Netflix, and it's impact on a naysayer

Now I'm a believer....

For years I fended them off with excuses, “Takes too long to download”, “I don’t like watching films on my laptop”, “It’s illegal you know” and various other pleas all intended to shut them up and stop them trying to tempt me with their fancy new means of film watching. What could I say? I was a traditionalist and despite the extra costs involved I still enjoyed the now seemingly archaic practise of going into my local retail or rental store and perusing the shelves before paying cold, hard cash for a physical copy of whatever film I fancied viewing. Oh how they laughed as they watched films not even out in the cinemas yet while I steadfastly refused to join them in their deviant ways. I may have been out of pocket but I was on the right side of the law and when the whole thing came crashing down and all their homes were being infiltrated by the FBI I’d have the last laugh.

I’m not sure why but I’ve never taken to the idea of downloading movies for free on the internet. My above excuses were only applicable to an extent. As broadband speeds in Ireland became fast enough to download even the biggest of files in a matter of minutes my first excuse was rendered utterly obsolete. I don’t like watching films on my laptop though, that much is true. “You can hook it up to your TV or put them on a USB stick”, I was told before muttering something about ‘too many wires’ and skulking back to my DVD collection to pick out an old favourite. As for the legality issue?! Half the stuff I watch online is probably illegal anyway so I couldn’t lay claim to being any kind of law abiding citizen that was for sure.

Other issues such as picture quality, virus threats and the simple fact that I liked to pick and choose what I wanted to watch rather than cold heartedly pinpoint a target before downloading it in a clinical manner all played their part in ensuring that I never once felt like joining all those law breakers and was content to live in a relatively bygone age. However as the recession hit and lavish spending in local stores became a thing of the past so I felt my choices becoming constricted. Whereas at one time I would have had no issue forking out a tenner, and sometimes more, on a film I now baulked at retail prices and the few purchases I did make invariably came from online stores. Although I was still reluctant to fully embrace the digital age I was at least making an effort.

Vowing to no longer pay the exorbitant prices offered by high street stores I found myself turning to other avenues. Having a digital video recorder in the comfort of your own home is a tremendous luxury and I trawled the TV listings ensuring that any film that may be of even the slightest interest was recorded and stored for my viewing pleasure at a later date. This was all well and good but save for a few interesting indie flicks on Film Four and the occasional gem on the terrestrial channels I was left with pickings of a decidedly slim variety. The other option was of course the rental store and trawling through the foreign cinema section was, and still is, a pleasure that I’m always happy to avail of. But again the cost element was proving increasingly prohibitive. New releases for €5? You’re having a laugh! Two new releases for a tenner and we’ll throw in a carton of popcorn? Sure what would I want with yeer shitty popcorn when I have mountains of goodies from Dealz waiting for me at home.

So this was my state of affairs. A film lover in no man’s land, neither here nor there. And then Netflix arrived. Seeming from nowhere and with very little fanfare. Casually scanning the list of new apps on my XBOX, of which there seemed to be one every day, I came across the blood red logo with Netflix emblazoned in white. *adopts tone of Victorian detective unveiling a new, exciting clue* “What could this be”?  I wondered to nobody in particular. “Net? Hmmm, methinks this relates to the internet. Flix? Could it be movie or film related?” I pondered no more and downloaded the app using my super fast Irish broadband. Arriving at the welcome screen I was asked if I’d like to begin my 30 day free trial. God you’re a bit forward aren’t you? I hardly even know you!! I quickly backed out of this eager provider of flix but vowed to return once I’d found out a bit more about it.

Further inspection revealed all sorts of interesting details about this mysterious newcomer. Apparently it provided the opportunity to stream movies through your XBOX, and in High Definition no less! I felt the first quiver of excitement. There was no limit on the amount of content you watched. Another quiver, this time more pressing. After your free trial was over it was only 5.99 per month to avail of the service. Gimme a pen, where do I sign up!! My enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by grumblings over the array of films and tv shows available to watch. I checked it for myself and found a few grumbles emitting themselves despite my best intentions. Maybe this wasn’t for me after all. Time to return to the rental store then. But wait! You can access the American Netflix I was informed, and by jove they were right. A few simple settings changes (was this legal? I cared not) on my XBOX and away I went.

