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.

The Story of my First Semester in UL

Part 2: Beginning, Brotherhood, Becoming

...Maybe my preconceptions about the youth of today were misguided. A barely concealed loathing of anyone under the age of 25 had become something that I’d made a part of me. “Look at them there with their Converse runners and their ironic quiffs they think they’re so clever”, I’d think to myself as I watched them loitering around with little or no intent. “They wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in my day”, I’d mutter as I walked past the array of freaks, geeks and not so chics without once realising that I was experiencing what every single person on this earth does when faced with the prospect of being usurped by a new generation. It was natural for me to detest these bright eyed young hopefuls; after all they had everything I once had. And just like me many of them would go on to squander it in the manner of someone who truly believes they will never get old. Youth is wasted on the young they say, well try telling that to this mob.

But really I’m not that old and as my first brief encounter with the younger members of my class had proven they aren’t so young either. The gap between us was surprisingly small and once I’d adjusted to their tendency to become over animated at the mere drop of a hat I found that these people weren’t all that different to me. They were ever so excitable though and like a dog kennel roused from its slumber once one puppy started yapping they were all it! During these moments I simply found myself a quiet corner and watched events unfold before me as these exuberant Homo sapiens went about disproving every theory that Darwin had worked so hard to uncover.

Before long though we were one big happy family but rather than the traditional mother, father and 2.3 children I likened us to a troop of mountain gorillas. You had the quiet authority of the silverbacks (us matures), the playful vigour of the young males and the matriarchal, caring young females who at times kept their distance from the group at large for fear of being rutted to death. It really couldn’t have been any better and all the fears I’d brought with me were assuaged within a matter of days. The kids are alright I said to myself, well who woulda thunk it! However this was just in the college environment and as I vowed never to accompany the young primates on a night of debauched indulgence I could only speculate as to how they behaved away from the confines of the institute of learning.

So now that I was among a jolly good bunch of people and was in the process of making friendships which I hoped would last for years it was time to turn my attention to the main point of me being here. The learning and stuff. I want to be a journalist and that is unlikely to ever change but I suppose it is unrealistic to expect a four year degree course to consist of journalistic training and nothing else. So along with my compulsory journalism modules I was charged with picking two other electives from what has to be said was a pretty sorry looking list. Languages were out from the off. I don’t do ‘repeat after me’ unless I’m in the dock or at church (for the record I’m neither holy nor criminal). Economics. What’s that? Something to do with business is it? No thanks. History? Didn’t do it in school so figured it was pointless. Law? Apparently there’s a lot of memorising invo.....stop right there. Which left me with Sociology and Politics. Hmmm.

Looking back I’m more than content with my choice of electives. But given the fact that my decision was based on nothing more than whimsy I cannot take any credit for it. Sociology, or the ‘study of nothing’ as some have labelled it, proved to be occasionally intriguing, infrequently infuriating, but mostly just fine. Politics, which I was more hesitant about, turned out to be quite a revelation thanks to in no small part the epic nature of the lectures provided by a Mr. Neil Robinson. Those lucky enough to be present during one of his oratory performances will attest to the man’s magnificence as he regaled us all with his distaste of the feats of Margaret Thatcher among others. This wasn’t like any learning I’d encountered before. The emphasis was on us to take what we could from each and every lecture and I was determined to grab every little morsel I could. I think I went almost six weeks before I missed a lecture which even by mature standards must be pretty extreme. Oh how I laughed as some of new friends gently chided me for being so committed and dared to call me a nerd. I’d had more than enough of being cool and if it was nerdy to dedicate myself to my studies then a nerd I was.

It all seemed so easy. The few assignments that we’d got were delivered back with no little haste or effort and I could have been forgiven for thinking that this whole college lark was a doddle. However a concurrent theme throughout these early offerings was the need to ‘cite it right’ when it came to doing our end of term assignments. At first I struggled to understand the entire concept of academic writing and the referencing system. “Let me get this straight, you want me to quote someone else’s work in my writing? Why on earth would I do that? Sure whose opinion could possibly be more relevant than my own”! But like the assiduous student that I was I agreed to play it their way and endeavoured to ensure I cited every single fuckin thing right. But Christ was it torturous. I realise that we have it so much easier than those who went before us and that referencing online material is so much easier than traipsing around the library looking for that one book which may or may not contain all you desire, but having been accustomed to writing in a manner which could be loosely described as ad hoc I found it to be a somewhat demoralising experience.

