Tuesday, May 22, 2012

That was the year that was


 My assessment of the players of Manchester United Football Club during the 2011-12 season....



As the clock ticked inexorably into injury time I finally allowed myself to believe. We were going to do it. Somehow despite all the odds, we were going to do it. This team, Fergie’s worst in twenty years©, were about to secure United’s twentieth title and in the process break the hearts of those noisy neighbours from the council house.

Minutes later I sat agog, bereft. What had just happened? The answer was we had been given a taste of our medicine. For Bayern ’99, Sheffield Wednesday ’93 and Tottenham ’01 now add city ’12 to the list. Except this time we were on the receiving end, and boy did it hurt. How did our players react to such a cruel blow? I have no idea, currently in the middle of a prolonged media blackout I may never know how they felt as the pint-sized Argentine consigned us to a summer of sorrow and lament. But I know how I feel about them. I may not have been able to watch them slump to the turf as nine months hard graft slid agonisingly away but I’d watched them right up until that terrible last act. I’d watched them enough to form an opinion on how they’d performed. So here it is.

KEEPERS

David De Gea
“God he’s a bit thin isn’t he”? “Definitely too thin to be a keeper, especially in England”! “What will happen when we play at Stoke”? And so began DDGs career in England. Just 20 years of age and with no experience of English football he was always going to face scepticism from the traditionalists. We had gone from having a dependable elder statesman to having a doe-eyed tyro in the space of a few months. This was going to take some getting used to.

His start certainly didn’t help. Rudimentary errors against city and West Brom in his first two games were fortunately wiped out by match winning performances but already the knives were out. We backed our young Spaniard to the hilt but who among us didn’t harbour our own doubts? A period of relative consistency settled both ours, and De Gea’s nerves, and it seemed all was well. Wrong. Bullied by Blackburn and demoralised at Anfield it looked like Dave was heading the same way as the many that had tried, and failed, to fill Schmeichel’s gloves. Dave’s stock was at rock bottom. Time to take him out they said, bring in the dependable Lindegaard. But an injury to the Dane meant we were stuck with the browbeaten Spaniard. And that was that.

Faced with the option of either sinking or swimming, Dave swam. He swam his little heart out and the young, tormented custodian of the winter months blossomed into a confident, almost cocky, goalkeeper. There was still the occasional error, but that’s just part of a keeper’s life. Dave had come good. He had walked through the valley of death and lived to tell the tale. He is ever so thin though.

Rating: 7

Highlight: Announcing to the world that he and his girlfriend ‘enjoy’ his beard. I enjoy it too.

Lowlight: Feebly grasping the Mancunian air for a ball that was never his as Blackburn scored their third, and ultimately the winning, goal at Old Trafford on New Year’s Eve.



Anders Lindegaard
For a time last season Lindegaard benefited from simply not being David De Gea. As the young Spaniard lurched from one disaster to the next there was a groundswell of support for the Dane to become our number one keeper. This was despite many Reds having barely seen him in action. True he had performed admirably in Lisbon as United gained a valuable away point but his other appearances had been in largely uneventful one-sided United victories. As fate would have it Lindegaard picked up an injury just as his big chance looked to have arrived. And from that point forwards we saw the blossoming of the previously nervy De Gea. Lindegaard will remain our number two but he is arguably the best back up keeper United have ever had.

DEFENDERS

Rio Ferdinand
Rio played 29 league games this season, the most he’s managed since 2007/08 which ended with United winning the League and Champions League double. My question is this: why did he have wait until Vidic got injured to figure out his injury problems? Does he secretly dislike the Serb? Thus explaining why he’s featured so rarely in recent years. Whatever the reasons it was good to have the wobbly gobbed one back in the fray albeit without our club captain at his side.

At the time of writing Ferdinand has just been omitted from the England squad for the European Championships surely bringing an end to his international career. He’s thirty three now so although he might be unhappy to miss out on England’s progression to the quarter finals before being knocked out on penalties it’s probably for the best really. He’s unlikely to have the longevity of Giggs or Scholes but another couple of years in United’s back four is the least we can expect.