The choice on offer still couldn’t compare with the sheer volume of options offered by the file sharing sites, or the rental and retail stores for that matter , but here I was getting the best of both worlds and not only was it legal it was also free, at least for now anyway. I joyfully flicked through the genres cooing gently to myself as I went and wondered how I was going to watch all of the stuff on offer in whatever free time I had. After a solid hour of deliberation and playing around with all the features I watched my first ever film using the internet as means of consumption. That it was a low budget Norwegian fantasy/horror entitled ‘TrollHunter’ is irrelevant, I was now watching movies in the manner of a modern day man and by some strange quirk it actually felt good. But not only was I a convert I now wished to bring new followers to this shiny new chapel. I texted friends and relatives asking them if they’d used this new means of movie watching and urged them to get right on it. Netflix had created the perfect storm and I was determined to ride each and every one of its waves.

It’s early days yet though and I’m determined not to get carried away. I’ve been told that access to the American Netflix only lasts for seven days before us unfortunate souls are consigned to the less attractive European model. What then? I don’t know how good or bad the European version is but I’ll certainly be willing to give it a try for at least the remainder of my trial run. Aside from the movies on offer there are countless TV shows in which to immerse yourself with the possibility of watching an entire series via the Netflix app. Documentaries also feature for those moments when you wish to be entertained and educated at the same time. When you couple Netflix with Muzu, the recently added music app, it seems only a matter of time before Microsoft’s claims about gaming consoles being ‘entertainment hubs’ capable of servicing all our needs comes to fruition.

On a wider scale the arrival of Netflix, and the ease at which even the most cynical of people can be converted, looks set to drive another nail firmly into the coffin of the local retail store. I for one will decry the demise of physical shops where you can walk in and while away the hours browsing to your heart’s content. But when HMV up their special offer on DVDs and CDs from two for €12 to two to €14 like they did at the turn of the year it’s hard to feel any sympathy for them. Sadly it’s only a matter of time before the last remaining stores disappear from our streets altogether as more and more people figure out that there’s cheaper and more importantly easier ways to acquire their goods. Because no matter how much you try and resist change it will eventually find a way of burrowing into your psyche and revising your opinion no matter how deep-set. Take it from me I should know.  

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.

My first love

Everyone remembers their's..

 I can still vividly recall the first time I met her. I’d only just turned eighteen and now that I no longer needed to lie about my age I could sit unhindered in the pub and quaff pints to my heart’s content. On this particular night, a Friday if I recall correctly, I was out with a few of my closest pals when I bumped into a mate from school whom I hadn’t seen in months. We got to chatting and during the course of the conversation he mentioned a girl who he reckoned would be perfect for me. With only a couple of pints of board I wasn’t awash with the kind of Dutch courage required for scenarios like this but I thought fuck it why not, you only live once, etc. My mate promised me that she was totally unlike any other girl I’d ever met before and we’d get on famously he was sure of it.

Upon introduction I failed to see what all the fuss was about. She didn’t appear to be anything spectacular to look at and I wondered whether my friend had pulled a fast one on me. I patiently sipped my pint and waited for the ‘spark’ or indeed any kind of chemistry but in truth I was already thinking about heading back to my mates and having a quiet word with my old school friend for introducing me to this dullard. But then after about twenty minutes of politely nodding and listening something a bit odd happened. My palms became sweaty, my foot started tapping uncontrollably and, most inexplicably, my stomach seemed to be ready to lift right out of my body with the amount of butterflies in there. Was this the chemistry my friend told me we’d be sure to share? I was still unsure but looking at this girl again I found myself seeing her in a different light, she still wasn’t quite the radiant vision of my most fantastic dreams but I was gradually warming to her.

