successful one, until the Championship begins again the next summer. In fact the chances are that the exposure given to the players during the Cricket World Cup will get people talking and wondering where these fine and supremely talented young men have come from. Day trippers from Japan will suddenly become commonplace at Kilkenny games and much in the same way as Manchester United fans have become disillusioned with their diluted support so the same will happen to the black and amber brigade, thankfully the fact that it's still all about who you know and not how much money you have when it comes to getting tickets for the big games will ensure that they find their ways into the right hands when it really matters. But it won't stop at daytripping fans either, in time some of the cricketers having seen the hi jinks that their Irish compatriots get up to during the summer months will pen letters of resignation to their local boards and arrive in their county of choice citing whatever ancestry it takes to get them into the panel for Sunday's big game. Now wouldn't that be the ultimate irony, Englishmen abandoning the most English of sports to play in a game so marred by their countrymen in times past.

Pitiful punditry points to pressing problems

...............just who will replace the doyens of the game when they hang up their mic's?

A recurring theme amongst the footballing media today is the concern about the lack of young talent coming through in the English game, journalists decry the dearth of homegrown players lining up for the top Premier league clubs on a weekly basis, and in the process fret about the knock on effect to their national team. Such is the level of disquiet through all avenues of association football, that Sepp Blatter and his wise cronies have implemented a new 25 man squad system which nobody really understands, but it's purpose appears to enforce and encourage managers to promote young players to the first team squad, in favour of splashing the cash on Eastern European misfits with a penchant for late night revelry and a dubious notion of what being 'loyal to the cause'entails. This is all well and good and I for one welcome this new ruling despite it's obvious flaws, but in my opinion there is a far more worrying issue affecting football today and it's one that can't be rectified by Blatter, Platini or any of the bigwigs in the halls of the governing bodies, forget about the young footballers for a second, of far more pressing concern is the gradual degradation in the quality of football punditry and this is an issue which will I believe will be much harder to resolve.

Now that football saturates our screens, airwaves, monitors and newspapers on an almost unrelenting basis it's become easier and easier to become an 'expert' on the game, no matter that your career consisted of a little less than one hundred top flight games at some mediocre clubs where you were the most mediocre of players (yes Jason Cundy I am talking about you) matters not, the only qualification you need to make it as pundit nowadays is to be besotted with the sound of your own voice and to spout opinions which contradict themselves almost before they've left your mouth. Of course characters like Cundy are only a minor source of irritation as they reside firmly in the Championship level of punditry, despite their continual striving for promotion to the big leagues alongside such luminaries like Andy Gray, Alan Hansen and our own quite inimitable Eamon Dunphy. The aforementioned trio are probably the most viewed exponents of this most dubious of talents, and with that airtime comes a presumed gravitas which is all too apparent in their lyrical waxings, but as the mainstay at each of their respective broadcasters they have, somewhat begrudgingly on my part anyway, earned whatever kudos they think they have and are the lesser of many evils in the world of the pundit.

Here in Ireland we are fortunate, or misfortunate whatever way you wish to look at it, to have the bolshie trio of Giles, Brady and Dunphy (with the occasional appearance from pugnacious channel hopping Scot, Graeme Souness) polluting and in the same instance, enlightening our minds, with a brand of football punditry which is as far removed from the fare offered across the water as is humanely possible. But just as we worry about who will replace the likes of Dunne, Given and Keane when they finally call it a day on the field, the same applies to those who offer insight and drama before, during and after the real action takes place. Giles has begun to resemble a mummified corpse and can barely string more than a couple of sentences together these days without losing his train of thought and seeking help from the ever patronising Brady, if Eamon Dunphy were to slip into full on dementia it's debatable as to whether the viewers would notice the difference, but love him or loathe him it'll be a sad day when he's finally carted off the screen kicking and screaming to anyone in earshot that 'Ronaldo is nothing only a tramp'. Of the mainstays Brady is the only one who's not of a pensionable age, but I can't imagine him being there without the other two as in truth his main role is to act as peacemaker and play devil's advocate whenever possible. Then you have the enigma that is Bill O'Herlihy who's plays a role similar to a holding midfield player, prodding and probing and doing the dirty work whilst going almost unnoticed, like many of the greats his loss would only be felt after he'd gone.

So who does that leave? Waiting patiently in the sidelines for the chance to get promoted to the big stage are the likes of Ronnie 'Am I a scouser or am I a Dub' Whelan, Kenny 'Eyebrows' Cunningham, Ray 'I was an incredibly chirpy player but I'm the most miserable pundit known to man' Houghton and Trevor 'I'm clearly bald but at least I can grow a goatee' Steven. This is far from a stellar cast and it's clear that if football punditry is a squad game then RTE will struggle once the season hits the hard winter months. Whelan is fairly amicable and talks a lot without really saying anything, but it's nigh on impossible to listen to him without marvelling at the wonder that is his accent, from Dublin to Liverpool and back again all in the space of a few seconds, great stuff. Cunningham is clearly deranged and looks like someone who's attended one media seminar too many, next time he's on, mute the tv and watch him, it looks for all the world like he's threatening to eviscerate the person he's speaking to as his eyebrows dance merrily around his forehead, lunatic. Houghton should come with a health warning for depressed people as he can manage to turn even the most exciting of games into something akin to the most torturous of ordeals, it's unproven as to whether suicide rates go up during Houghton's air time but I believe it to be true. Trevor Steven's appointment was a misguided attempt to bring a bit of panache to the panel, the bigwigs at RTE must have looked at his CV and seen his time spent with Marseille as a clear sign of a cultured man who would bring an air of calm, authority to proceedings. What we've got instead is a mosquito brained imbecile who rarely, if ever, says anything of note. However, hope is not completely lost, as amidst this gaggle of misfits is a ray of light which comes in the guise of Richie Sadlier. Aged just 31, and having being forced to quit the game at a young age due to injury, Sadlier has gone on to form an embryonic career in the media which has culminated in him making occasional appearances on some of RTE's football presentations. From the off it's been clear that Sadlier is not your ordinary retired footballer, and it's a joy to watch his insightful and in depth analysis on the game, and all done without the need to resort to the insincere tones of rapture favoured by his English equivalent Jamie Redknapp. Sadly the talents of this young man are made all the more evident by their rarity, and to look at the current crop of Irish players on the cusp of retirement and therefore potential candidates for the world of punditry, doesn't leave you feeling too confident. You'll notice that I have chosen to completely overlook the artisans plying their trade on second rate broadcasters TV3 and Setanta, this is mainly due to the fact that anybody willing to pay the likes of Trevor Welch and Pat Dolan to ruin our lives is worthy of nothing but utter disdain and apathy.

