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.

Memoirs of Misspent Childhood

Part 2: Schooldays Revisited....

This was it the day I'd been waiting for. No more inane recitals of the alphabet or farmyard noises for me I was joining the big league, moving up in the world. Everyone had been telling me that I 'was a big boy now' and I had no cause to doubt them. After all you don't see anyone other than big boys in uniforms like the one I had on, with a fuckin tie and everything! I decided to play it cool for my Mum's sake as she was obviously feeling a little emotional at the thought of her brave little soldier heading out into the real world.

 So after umpteen combs of my hair and an inappropriate amount of that peculiar motherly grooming technique which can only be described as 'licky tissue rub face' I was ready to leave my old life behind and become a man of the world. I gathered my Han Solo schoolbag checking to ensure it contained the booty which I'd been instructed to save until lunch, but was unlikely to last the morning, and clambered onto the bus. As we sped off into the horizon I looked back at my tearful mother and did my level best to transmit an air of indifference whilst fighting back my own tears.

Of course I was nervous and afraid but as I looked around the bus at all the smiling faces I was damned if I was going to show it. Far from being a big boy I felt like the smallest boy of all time and I longed for my mother's embrace like never before. But I banished all these thoughts from my mind and admonished myself for being so weak, big boys don't feel fear and they sure as fuck don't cry on a bus full of their mates. Once the initial panic subsided I began to enjoy myself, here we were like soldiers heading into battle and I felt a sense of camaraderie unlike anything before. I joined in as some of the more unfortunate kids were teased and mocked mercilessly even though all I wanted to do was go over and ask them if they were alright. It's every man for himself from now on I thought and in truth I was just grateful that it wasn't me being derided, I knew I was right to resist getting those horn rimmed glasses last year.

Upon arrival we were herded into groups by a kindly lady who seemed unperturbed by the various wailing children who'd cracked under pressure or the one poor mite who crumbled completely and ended up shitting himself on the bus. I feared for his long term future and wondered whether he could ever hope to make it in the real world. Once we'd be taken to our classroom and assigned our seats we all sat expectantly waiting to be imbued with the vast swathes of knowledge at Miss Clarke's disposal. However it seemed like she'd decided to ease us in gradually as after a brief introductory period, in which I gave her my most winning smile, she chose to start our odyssey with a bout of colouring. Colouring? COLOURING?!?!? I've been doing fuckin colouring since I was two years old what is this shit?! I'd come here expecting to have my mental agility sorely tested and here I was with a crayon in my hand!! I considered approaching Miss Clarke and explaining that this wasn't quite what I had in mind and could I perhaps be moved to a separate class but thought better of it as I sensed that she'd already developed a thing for me.

Things proceeded at this pace until the mid morning break, oh yes we were all quite exhausted from ensuring we didn't go beyond the lines, at which point we were finally allowed to tackle the goodies contained within our respective lunchboxes. As I surreptitiously scanned the contents of the other's lunchboxes (no double entendres please, they're children for Christ sake) I noted with a fair degree of relief that my mother had done me proud and I had passed yet another important test. Interaction with some of the older boys had been kept to a minimum so far and none of the horror stories which I'd taken as fact had yet materialised. Indeed my most taxing interrogation thus far had consisted of the question 'Are you red or blue?', thankfully I was red and this seemed to meet with the approval of my inquisitor.

My hopes that perhaps the early morning colouring was just a way of giving us a false sense of complacency were quickly doused upon return to class. Now it seemed we were going to play a game. A fun game that involved learning I wondered? Nope just a game. At this point I resigned myself to a day of frivolous activities and vowed to have a serious one to one with the headmaster at the first available opportunity. Far from being a place of learning and education it appeared that I'd been taken to a glorified playschool with the emphasis on treating us like idiots rather than the big boys we were told we'd become. I needed to know that this was the school for me because if not then I had no qualms whatsoever about transferring myself to a place better suited to my needs. I mean what on earth were the people at home going to think.

As I rose on the morning of my last Leaving Cert exam, the laughably irrelevant Art History, the thoughts of the people at home were far from my mind. Freedom would soon be mine. No more rebuttals for not wearing my tie, no more sunny days spent listening to incessant nonsense, no more half hearted attempts at studying to appease my mother, no more futile guilt trips for my lacklustre efforts, no more answering to my inferior superiors, no more empty threats which didn't concern me, no more......of this...........absolute.....................waste............of...............my............time.