It appeared that this girl wasn’t one for sitting quietly in the corner of the local pub for within less than an hour of us meeting she had convinced me that we needed to go to a nightclub and we needed to do so with no little haste. It was only 11.30 but I didn’t need much convincing and so it was that I confidently sauntered into an almost empty discotheque with this newly acquired mysterious woman friend. I soon found out why she was so eager to get me into an auditorium where loud, thumping music was the order of the day, or night as the case may be, as she dragged me onto the dancefloor and proceeded to contort and gyrate herself against my now pulsating body. The sweating palms and slight feeling of unease that I’d felt earlier had imperceptibly given way to a sense of inner calm and wellbeing which was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I looked her dead in the eye as she grooved into my heart and said “You’re the one for me”.

And so it was. I fell into her loving embrace as we sashayed around this new found mecca for the next three hours and happily professed my love for her at every available opportunity. She wasn’t like all the other girls, she understood me, I felt like I could share and expose every inch of my soul to her without any fear of reprisal. To coin a phrase, I wished the night would never end. But end it must and as the lights came up we spilled into the night air bleary eyed and legless. I introduced her to my friends and found to my displeasure that not only did they not share my affection for my new paramour but they seemed to be outright critical of our coupling. Well what did they know, this was my new girl and quite frankly I cared not what others thought. As she bid me farewell for the night I promised that we’d meet again the following night before heading home barely comprehending what had just happened.

Upon awaking the following morning I felt strangely empty, almost forlorn. The memory of the previous night was still fresh in my mind but despite feeling a tinge of excitement at the prospect of meeting up with her again my prevailing mood was one of desolation and all I really felt like doing was curling up in front of the TV for the day. But it was Saturday night and I had a hot date so I quickly shook off my inertia and prepared myself for what I hoped would be a night just as memorable as the previous one. Thankfully she didn’t let me down one little bit. Again our early offerings were a little strained and tense but once we settled down things seemed to pick up from almost exactly where they left off the previous night. I was better able to appreciate the time spent in her company this time around having spent the entire day anticipating what lay ahead of me. Not that that made the night any less mind blowing or intoxicating, much the opposite in actual fact. Familiarising myself with each and every facet of her being I felt myself attaining a level of sensory euphoria which I never knew existed. I was only eighteen but I failed to see how life could get any better than this.

Then it was morning again. She had long since gone and just like the previous morning I was left with nothing more than some majestic memories and a body suitably exhausted from the night’s exertions. There was no doubt in my mind that she was worth it but I couldn’t help but wonder whether I would always feel this way. As the week progressed and we made plans to meet again the following weekend I found myself questioning the point of many of the things which were supposedly the mainstays of my life. Her influence on me was so consuming that almost unbeknownst to me my entire mindset was undergoing a subtle, but revolutionary, transformation. The world seemed like a different place to me now. I saw it for what it was. A massive, continuous stream of bullshit occasionally punctuated by something which made you realise what the point of living actually was. For me that something was her.

After that we met every weekend without fail. Such was her effect on me that I daren’t risked us meeting on a week night, and anyway waiting all week to see her kept things fresh and exciting. We continued in this vein for over a year and amazingly it never once felt stale or remotely mundane. Sometimes we went on weekends away and other times we didn’t even go out at all but one constant was the music, and the conversation. She introduced me to all sorts of sounds which I’d never have accessed in my previous iteration as a clueless teenager with a mildly insouciant attitude. Again I sensed my horizons expanding and a dawning realisation that when I was with her I actually liked the person I was. I knew I needed her far more than she needed me but that didn’t bother me as something about her told me that our time together would be all too brief. This only strengthened my desire to make the most of our time as one.