In comparison to other courses I got off lightly though and if a few nights spent hunched over my laptop decrying the lack of relevant material on why the Mafia should be classed as a subculture was to be the worst of it then eternal gratitude was mine. There was another source of tears however and if there was one module which I fully failed to comprehend then it had to be Shorthand. In theory it sounded like a perfect part of any journalist’s armoury. The ability to write words at the speed of light was surely not to be scoffed at. Then I got into the class. “How the fuck can that be an M, it’s just a straight line”?!? The lines of reality became blurred as we were told that this array of squiggles and scrawls were not what they appeared. At times I wondered if she was just making it all up and we were the victims of an elaborate ruse but I pushed such thoughts aside and managed to do enough to just get by. What was that I was saying about being a dedicated student?

As I write I’ve just finished the last exam of my first semester in UL. As exams go they weren’t too bad but of course their true nature will only be fully revealed upon receipt of my results. In many ways I feel like I can’t fully assess this semester until I know how I fared academically. But the truth is that although my grades will reflect many things about my first stanza at the University of Limerick the real story is one that it is impossible to express in mere numbers and letters. It may be overly sentimental and schmaltzy of me to admit this but the truth of the matter is that I feel extremely fortunate to have been given this opportunity at this stage in my life. At certain points I observe the younger crowd and find myself once again casting envious glances in their direction as they make plans for the night ahead, enjoying the full college experience as it’s meant to be enjoyed. But I console myself with the fact that that point in my life has passed and now I’m just here for the learning.

That's bad for you y'know

Why can't they just let us eat ourselves to death in peace!!

Reports from a recent study by the Department of Health and Wellbeing have found that too much oxygen is bad for you. The studies found that on average humans inhale up to 20% more of the element than the recommended daily amount and if this situation is to continue the repercussions could be quite dramatic. Although previously thought to be the main reason for the sustainment of life on Planet Earth it now appears that, amongst other things, oxygen lowers sperm count, raises cholesterol and worst of all can lead to excess flatulence if inhaled incorrectly. However help is at hand as boffins at the research facility have promised to undertake a massive advertising campaign to educate us all about the dangers of ‘over breathing’ and how to regulate the amount of oxygen you take in on a daily basis.

Okay so things aren’t quite that bad just yet but if a story of that nature appeared in your morning paper would you really be that surprised?  You can’t move nowadays for stories warning of the dangers of eating this or drinking that as the nanny state attempts to drain the last remaining drop of enjoyment out of our lives completely. If you were to follow the advice of each and every scaremongerer your daily diet would most likely consist of the following, a glass of red wine (obviously), one egg, 125 grams of Broccoli, a grapefruit, some oily fish, two squares of dark chocolate and an arrangement of nuts and berries foraged fresh from the hills that very morning. Doesn’t exactly cause you to salivate at the mouth now does it? But if this is what they’re telling us to eat then who are we to argue!

So having followed all of this advice and merrily marched around Tesco filling your basket with foods deemed ok by the powers that be you get home and set about making a meal which will hopefully extend your life expectancy by about four minutes. You carefully scrutinise the ingredients of each and every item, tot up your carb count and compile the allowed percentages of various words which you can’t pronounce before declaring yourself content with your dish. The wok gets put on the hob and you ready yourself for a meal which even a malnourished rabbit would turn its nose up at. But then just as you’re getting ready to serve up you overhear a conversation on the radio, “God I’d never serve artichokes to my children sure aren’t they full of fliocasides......”. Fliocasides?! What the hell are they? You salvage the artichoke package from the bin and right enough there it is in black and white, fuckin fliocasides. With a resigned air you switch off the oven, empty the contents of the wok into the bin and vow to eat nothing but Goji  berries until told otherwise.

How on earth did we survive before we had nutritionists, mentalists and meddling idiots telling us what we can and can’t eat on a daily basis? More importantly how did our parents and their parents before them survive? My grandmother lived to be 85 and I can guarantee you she never saw an artichoke or a glass of cranberry juice in her entire life. Back then there was no point in warning about the health risks in certain food as they only had a choice of about eight different things, and that’s only if you counted mashed, boiled and roast spuds as three separate items. People reaped their crops, milked their cows and murdered their animals before sitting down to hearty dinners of meat and two veg and everybody was happy. An egg a day is okay? They’d laugh in your face and nearly choke on their boiled egg sandwiches before heading home for an omelette with some scrambled egg for dessert.