In England however, there is a more competitive nature to the battle of the broadcasters, even though Sky quite clearly are the biggest draw, although this is more due to them flexing their financial muscles than anything to do with the quality of their coverage. Sky's head honcho is of course the detestable Andy Gray. Such is this man's high regard for himself, he is quite happy to host a Sunday evening show called 'The Last Word', which as the title suggests is the last and therefore presumably the definitive word on all the weekends action. The fact that Gray hosts this show with his sycophantic sidekick Richard Keyes means that he has free rein to spout his theories unchallenged and will in essence always get the last word, clever thinking it has to be said. He has also seized the opportunity to bore us even more with the return of Sky's Monday Night Football, which consists of Gray playing with his modernised subbuteo set while Keyes oohs and aahs in the background. Gray firmly believes that each and everyone of his opinions is pure, unrefined ambrosia and we, the viewers, should consider ourselves grateful for the chance to hear them, if there was an award for smuggest, patronising buffoon on TV, then Andy Gray would win it year in year out. Sadly it's debatable as to whether he's even the worst pundit on Sky, yes step forward Jamie 'Skinny tie, shiny suit' Redknapp, never has a man spoke so much and said so little. Redknapp is the equivalent of a tiny, yapping dog that never shuts up and constantly nips at your ankles without ever actually biting you, his opinions veer from left to right as he babbles incessantly on and by the time he runs out of steam he's left with a blank expression on his face as he, and we both, wonder what the fuck he's just been on about. Sky have a large coterie of pundits whom they can call on, depending on whichever game they're screening, but aside from an occasional Phil Thompson rant on Soccer Satruday, the chances of ever witnessing a heated debate on the channel are as remote as Andy Gray admitting he's wrong about something.

The poor relations of broadcasting in England are the once mighty BBC and it's gimmicky, quirky rival ITV. The BBC was once a byword for all things quality but in terms of their football coverage at least, this mantle is gradually slipping away. Old experienced heads Alan Hansen and Mark Lawrenson have become so complacent in their position on the sofa opposite Gary Lineker that they may aswell be reading from an autocue, it's as if they're still patrolling the back line for the all conquering Liverpool 80's side, as they just go through the motions on a weekly basis barely breaking sweat. When the third cog in the wheel is the monosyllabic, dullard Alan Shearer then it's easy to see why Hansen and Lawro give off an air of total disinterest and boredom. But just as Richie Sadlier offer a shimmer of hope on RTE, so the BBC have their own bright, young talent willing to shake things up a bit. Robbie Savage was, and still is in fact, one of the most regularly goaded and taunted players to grace the modern era, his shock of blonde flowing hair makes him instantly recognisable on the field and his reckless, and often feckless, nature only add to his notoriety. But get him in the studio and suddenly this headless chicken of a football player is transformed into an eloquent and strong willed individual, who's about as shy in giving his opinions as he is in going into tackles, whether he'll manage to maintain this manner of punditry without upsetting someone higher up is debatable, but if he does fall foul to his paymasters at the BBC then it'll only be a matter of time before someone else picks him up given his unique talents in front of the camera. ITV are, and always have been, something of a joke when it comes to football punditry, given the fact that they spend the majority of their air time taking breaks it's a wonder why they bother even having anyone in the studio to be honest, they've recently taken to doing pitchside analysis which is quite a clever cost cutting exercise from their point of view. When their pundits do get a couple of minutes to hurriedly run through the events of the game it's usually Andy Townsend and Gareth Southgate who are charged with the task, is it really necessary to give an opinion on the respective merits of these two hapless oafs?

So now you can understand it's quite clear to see that while we're all worrying about the future of the game and the influx of foreigners ruining the opportunites of young homegrown players, the real problem that we should all be pondering is where the new, bright, articulate pundits are going to come from? Watch any post match interview after a Premier League game and you're likely to be swimming in a pool of 'Y'know's', 'likes', 'the lads', 'sort ofs', and various other catchphrases which will consist of 98% of the actual words spoken by the interviewee, rendering the whole process pointless. The recent interview with Danny Murphy where he aired his views without fear of censure or remit was a breath of fresh air and reminded us that not all footballers are semi literate, unschooled mercenaries without an original opinion to call their own. But as the game continues to grow to an almost sickening level of media coverage worldwide, it's clear that more and more ex-pro's are going to jump on the gravy train and give their tuppence worth regardless of whether they're qualified to do so or whether we want to hear them or not. I for one, can't wait.