Inevitably this honeymoon period came to an end and when it did so it was as abrupt as it was painful. Spending our weekends solely in one another’s company barely pausing for sleep or food had begun to take its toll both mentally and physically and it was with this in mind that I suggested we take a break. She seemed as reluctant as I but for once my head ruled my heart and an agreement was made wherein we wouldn’t meet up again until we had gotten the rest of our respective lives in order. This time apart hit me hard. I drank to excess, chased other women and generally behaved like a complete idiot. Friends told me she’d always be there for me if and when I needed her and on more than one occasion I almost caved and gave her a call. But I stayed strong and sought to move on, although admittedly she never left my thoughts for very long.

But eventually I couldn’t take it anymore and in a booze fuelled frenzy I searched her out in that same nightclub where we’d spent our first night together. There she was, with that same mutual friend that had introduced us and within minutes we were chatting again. Before long we settled back into our familiar pattern but things felt different, not markedly so but enough for me to notice. No longer did I feel like dancing in her arms all night long, instead I preferred to just sit and talk like we used to and tell her the kind of secrets that I never thought I’d have been capable of sharing. It was during one of these long heart to hearts that we came to the realisation that this thing we had going on could never become serious. It had always been at its best when it was a casual weekend tryst where neither party was obliged to the other and we resolved to keep it that way if there was any chance of us remaining as close as we now were.

This arrangement worked better than it had any right to, partly because she was so understanding and partly because we never allowed ourselves to get too wrapped up in one another. During our times apart, and sometimes during our times together, there were other girls but her spectre always loomed large and the prospect of any serious relationship ever forming seemed impossible while she was still in my heart. By now my disapproving friends were settling into long-lasting, loving relationships and my reluctance to follow suit was almost a running joke. Although they never said it to my face I knew that they were all patiently waiting for me to grasp the fact that she and I had no future and that the longer we kept up this charade the more damaging it would be for me. But I had nothing else in my life, there was only her. We found ourselves attending house parties looking around the room and realising that we were almost the oldest people there. Visits to nightclubs were no longer the heavenly experiences of old as we no longer seemed to fit in. All we had ever done together was party and without that we found that we shared little in common.

Stubbornly I refused to accept the writing was on the wall and against all reasoning I always found myself coming back to her. Now in my mid twenties and with a life going nowhere fast I felt like I needed her more than ever. Instead of being my good time girl she had now become my refuge, my only source of solace. I’m sure my Mother knew of her but she never mentioned a thing and it was only after a heated argument which left me in hospital that I told the other important woman in my life about this temptress who was threatening to consume me completely. My Mother, as Mother’s do, urged me to dispense with ‘this harlot’ and start anew. I, as Son’s do, nodded in agreement whilst secretly planning to meet up with her again. Looking back on it the problem lay in her total lack of respect for me. I couldn’t see it at the time but she cared not one jot for me and to her I was but a mere distraction in a life less ordinary.

Our tipping point finally came as I entered the latter stage of my twenties. Having moved away from my hometown in an attempt to start afresh I was finally ready to leave the past behind and do some growing up. But like a bad smell she just wouldn’t disappear. For a short time I thought I could incorporate her into this new life but it wasn’t long before I realised that not only could she play no part in my new surroundings but that she could play no part in my life ever again. There was no long drawn out goodbye, just a mutual understanding that after one heady last night together the jig was up. At the time I probably didn’t even realise that we’d never see each other again, at least not consciously anyway.  She had given me some of the happiest moments of my life and changed me as a person in every imaginable way. But there had also been some bad times, some terrible times which had most probably had an abiding effect on me also. The time was right for us to part ways and now almost four years on I don’t for one second regret leaving when I did.

Oh I almost forgot. I should tell you her name. You must want to know her name? Well some people call her Methylenedioxymethamphetamine. But I just knew her as Ecstasy.

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.