Regardless of what decade you were brought up in you were told to ‘eat your greens’ and that was fair enough, after all they were green and tasted like feet so they must have been good for you. But at some point during the last couple of decades, (probably around the same time we started eating Paninis), it became normal for media outlets to put a guilt trip on us for indulging ourselves. We’d only just gotten used to having a bit of variety and choice in our diets and straight away the miserable bastards wanted to ruin it for us. What do you mean Chinese grub is unhealthy, it’s full of vegetables!!! MSG?? Ah for Christ sake, I’ll just console myself with one of these tasty probiotic yogurts instead then. Brain cancer?! What?! And so it continues on and on and on. 

In fairness maybe they do have a point because little by little we’re turning into one big gargantuan tub of lard and anything that can be done to stop us hurtling towards messy Elvis type deaths is probably a good thing. Obesity is rampant in everywhere but the Third World and it’s almost as if mankind is sticking up a collective two fingers in the direction of the health freaks whilst scoffing their way to an early grave. So what does this say about us? That we don’t give a damn about what the scientists say? That’s true to a certain extent but perhaps the real truth isn’t that simple. It’s all very well telling us to eat fresh vegetables bathed in the tears of a new born baby whilst repeating the mantra ‘Asparagus cures all mans ails’ over and over again but this stuff doesn’t come cheap......and we’re all skint. I know that in the long run it’s cheaper to buy fresh produce and personally I do my level best to eat relatively healthily but when you see the likes of the aforementioned asparagus at the same price as two frozen pizzas and a Snickers bar is it any wonder most of us say sod it and take the easy option.

But if by some sort of miracle the nutritious and delicious foods of the world were suddenly made affordable to all of us would it really make any difference? Shorn of the too expensive excuse our devious minds would quickly find another reason to abdicate and before long the government would abandon the whole thing and reintroduce the old price arguing that we’re a shower of ungrateful morons. This is just human nature and something that will never change, we as a species are well versed in the notion that ‘if they say it’s bad for ya then it must be lovely’ and so the opposite must therefore be true also. Would heroin be so successful if it was stocked alongside the pistachio nuts in your local supermarket? Of course not! We’d quickly tire of its moreish charms and roam the streets at night desperately looking for that shady bloke who reputedly sells mandarins.

Never before have we been so well informed when it comes to what we eat and never before has there been such a wide variety of foodstuffs available to us. In a utopian society this would see millions of physically perfect people parading their chiselled torsos, sipping their flavour free health drinks and living to be 260 years old. But we as a species are a failure and along with destroying this pretty little home that God made for us we’re intent on destroying ourselves also. Well so the militant separatist groups that make anybody with a slight protuberance around their mid section feel like social outcasts would have you believe anyway. These health Nazis won’t be content until we’re all modern day Oliver Twists terrified to ask for some more.

Thankfully they’ll never win because capitalism just won’t allow them to. ‘Bad’ food is the most profitable legal drug trade in the world and every one of us is an addict on some level or another. There’s a lot of this food which probably only borders on the right side of legal and as Jamie Oliver proved we definitely shouldn’t be feeding it to our kids. But as with everything in life it’s just a matter of finding the right balance and not swinging too far one way or the other. Go on have that bag of Swiss triple chocolate chip cookies cos I know I will, but try not to have them the night after aswell. Try a few kiwis instead. They’re actually quite nice. It’s just common sense really and contrary to what the food Nazis think most of us possess plenty of it and can decide what we’d like to eat without being mollycoddled by those with supposedly superior knowledge. So the next time you hear some pompous, self-important preacher speak of the finer things in life just remember that their life is most likely a miserable procession of herbal teas and organic turnips and that while you’re tucking into your bumper pack of maltesers they’ll be sitting at home pondering the all too real prospect of dying miserable and alone thanks to their oh so healthy lifestyle.

We don't need another hero

Oooh he's setting a terrible example there...