I sat there looking at the sum total of my efforts and considered it worthy of a pass which while not thrilling anyone else would suffice for me. Not a hint of regret or remorse entered my soul as I slowly picked up my paper approached the desk and announced my self finished, in more ways than one. My only thoughts now were how would I procure enough alcohol to commemorate this occasion and ensure that a sleepless night was in store for my mother when I hadn't returned home by the early hours of the following morning. This task was completed with gusto on both fronts and as I awoke to my first day as a free man with the taste of Smithwicks and vomit in my mouth I cared not about the fateful day a few months from now when the fruits of my labour would be there for all to see in written form.

Clearly something had gone askew in the intervening years. From the bright eyed, spry young child who'd set off on his journey with infinite hope to the sullen, beligerent youth who completed that journey with barely a second's thought to what lay behind him. But what did lie behind him, to paraphrase many a social commentator 'Where did it all go wrong'? To the best of my knowledge I was a fiercely committed student right up to the latter days of Primary School and my results underlined this fact. So was it the trauma of Secondary School that brought about this sea change in performance, the feeling of going from big fish to small fry? Or maybe it was not being allowed to call it Sums and having to refer to it as Maths from now on? All these new subjects like Home Economics, Business Organisation, German and French surely couldn't have helped? No I think for me and many others who were summararily met with the words 'has potential but must try harder' on their school reports it came down to one simple problem. Puberty.

I'm not going to get into the vagaries of this most difficult of times. We've all been there we've all got the tshirts there's no need to share our stories of pain and anguish. But I often wonder if a change in the education system is required to help out our more angst ridden teens. How can a young man or woman filled with thoughts of lust, betrayal, vengeance, wrath and envy ever hope to maintain an interest in Pythogaris' Theorem or the ramblings of Shakespeare? It's a difficult enough time as it is without having all of these unnecessary distractions vying for your attention. And in reality is seventeen really an old enough age to make decisions which will impact your career for the rest of your life? I certainly don't think so.

In truth I'm probably just bitter because I didn't get my head down and study like all the other clever bastards did. Not for me I thought as I swanned off for an evening of vandalisation and solvent abuse. Contrary to what some might think though I certainly don't regret not trying harder, at that time in my life I wasn't cut out for academia and boy did I know it. Whether they're the best days of your life is, in my opinion, up for debate. But rest assured when I have kids of my own I'll be wheeling out all the cliched old phrases in the desperate hope that something clicks and they don't find their schooldays passing them by in a haze like mine did.  Chances are they'll call me a hypocrite and chastise me for not having practised what I preach, and you know something the little fuckers will be right.

Too old to game?

A perhaps unnecessary introspective...

The advent of any birthday in a man's life is a time for reflection and appraisal. You scrutinise your features in the mirror and after much deliberation announce yourself satisfied with what lies in front of you, physically you may not be the sleek, toned whippersnapper of a few years ago but for someone in their early thirties you're in good nick and for that you must be grateful. Having assessed your mortal being you move onto matters of a more spiritual nature and find that although you harbour an ever burgeoning miserable side and an unerring tendency to daydream about being a ninja you are in actual fact blossoming into something resembling an adult which is a source of cautious pride to you.

However despite all of this self congratulation you still in a lot of ways feel, and behave, like that 15 year old self who spent his days mired in a state of aroused confusion. Football is still one of the most important things in your life and defeat for your team of choice will find you descending into the depths of despair despite your earlier proclamation that 'there's more important things in life than football nowadays'. You still watch television shows solely for the purpose of perving on a much lusted after harlot (yes Countdown) and secretly wish for the return of Gladiators: The Milf Edition starring Jet and Lightning. All of these things can be excused as boys just being boys and we mask our guilt by telling women that 'they just don't understand', however one pastime which many have partaken in since childhood and continue to do so is something which some might be a tad embarrassed to admit and others hide it from not only lady friends but also their peers. This of course gaming, or to give it it's correct title videogaming.

Like many children who grew up in the eighties I took to the relatively new phenomenon of home videogaming as if it were my birthright and cut my teeth on the Commodore 64, immediately instilling in me a fascination with bright colours and rapidly moving objects which remains to this day. Whether I realised it or not the seed had been sown and those early dalliances with the likes of Dizzy and Paperboy were just the beginning of a pastime which would continue to enthrall and enrage me right through to the present day and will most likely do so for a good few years yet.