The Story of my First Semester in UL

Part 1; Application, Acceptance, Actualisation

As I shuffled downstairs to check the morning post I spotted it from afar. Even from that distance it looked suspicious and it certainly wasn’t a bill, some junk mail or a letter from An Taoiseach asking me round for some tea and biccies. As I approached the bundle of envelopes there could be no doubt, it was for me and the insignia on the letter told me it was the one I’d been waiting for. In the few seconds it took me to ascend the stairs and re-enter my flat I looked for clues. It felt quite weighty was that a good or a bad thing? Surely a rejection letter would be short and concise? Look just open the fuckin thing and stop torturing yourself I thought to myself. I carefully prised the envelope open and slipped out the sheet at the forefront; my eyes scanned the page.....”Dear Simon.........it is with great.....................you have been accepted”. Accepted! Accepted!!! There it was. One simple word. A word which was about to change my life completely.

I can’t quite pinpoint the exact moment when I decided that heading to college as a mature student was something I wished to do. Having endured a period of my life which, to put it mildly, had been a test of my resolve I suppose you could say I was a changed man and with that change came a desire to finally do something worthwhile with myself. I’d reached the age of 32 with little to show for it other than some bittersweet memories and a world weary air more common amongst men twice my age. But I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet so at a time of my life when many of my friends were settling down and beginning the long, slow descent into mid life misery I took the decision to (excuse me while I go all American) ‘follow my dreams’.

Again the details are quite hazy when I try to recall why I chose UL as the place to begin this exciting new chapter in my life. But I knew I didn’t fancy heading to Dublin, I’ve never liked our capital so shoot me, and many of the other options were too far North for a chap bred in the sunny South East. Everything about UL seemed perfect and the few doubts I had were allayed when the tentative email I sent to the course leader was answered not only promptly but with a great degree of warmth and courtesy to boot. So with my mind made up I set about applying for a place in Journalism and New Media at the University of Limerick. The application process was as thorough and long winded as I’d expected with every last detail of my life documented and accounted for. At one point I was half expecting a request to attend my local garda station for a full cavity search but thankfully this didn’t transpire.

But filling out application forms, however convoluted, is easy; the first big hurdle I would have to negotiate was to be the interview. Funnily enough I’ve never really been that afraid of interviews, although this may have a lot to do with the fact that I’ve never really applied for anything I really wanted before now. But it went without saying that this was a biggie. So after an early morning panic about the creases in my suit jacket and a longer than was comfortable wait outside the torture chamber I was confronted by the previously friendly course leader and one of his cohorts. It was clear from the off that they had agreed on a good cop/bad cop routine with me apparently cast as the pleading felon desperate for mercy. As a veteran of many cop shows this whole scenario was second nature to me and I dealt with it like a true pro. By tossing charming asides and winning smiles at the good cop and heartfelt pleas and earnest eyes at the bad cop I thought I’d done enough, but I would have course have to wait.

So with the waiting over and this joyous letter in my hands what do I do next? Having informed loved ones of the exciting news and listened to them get all emotional the enormity of what I was about to embark upon suddenly dawned on me. Four years of my life. Usually I’m loathe to even agree on a time to meet up with friends for a drink and here I was committing myself to something which I had no way of knowing whether I’d like or not. But being a changed man and all I quickly cast aside any misgivings and readied myself for what I hoped would be the start of something special. First up was of course moving to Limerick city. Now you’d have to be a special kind of imbecile not to be aware of the reputation of Limerick city but how bad could it be I thought as I settled in for my first night in my new flat. The answer? Not bad at all. Sorry to disappoint you but I quickly discovered that apart from a few shady night time characters and a way of speaking similar to that of a Cork person on crack Limerick suited me just fine. All that was left now was the college bit.

First up was the mature student induction. The opportunity to familiarise myself with the campus in advance of the braying youths arriving the following week was one I was grateful for and as I took my seat in the lecture hall I noted with some pleasure the amount of greying and balding heads in the vicinity. The induction itself was a fairly tame affair and it seemed that its main aim was to make us form some sort of vigilante mature student gang in preparation for the upcoming war against our younger contemporaries. The emphasis was clearly on making sure that we stuck together and repelled the advances of these beer sodden, unhygienic scamps who would be intent on relieving us of not only our knowledge but also the clothes off our back should we not be careful. Well bring it on I thought, let these little shits come at me and to quote Omar from the Wire “they best not miss”.