“So are we going to the match today then or not Dad”, “It depends Son, it depends”. “Depends on what?! Kick off is less than a hour away!!”, Got to see the starting eleven first lad and if 'he's' playing then you know your Mam won't let you go”. The matriarch of the household appears from the living room with the news this football mad child dreads, “Just heard that the filthy, rotten sex addict is going to start so I'm afraid your Dad is going to have to go to the match alone today Jimmy”. The distraught boy runs to the refuge of his room and once he's certain that no change of heart is forthcoming he carefully procures the signed picture of his icon, the only picture he's got left after all his others were torched on that fateful Sunday afternoon, looks Ryan Giggs in the eye and says “I don't care what they say Giggsy you're still the greatest no matter what”.

To suggest that the off field exploits of Giggs have forced concerned parents into such extreme actions is perhaps facetious but with media intrusion at an all time high it's inevitable that those elevated to the post of 'perfect role model' for children will have that unwanted mantle snatched away from them by those ever hungry for salacious gossip. However when deciding who and who isn't suitable role model material for our poor, delicate offspring there is certain criteria that must be filled. Obviously the said individual must have a certain degree of talent otherwise what child in their right mind is going to take even half an interest in such a wastrel. But the other more defining factors are the ones that must always be adhered to no matter what degree of ability they may possess. Behaviour in public is the biggie, the hopeful candidate must always conduct themselves in manner liable to make the elderly coo softly to themselves in approval whilst ensuring that a certain level of charisma, but not arrogance, is displayed in the process. This criterion is quite often beyond the reach of many of the planet's most famous denizens as they mumble and stutter their way through public appearances or worse still launch into self absorbed soliloquies about just how great they are. Tutting parents hastily turn the volume down and thank the Lord they sent Junior to bed a little early tonight.

In those all too rare occasions when a person is 'taken to the nation's hearts' through a combination of excellency in their field and a personality brimming with humility and deference they must from that point forth be expected to forgo further examination before they can even think of progressing to the level of 'national treasure'. Family life, past and present, must be publicly palatable or this love in will come to a crashing conclusion before it's even begun. A working class background is preferable but not essential and the proud parents must find themselves in a long and lasting union or else the jive's up. Siblings and the family at large had better not have any skeletons clanking around their closets, if so they run the risk of curtailing our heroes chances completely. Any hint of a wrong un' in the gene pool will have the public at large questioning whether that 'dear little boy' may end up corrupted beyond repair.

So having proved themselves to be paragons of virtue it's left to these superior beings to ensure they keep their collective noses clean and not find front page scandals dedicated to their extra curricular activities. With the News of the World now sadly departed many misbehaving celebs breathed a heavy sigh of relief and resumed their drug fuelled sado masochism sessions safe in the knowledge that pictures of them bound and gagged wouldn't be beamed around the world the next day. But for many it was a case of the horse bolting after the gate was locked. The NOTW took it upon themselves to 'expose' as many celebrities as they saw fit. The fact that most of their revelations were brought about through entrapment or that the average man in the street didn't give a toss about [insert random celeb's name here] DRUG SHAME!!! mattered not as they revelled in increasingly tawdry tales until the whole thing came crashing around them much to the delight of anyone with a modicum of sense.

But amidst all this talk of 'setting an example to the children' and 'being a role model to millions' there seems to be one group of people who have as of yet not been consulted. No not The Scientologists, the children themselves. When I was a kid growing up the level of media intrusion was nothing like what it is today but even then the people I chose to base my childhood dreams upon were not without controversy. Anyone that supported Manchester United during the 1980's will be well aware of the club's reputation as a veritable drinking club during that time. Paul McGrath and Norman Whiteside will be forever remembered as footballer's who bore the wrath of Sir Alex and in the process found themselves heading towards the first exit door due to an apparent lack of discipline. But what history doesn't tell you is that amongst all the hardcore semi alcoholic footballer's at the club during that time one man reigned supreme. That that man also reigned supreme on the football pitch no matter how much he'd imbibed was his saving grace however and to an eight year old boy Bryan Robson could do no wrong.