Even the arrival of adolescence and the twin temptations of girls and alcohol failed to douse my passion for gaming and whilst the cool kids were clumsily fumbling in each other's pants and quaffing cheap vodka I was to be found indoors pondering why the Shinobi were so intent on revenge. When I did finally get my act together and realised that booze, mind bending drugs and the company of women with no morals combined to make for a terrific night's entertainment gaming still maintained it's position of importance. Whether it was challenging similarly disengaged individuals to games of FIFA 98 RTWC at late night parties or stumbling home as the sun came up and deciding that the Playstation was going on and Sephiroth was going to cower before me in fear and awe gaming was still as important to me as ever and the superior hardware on offer only strengthened my resolve.

It was around this time that I first became aware of the fact that sitting indoors with a joypad in your hand was not exactly the ideal way to impress members of the opposite sex. Suddenly this pastime which had offered me solace and joy throughout my life was now a source of shame, I recoiled in horror at the mere thought of being labelled a nerd and lowered my tone when discussing games in public for fear of being outed. Where once gaming had been the innocent pastime of a blissfully unaware child it was now an activity likely to see me branded with any number of less than flattering adjectives. But still I carried on, entering my twenties with as much enthusiasm and gusto as before and sneering at those who questioned my decision to fork out the equivalent of a third world country's debt to get my hands on a Playstation 2. I had by now unwittingly become an adult gamer and with it had entered an entirely new demographic, instead of being viewed with derision and pity it was now considered quirky and almost endearing to be gaming at my age.

However despite revelling in my new role as an endearing, quirky twentysomething gaming was threatening to sabotage much more important aspects of my life than my mere social status. Whilst my peers were busy attaining degrees and building for the future my only concern was building my Master League team in PES...........

One morning whilst driving to work in his Prius a particularly annoying executive at Nintendo had a moment of inspiration, as this idea took shape in his mind he turned up the volume on his car stereo so that The Eagle's greatest hits could be heard by all those in the mid morning rush hour traffic, nothing got his juices flowing like Don Henley's dulcet tones. Arriving at Nintendo's HQ he bounded up the stairs two at a time and rushed to the office of his much feared and usually avoided boss, upon entering the room and seeing his superior engaged in a clearly important phone call he stood as patiently as he could until he could bear it no more and ripped the receiver from the hands of the startled and soon to be incandescent CEO. But before great vengeance rained upon this gutsy interloper he began a spiel which would save him from the most severe of tongue lashings and change the face of videogaming forever, “So imagine right, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie, Grandparents and the kids all gaming together. How it works is we make these little nunchuks which you have to wave around and...........................

So now all of a sudden it was okay to game? Could this be right? But I didn't want to game with my Mother, or any of my Aunts for that matter, so what would become of me? From being the hobby of the friendless and the socially inept gaming had now, finally, reached the masses and boy was it annoying. Every second advert displayed bumbling middle aged men jousting with demented silver haired pensioners as the clearly joyous kids whooped and hollered in the background, this was just not on. Now when you told the matronly lady in HR that your hobbies included gaming she shrieked with delight and proceeded to bore you with tales of epic Wii Tennis encounters between her and her ever so dull family. You attempted to correct her and explain that you played 'proper games' and not 'that Wii Sports shite' but in the end just walked away as she detailed her serving motion right there in the middle of the office. What do I do now I pondered? I certainly didn't want to be grouped with this cretin when classing myself as a gamer but luckily for me salvation was at hand and a new moniker was to be acquired almost as quickly as all those Wii's began gathering dust.

I'd never really considered myself hardcore at anything and the mention of that phrase brought nothing but sordid images involving chains and screaming nuns to my mind. But now it appeared that I was finally hardcore at something as those of us who eschewed the option to jump around our living rooms like buffoons were classed as 'hardcore gamers'. Gaming had achieved a public acceptance that perhaps most of us secretly wished it never had, we somehow enjoyed our status as being slightly odd and took sadistic pleasure in the looks we received from loved ones when telling them 'yes I will be buying that new console and I'm getting it on launch day too'.