So it was with this mindset that I was to meet my classmates for the first time. Let it not be said that UL doesn’t ensure its students are well prepared for their time at the college as in addition to my mature student induction I now had to undergo an orientation day. Although my tone may appear a little mocking I would like to point out that both the induction and orientation, not to mention the whole first seven weeks campaign, were beneficial in not only allowing me to gain a vague idea of the campus layout but also in giving me the opportunity to gain some early allies in the forthcoming war against the little ‘uns. The orientation saw me grouped together with a handful of the people who were to make up the Journalism and New Media vintage for 2011. A couple of other matures instantly put me at ease but to my surprise it appeared that the few younger students in our group weren’t the rampaging, odious buffoons I’d been warned about but were instead quite civilised young adults capable of holding intelligent conversations without once referring to Glee or whatever it is the little bastards are into these days.

To be continued....................

ARE YOU MAN ENOUGH?!

Well? Are you?

Traditionally there has been many ways to prove your manliness, or earning ‘man point’s to give it a modern cultural reference. Building things with your bare hands, opening stubborn condiment jars, drinking to excess with little notable effect, single-handedly feeding the hungry masses with your amazing barbeque skills or kicking seven shades of shit out of each other after closing time on a Saturday night were all regarded as suitable ways of separating the wheat from the chaff at one point, but not anymore. Over time things have changed and it’s no longer enough to dismantle a car engine, light a match off your stubble and roar off into the sunset on your motorcycle if you wish to impress on people just how much of a guy’s guy you are.

True, all those activities are still likely to elicit murmurs of barely concealed arousal from certain females in the vicinity but they’re just as likely to see you labelled any manner of derisory terms also. You see it’s not enough for us to behave like Neanderthals and expect to sling a menstrual maiden over our shoulders anymore, now we’ve got to have feelings and stuff. Not only that, we also have to look good whilst doing so. But let us not blur the lines and imagine that the idea of men spending hours on their appearance is a relatively new phenomenom. Look at those dandies from the 19^th century, how did their wives ever get near the bathroom?! Right through history the male of the species has always had an innate desire to look their best and although it might seem like those ponces in pink are going that one step too far they’re just following in the footsteps of ancestors who continually pushed the boundaries of the fashion world.

But amidst all this metro sexuality there’s one accessory item which has divided opinion almost from its inception. It is at once practical and pretty, fetching and fey and is likely to garner as many nods of approval from men in horn rimmed glasses as guffaws from gangs of garrulous girls. You can possess hair styled in the manner of a tropical parrot, clothes more garish than Joseph’s amazing Technicolor dream coat and exude an aroma similar to that of a 1920’s brothel just before opening time and still be considered one of the lads but woe betide anyone who goes that one step further and takes possession of this one item which will instantly see their sexuality brought into question. So what am I talking about then? Those dapper scarves which serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever? Nope. The myriad of multi coloured bracelets which adorn many the arm of today’s young men? Nope. ‘Wacky’ underwear proclaiming the feats of iconic superheroes? Certainly not! I’m talking about something as simple as a vestibule for carrying those items which you simply can’t do without on a day to day basis. I’m talking about the man bag.

There’s not many things which women have that make me jealous, well maybe their breasts but that’s for another time, but the fact that they can have bags full of mysterious delights whilst us poor plebs have to cram everything into our ill-fitting pockets has always been a bugbear of mine. What do they have in those bags of theirs? On the rare occasions that I’ve managed to sneak a glance into one of said bags all I’ve seen is endless junk masquerading as useful items. Next time you’re out and about in the presence of lady folk have a quick look in their unattended handbag and see can you make any sense of it all, go on try it. It’s like a war zone in there as a handful of discernible items desperately try to free themselves from the cesspit of carnage which they’ve become trapped within. I once attempted to carefully place my hand inside one of these bags before quickly withdrawing it just as the slavering jaws of some feral beast sought to liberate me of one of my fingers!