United's number seven and right up until his death in 2009 he would have been considered someone whom children would be well advised to steer clear of. Michael Jackson's life was shrouded with intrigue and discord from almost the very start but events only took a sinister turn in the early 1990's when sordid stories regarding his personal life begun to circulate in the media. If ever there was an example of a squeaky clean pop star suddenly 'turning bad' this was it and I'm sure many horrified parents took drastic measures to ensure their children weren't influenced by the music of this monster. But again from a child's perspective I was largely oblivious to these scurrilous rumours surrounding the King of Pop. The only way Jackson had ever influenced me was by scaring the bejesus out of me with his Thriller video and prompting many a night of failed moonwalk attempts.

So do children really care all that much about the private lives of those they aspire to be? At a young age they are more likely to be solely fixated on the public image served up to them and will pick and choose their favourites in the whimsical nature expected of them. Indeed on many an occasion a child will take it upon themselves to select the more unsavoury characters as those they look up to. Wayne Rooney has courted his fair share of tabloid scandals over the years and has been labelled everything from a thug to a granny shagging sex fiend. Definitely not role model material as decreed by the British media but as someone who gives his utmost every time he walks onto the pitch he already has a head start on most of those deemed more suitable for a place in our children's affections. What it comes down to is that kids, despite being seen as impressionable morons incapable of forming their own opinion, have a remarkable ability to separate the wheat from the chaff and decide for themselves who's worthy of their utmost affection. When cameras close in on the histrionics of Cristiano Ronaldo or foul mouthed rants of Ashley Cole we're immediately treated to the well worn line of how they're setting a terrible example to the children as if they plan on immediately heading outside to recreate the scenes they're witnessing. Not only is this is an insult to the children of today but it also casts aspersion on the ability of their parents to tell their offspring what's right or wrong.

As a child progresses through life and treks down the road to becoming a well rounded adult the chances are that those who heavily influenced their pre-pubescent life will become nothing more than a distant memory. Sure they'll still have their sporting, musical, political heroes but with growing maturity comes the realisation that the real role models aren't those that perform their feats to millions of adoring fans. The nurse who maintains an air of cheery stoicism despite being surrounded by those with horrific ailments,, the local shop owner who has had his premises broken into on numerous occasions but refuses to bow to the mindless thugs, the man who steps in when no one else does to stop a group of bullies taunting an elderly woman and perhaps even those that brought them into this world and cared for them every step of the way Because whether they realise it or not their real heroes are those whose lives seem painfully ordinary and mundane but whose exploits are no less spectacular than anyone you care to mention. Not every parent will provide the kind of positive influence that a child needs in their life but many will try their utmost, regardless of the sacrifices involved, and in the process become the most unwittingly effective role model a child could ever have.

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”.

What is it good for?

Mankind's insatiable desire to obliterate himself and all those around him...

In the aftermath of Osama Bin Laden's slaying and the barely concealed triumphalism displayed by our American cousins the only surprise was that the severed head of the tyrannical despot wasn't paraded around Times Square. Scenes of jubilation and reverie as a nation rejoiced were par for the course as after almost ten years the U.S gained revenge for one of it's darkest days. It was the ultimate trophy killing and brought a sense of closure for all those directly affected by the assault on the Twin Towers. But as evil as the supposed leader of Al-Qaeda was the sight of thousands of people outwardly celebrating the expiration of another human being was somewhat unsettling and from an objective point of view bordering on sickening.

There is no doubt that Bin Laden will take his rightful place somewhere near the top when the list of the world's most nefarious people is compiled sometime in the distant future. We will never know for sure just how instrumental he was in the 9/11 attacks but history will depict him as the main perpetrator and compare his repugnant feats to other deranged types like Hitler, Pol Pot and Saddam Hussein. The thing all of these oppressors had in common was their lack of respect for human life, killing someone meant as much to them as the absent minded swatting of a fly does to your average person. Sadly rather than be shocked and appalled by the deeds of the aforementioned it seems that as time progresses we are gradually lowering ourselves to their level whether we realise it or not.

For as long as man has existed he has chosen to resolve the majority of his conflicts through force, deadly or otherwise. Quibbles over land, money, women, honour and of course national pride have entered the annals of history and with them the names of the great men who fought in them. We look back at skirmishes between the Greeks and the Persians, the French and the English and the Americans and themselves in awe and encourage our children to do likewise as we teach them of the daring feats of Nelson, Custer and the indomitable Spartans. That countless people died horrible, unnecessary deaths is overlooked as the cause and end result somehow justify the means. How many times have phrases along the lines of 'If it wasn't for us you'd all be speaking German' been heard spewing out of the mouth of an indignant patriot? So what if we had been speaking German? What if Hitler had 'won' the war? There would have been more wars, more deaths and more unwitting heroes regardless of the outcome of that or any other war. As long as warfare is our only means of resolving conflict then humanity will continue to create 'monsters'. Not only that but previously unaffected souls will return from the field mere shadows of the people that went out there.