In spite of the ever expanding gaming market and this newly found acceptance I sometimes find myself wondering if it's healthy to be thirty two years old and spend hours designing the shorts of my eponymous boxer in Fight Night Champion. A quick look at those that consider themselves 'celebrity gamers' reveals that the likes of Vin Diesel, Seth Rogen and Cameron Diaz like to waste hours on end with their consoles so why can't I. In a strange juxtaposition I've reached a point in my life when I wonder whether I should be 'getting my act together' and 'making something of myself' precisely at the time when it's never been more acceptable to game. I will of course continue to play games with that same sense of wonder and awe still alive and well just as it was all of those years ago, but already I've noticed that where once gaming always took precedence it has now begun to slide ever further down in my list of priorities. No matter what happens I will always find time for this hobby I love but in a funny kind of way I can't help but yearn for those days when not a shining sun nor a willing wench could drag me away from my console and all that mattered was the virtual world in front of me whilst the real world was nothing but a distraction.

Memoirs of a Misspent Childhood

Part 1: Through the void......

It started much like any other day, I awoke from my dreamless slumber and settled in for a day of eating and kicking whilst listening to the occasional voices from outside urging me to come out to see them. Why should I go out to see them I thought, sure aren't I having a lovely time in here? Food on tap, nice, cosy environment and no one other than myself to answer to, I was the master of my domain and I didn't see any reason for it to be otherwise.

But after gorging myself on a quite sublime breakfast I felt a growing sense of unease which I couldn't quite place, ordinarily I'd have a wee snooze after brekkie but instead of being overcome with drowsiness I was instead instilled with an uncontrollable urge to go places. How could this be I thought, I'd been quite happy in this abode for the best part of nine months now and was even considering signing a new lease, but now of all sudden I felt like I'd outgrown my surroundings and an immediate change was required. With all this running through my mind I did what I always did when something was bothering was me and proceeded to give the landlord, who went by the name of 'Mum', an extra hard kicking in the hope that she could arrange for someone to come get me out of here.

I must have grown weary of kicking and lapsed into a fitful sleep because for a time all I could recollect was a series of new voices, all very frantic, and some jostling which I in all honesty found very unnecessary and somewhat disconcerting, what the hell was going on out there? Had she called the bailiffs? If that was how she was going to play it then I was more than ready for whomever came a calling and vowed to go down fighting at the very least. It was clear that they had already begun proceedings as the poking and prodding from the roof was so intense that I expected them to break through at any minute, in true fighting spirit I gave as good as I got and at one point I could have sworn I heard one of the wannabe intruders recoil in pain from a carefully placed roundhouse kick.

This was quickly developing into something of a Mexican stand off (just what is so standoffish about the Mexican's anyway?) and with my options becoming increasingly limited I began searching for ulterior modes of escape. The long tunnel beneath me which I had attempted to breach on more than one occasion was now looking increasingly inviting, but wait what was this? If I squinted hard enough I thought I could see a thin shard of light at the end of this vestibule and almost in an instant I vowed to make this my ultimate destination. As I bid a tearful farewell to my bachelor pad and positioned myself for a seamless exit I was forced to retreat in sheer terror as peering through the murky depths right at me was an unblinking eye. The eye just sat there, right at the point of my planned exit, looking intently at me without a hint of shame, the gall of this heathen forced me to totally reassess my plans and after some thought I made a pledge to remain right where I was until forcibly removed.

As I lay there silently fuming at the brazenness and sheer impudence of some people it became apparent that the odds were stacked against me and however determined I was to stay put it seemed like a losing battle was being fought. Despite this I bunkered down and readied myself for the inevitable skirmishes ahead ensuring myself that if I at least mortally wounded one of my foes it would have been worthwhile, however as visions of a glorious death swam round my head I heard a plaintive plea from a familiar voice, “Please Si just come out, PLEASE”. I knew I was Si, this much had been established a long time ago and I recognised the voice as my landlord who was clearly quite distressed. It was obvious to me that these thugs had turned their attention to her and although we'd had our differences during our time together there was no way I was going to stand for this.

But then it struck me that this could be some carefully concocted ruse taking advantage of my chivalrous nature and in the process making a complete and utter fool of me. Pushing those thoughts to one side a wave of guilt came over me as I thought of all the turbulent times I'd put this Mum character through, the late night parties, eating all of her food and of course the kicking. Now here she was pleading for my help! I was still unsure as to why she needed my assistance but in the interests of gallantry I surged towards the light with all my might to aid this damsel in distress. I burst through the void and into a whole new world but rather than being enveloped in euphoria like I'd expected I was instead manhandled by what I could only assume were the bailiffs as I screamed protestation and vehemently claimed innocence against whatever charges they were putting on me.

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.