So why can they have knapsacks full of what quite frankly is nothing more than rubble while we have to go about our day in constant discomfort thanks to our keys accidentally grazing our nether regions through their temporary home in our pockets. That’s what the creator of the man bag must have thought and fair fuckin played to him I say. We have stuff too you know. It might not have the same levels of importance as those bits of paper with illegible writing on them that ladies have but it’s important nonetheless and it needs a suitable means of transport. Thus the man bag was born and from almost the first moment I saw one I wanted one. No longer would I carry my newspaper under my arm all day, yearn for a blast of Nivea dry impact to soothe my perspiring pits, wake up all furry mouthed at an impromptu session and curse my lack of a toothbrush or attempt to smuggle a bottle of an ambitious sized spirit into a nightclub. Life would be different now.

So as you do I mentioned to a few mates over a pint or two my fondness for these bags for men and my ultimate intention to purchase one. Such was the reaction I may as well have informed them that I was planning a fortnight’s holiday at Michael Barrymore’s house with Julian Clary and Graham Norton as my fellow companions. Once the array of limp wristed actions and high pitched voices had died down I enquired as to what exactly was the problem. “They’re for gays”, came the erudite response. Now I consider my friends to be a quite liberal minded bunch so this blunt retort was wholly unexpected and my new position as group pariah an uncomfortable one. “Well I like them”, I meekly replied, but in my heart of hearts I knew I could never get one now. How manbags had gained this affiliation with the more camp element of the fashion world was unbeknownst to me. But I instantly understood that any attempt to purchase even the most manly of man bags would have me looking over my shoulder in anticipation of not only insults from uber-hetero blokes, but also lascivious looks from those who saw my man bag as a symbol of my rather gay intent.

At this point I feel I should insert the requisite “I’m not a homophobe” disclaimer, although the fact that I’m willing to talk with such frankness about my desire to own a man bag should be proof enough of my liberal minded nature I hope. But as liberal minded as I am I still couldn’t bring myself to buy one of those bags no matter how practical it appeared. I was haunted by my friend’s jibes and feared an incessant volley of insults rendering me nothing more than a shell of a man with only his man bag to soothe his broken heart. But wouldn’t a real man just buy the fuckin bag and not care what people think? Go on get that bag, cram it with your bloke’s stuff and to hell with the haters! I considered this, weighed up all the options with the end result being that I wasn’t a real man. I was fine with this but what I wasn’t fine with was continuing having to carry my worldly belongings in just a few pitiful pockets.

But just when I thought all hope was lost and I was destined to eye those brave, real men with ever increasing envy fate dealt me a quite fortunate hand. There was many great things about heading to college as a ‘mature student’ to finally fulfil my dreams of writing nonsense such as this for a living but one that I never foresaw was the chance to become a proud man bag owner! In the weeks leading up to my first day at big boy’s school it suddenly dawned on me that I’m going to need somewhere to store the endless textbooks, notepads, pens and folders which I would surely need. Now’s my chance I thought with glee. Not for me a sturdy backpack to fill with college gear. No, I was getting a man bag, and the best thing was it was ‘for college’ so no one could accuse me of going all soft.

I now have my man bag and I’ve never been happier. It fulfils its primary purpose of storing my daily college necessities whilst also doubling up as a perfect means of ensconcing any other vital items I may need to call upon throughout my day. Fear of reprisal is nonexistent in this brave new world as us liberal minded learners wouldn’t dream of judging someone purely based on what accessories they flaunt. As I and my man bag strut proudly around campus I see nothing but other proud carriers going about their day with the contented air of someone who can call upon an array of suitably secreted sandwiches should they so wish. I know I’m one of the lucky ones and there are many other suffering men out there terrified to take this biggest of steps. But my advice to you is don’t make the same mistakes I did, don’t take the coward’s option, don’t apply for college just so you have an excuse and don’t allow yourself to look back on your life and curse the fact you never had the cojones to get a man bag. Because real men wear man bags. And I’m a real man. Finally.

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.