The turn of the twentieth century is considered a high point for mankind as technology, science and inventions progressed at a rate previously unseen. Up until this point wars had been raged on a mass scale over land and sea but although the casualties had been high the sense of devastation felt was nothing compared to what lay ahead. World War 1 saw the death of 9 million people over a four year period. Pause and consider that figure for just one moment. Then think of all those affected by the deaths, the mothers who lost their sons, the wives their husbands and the children their fathers. Those who survived this most hellish of experiences recounted tales so horrific as to be beyond comprehension to those not involved. And yet who amongst can say with any authority exactly what World War I was fought for. We may have vague notions about the allies repelling the dastardly German forces but in truth only those with a vested interest could attempt to justify and explain why young men barely in their teens perished in the mud of the Somme. WW1 is sometimes referred to as the Great War, presumably by those who sat in their ivory towers and relayed orders safe in the knowledge that no harm would ever come to them. Great were the losses and great was the grief but for those who sit in silent vigil at the various monuments of the Somme knowing that the remains of their ancestors were never recovered from deep in that muddy battlefield the idea of a Great War seems laughable.

At this point in time it was still deemed acceptable to forsake your life for your nation's pride. Grieving loved ones were somewhat consoled by a piece of metal and the assertion that 'he died fighting for his country'. There was bad people on this earth and every now and then a war was needed to address the balance and rid us of those that wished to harm our children. No one questioned this on either side of the divide and the trust in our leaders was absolute. Those that thought there may have been another way to resolve the issue and avoid the deaths of an entire generation kept their mouths shut for fear of reprisal. Of course worse was to follow for those still scarred by what they'd just lived through. Like something from a the mind of a particularly sadistic novelist Adolf Hitler went beyond the boundaries of anything seen before and attempted to take over the world, presumably laughing maniacally as he went along. Even someone with a pragmatic point of view like myself could see how the ordinary man in the street was stirred into action by Hitler's deeds but you only have to look at the nascent opposition to the draft system to see that the tide was turning and no longer was dying for your country an honourable feat.

By the time the US chose to intervene in the Vietnamese quarrel society as a whole had begun to question the motives of those that sent innocent young men to die. Not only were those at home in opposition to the war but those that fought did so under duress thanks to a draft which enlisted men to fight whether they liked it or not. One GI famously summed up the mood of US troops when saying 'We are the unwilling, led by the unqualified, doing the unnecessary for the ungrateful'. Suddenly it was not simply a matter of the good ol' boys helping the poor underprivileged yellow men from themselves. People were becoming socially conscious thanks to the power of television as images like these helpless children running from the aftermath of an American aerial assault were beamed into the living rooms of horrified audiences. Finally it seemed that the world as a whole had come to the realisation that a call to arms need not be the only solution to conflict and that there were other means of resolving disputes. But arguably more importantly everyone was beginning to understand that in truth we weren't all that different, the Vietnamese father of two who set off early to work each morning shared similar travails to the labourer from Queens who after a hard twelve hour shift at the factory liked nothing more than to relax in his easy chair with a can of Bud lite.

If the opposition to the Vietnam war and the subsequent withdrawal of troops is considered a watershed for humanity then what on earth must those who lobbied and marched for peace think of society's outlook on war today. Despite being more educated than ever and countless cultural advances it could be argued that ignorance and hate are more prevalent than ever. Worryingly it appears that most of those that spew incoherent bile are the educated ones and they have used their learnings to promote fascist beliefs to all who will listen. Of course much of this could be down to our collective fascination which all things warfare related. Ask any man from the age of sixteen to sixty to name his top ten films and chances are you will find one of many war epics in there somewhere. Even though the majority of books, films, drama series etc make no attempt to glamourise the events depicted we are still unerringly drawn to them as we see men just like us endure experiences beyond our belief. This morbid curiosity seems to stem from a desire to feel their pain, to almost get in the trenches with them and savour the full force of a shellacking whilst under heavy fire all from the comfort of our armchairs, vicarious living at it's best. Of course there's absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of escapism from time to time and those involved in works like Platoon, Band of Brothers and Chickenhawk should be commended for their unflinching portrayal of events.

Has this consistent exposure to the horrors of war somehow blurred the lines of reality. Films, and to a certain extent video games, are so authentic nowadays that it's almost impossible to discern what's real and what's not. The debate as to whether violence on television and other forms of media pollutes the minds of our youth is a discussion for another day but what can't be disputed is that the impact of real life events has been lessened by the entertainment industry. Occasionally we will see destitute families fleeing their homelands and feel true sympathy for them but for the most part the events unfolding on our screens take on an almost otherworldly feel. Even something as dramatic as the attack on the Twin Towers in 2001 became nothing more than a television event as we all frantically texted our friends to ensure they were watching the drama as it happened. Only later on when we watched documentaries such as The Falling Man did we begin to truly appreciate what those people went through. As members of the 'free world' we were almost willed to feel outraged by the events of 9/11, almost immediately there were reports of revenge attacks on innocent Muslims in the United States as incensed locals lashed out at what they believed to be viable targets. If the same thing happened to Americans every time their country decimated another nation there would be a countless stream of confused and bruised yanks nursing their wounds and wondering 'what the hell did I do?'.

So like the song asks what it is good for? Justice for those who died on that balmy September morning was finally gained but at what cost? If given the choice would those who perished in New York have chosen for thousands more lives on both sides to be sacrificed just so Bin Laden could get what he deserved? Sure the US was a nation in outcry and almost to a man it's inhabitants sought revenge for what happened to their citizens. But why must every single action result in a retaliatory reaction? It's a never ending cycle of death and misery which will continue unabated unless the powers that be can have the common sense to put an end to it. Like a gaggle of boozed up lads at chucking out time they lock horns with little or no thought to the consequences when all it would take is for one to simply walk away and say 'no more'. Maybe the fear of being labelled a coward or a weak leader causes those who govern us simple souls to act in this manner, the more cynical would say that self preservation or financial gain is the real reason. Whatever it is that motivates those in charge to make these decisions it's highly unlikely that they consider the ripple effect of their actions. As they sign their papers and commission their generals those who will ultimately pay the full price go about their day oblivious to the horrors that await them. It makes you wonder if we won't be fully content until we have completely destroyed not only each other but also the world we inhabit. Absolutely nothing indeed.

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.

EVENING STROLL ETIQUETTE

When going for a walk becomes a trial of the soul.....

As the evenings draw in, and the those long, hot summers nights become nothing more than just a distant memory, we find that those merry jaunts amongst other upbeat evening strollers enjoying the balmy late sunshine, have been replaced by a whole new mysterious type of experience where each and every person you encounter is shrouded in mystery, and paranoia is at an all time high. Evening stroll etiquette at this time of year is something that we all have our ideas on but unfortunately some people do not adhere to it as strictly as others.

During the summer 'the rules of the path' aren't as in depth or circuitous as when the darker seasons creep their way unrelentingly into our lives, jovial walkers will greet each other with the same enthusiasm on their nineteenth way round as they did on their first, and will endeavour to fill those few seconds when they cross each other paths with any inane commment that may come to mind, such is the feel good factor during the heady seasons. They may start off with a cursory nod which will have progressed to a 'lovely evening now' by the third time round, and once the evenings walk has been completed they've managed to cram in enough conversation in those bite sized chats to consider each other walking buddies for life. Dogs will happily sniff each others nether regions without fear of reprisal, children will run wild and free, groups of baying youths will be dismissed as 'lovable scamps' and all in all there is an almost bohemian spirit to proceedings with the general consensus being, it doesn't get better than this. However once the darkness claims us, things change in an almost inexplicable manner.

To even motivate yourself to get up off the couch on a chilly wintry evening is an achievement in itself it has to be said, cosy living room, a piping hot plate of carb heavy dinner slowly digesting away, Champions League football back on the telly, why on earth would you want to leave this safe haven and venture out into a world of misery and danger where the only hope of salvation is the fruitless pursuit of one of those natural highs that you've been reading so much about. Staying indoors and protecting yourself from frostbite seems all the high that anyone could ever need, but yet you somehow find yourself getting your winter uniform and preparing yourself military style for the unseen threat that lurks at the other side of your front door. But once you've become attired in wooly garments from head to toe and braved the initial blast of the vindictive wind which permeates your entire body and actually stops your heart in it's tracks for a nanosecond, you begin to quite enjoy yourself as you head to the walkway of your choice determined to stock up on enough endorphins to see you through the night.

The first problem that you'll invariably encounter on a winters stroll is just how deserted things are, long gone are the scores of merry marchers and in their place are a few hardy souls interspersed with remarkably unbeat rotund types, who seem to have been walking these same paths for eternity and if anything have put on weight rather than lost it. A lone walker in this environment will always be quite conspicuous and regardless of how well mannered a person you are, you are essentially a menace to society and will be viewed and treated as such. Having found myself in this scenario on many an occasion, and considering myself a valuable addition to all society and certainly not a menacing presence in any shape or form, it's quite alarming how my own paranoia allows to me to begin to believe that I may indeed be someone to be feared and avoided at all costs. The lengths and measures that I will go to to ensure that I don't have to encounter other walkers and run the risk of being pepper sprayed for saying hello, are in retrospect quite bizarre but until you've run the gauntlet of an evening solo stroll then you can't really begin to understand the inner turmoil that goes with it.

The most annoying thing is when you get stuck walking behind someone who's going at a similar pace to yourself, the first option available is to continue at your normal walking speed and risk the person ahead you imagining themselves in a low budget horror film as you steadily keep pace with them, all the while fretting that you're scaring the shit out of them and that they're suddenly going to break into a sprint not stopping until they reach the nearest police station. Alternatively you can choose to slow right down allowing them to get a reasonable distance ahead before you resume walking at your normal speed, the problem with this though is it leaves you open to being overtaken by someone else and then you're right back to square one again. Another option, and the one I usually choose, is to put the pedal to the metal and attempt to overtake the person ahead. This can be difficult though as sometimes you can underestimate the pace of the walker ahead, you can find yourself running out of gas as you approach them resulting in you walking alongside your foe until you finally manage to forge ahead sweat pissing out of you and your heart ready to explode with the strain of it all.

This may seem like extreme and somewhat unnecessary behaviour, but how many times have you been out for a walk and suddenly become aware of some heavy footsteps trudging incessantly behind you? You're immediate thought is to think of all the bad things you've done in your life and quickly ask God for forgiveness, throwing in a helpless plea for salvation from this homicidal lunatic who any second now is going to enact an execution of unspeakable violence on your tortured soul. Then the rational part of your psyche kicks in and you laugh at yourself for being so foolish, dismissing your would be assailant as just another soldier out facing the harsh conditions to get his endorphin fix. To reassure yourself you chance a rapid glance backwards to see just what kind of monstrosity is now not only making as much noise with his feet as a herd of restless buffalo, but can now be heard breathing like an asthmatic pensioner at a swingers party. But instead of reassurance you're met with ever more blind panic as a dark, sullen figure that seemingly doesn't possess a face or any redeemable human features, is stalking you down with a bloodlust that can only be sated by the ritual mutilation of a 31 year old male weighing in at 12 ½ stone and a height of just over 6 foot. However salvation is afoot with the almost oasis like presence of a glowing orange neon light which for all intents and purposes could be the gates of heaven, with God willingly urging to come hither and take refuge in his kitchen. As you reach the radius of the light and bask in it's glow, you find the strength to turn to face your attacker only to find that he's no longer there. Chances are he realised that he was slowly but surely freaking out the demented idiot walking in front of him so took the safe option and turned for home at an earlier junction, chuckling to himself at the thoughts of telling his wife about the 'fuckin eejit' he saw out on his walk that evening.

So you see going for a walk at this time of year is fraught with danger, real or otherwise, and it takes great inner strength to emerge unscathed, both physically and psychologically, from an evenings carousel. I'd imagine most sane people can go out for a walk at night and not give a seconds thought to stuff like this but there's surely a few that share these same nightly neuroses as I. If you're ever misfortunate enough to encounter me on a night out walking please be aware that I mean you no harm and for God's sake if I try to pass you out just leave me fuckin do it will you!