Rating: 7

Highlight: Going up for a corner against Bolton in January. You are allowed to enter the opposition box occasionally Rio.

Lowlight: The defensive mix-up which allowed Jelavic to score Everton’s third goal in the game which effectively cost us the title.

Jonny Evans

Why is there no ‘H’ in your name Jonny? The only other person I know with an H-less Jonny is Jonny Wilkinson and he seems to be a right twat. Sort it out Johnny. See what I did there? Bit of a breakthrough season for the young (he’s actually 24 now) Northern Irishman though. His sending off in the home game against city was the final straw for many fans. And when Vidic got injured we all wondered who would be the one to partner Rio. Smalling? Jones? William Prunier? Nope none of them. Up stepped Jonny and like De Gea he flourished with the knowledge that his place in the team was safe and he wasn’t going to be dropped at the first sign of nerves.

How good is Evans though? At one point during a particularly decent spell of form Fergie was moved to call him “the best defender in the country”. Whoa steady on there Sir Alex! Titus Bramble is still playing these days didn’t you know? Evans is an excellent centre back. Quick in the tackle, confident on the ball and an excellent reader of the game he has all the attributes to be one of the game’s best. But whether he can ever live up to the grandiose claims of his manager is another matter entirely.

Rating: 6

Highlight: His first goal in professional football at Wolves.    

Lowlight: The aforementioned sending off in the derby game at Old Trafford with the score at 1-0. I’m not blaming Jonny for what happened though..........



Phil Jones

At one point during the game at Loftus Road against Queens Park Rangers I began to believe that Phil Jones might very well be the greatest footballer I had ever seen. One rampaging run after another had left the opposition bedraggled and wearied as they struggled to cope with the indefatigable young centre back turned midfielder. He was literally unstoppable (he may actually have been stoppable but if Jamie Redknapp can use that word out of context well so can I). Bobby Charlton had compared him to Duncan Edwards and right there and then I was willing to liken him to not only our tragic hero from the 50s but the Greek Gods into the bargain.

But then his form dipped. Only slightly at first. But then noticeably. He went from being a boisterous buffalo running riot on the plains of the Premier League to a meek little mouse unable to clear the first man with his crosses. He even got injured. You’re supposed to break bones Phil but not your own. By the end of the season he looked like someone who couldn’t wait for the season to be over. But sadly, unlike his defensive ally Rio Ferdinand, Phil Jones will be travelling to Polkraine this summer to watch England stumble and stutter for everyone’s amusement. I’d imagine Fergie is already planning an extended break for the clearly jaded Lancastrian.

Rating: 6

Highlight: An assured midfield display in the League game at Anfield which enabled us to end our losing streak there.

Lowlight: Getting bullied by Ba at St. James in a rare outing at centre half.

Chris Smalling

Bit of a truncated season this one for Chris. He’s officially the best Chris to ever play for United did you know that? Tell me a better one? Go on. Smalling is one of the few players in the current United squad that I buzz off when watching him play. I love the fact that he was plucked from relative obscurity into the harsh realities of Premier League football and barely batted an eyelid. When Fergie forked out £10 million for him there was many who wondered what he saw in the raw Maurice Moss lookalike but he fitted seamlessly into the United side whenever he played.

He showed his capability at full back this season as well but to my mind he is the long term successor to Rio when he finally calls it a day.

Rating: 6

Highlight: That cool little headscarf thing he wore against Bilbao which made him look a prisoner from a gritty Louis Theroux documentary.

Lowlight: Where’s Kompany gone? Oh there he is. Oh shit.

Rafael

You can say what you like about the little barmpot but I love him. He just doesn’t give two fucks. Up against the speediest winger in the League? Not a problem. “I’ll just dive in and try and nick the ball away............oops.......not to worry I’ll chase back now and get it off him...........there you go, told you I could do it............now I’ll set off on the attack and most likely score a goal”. He’s mental the little Brazilian and has all the footballing brains of Rene Higuita..... on crack. His positional sense is diabolical and I’m convinced he has no idea what the offside rule is all about but he’s still one of the most entertaining players in the United squad.

Rating: 6

Highlight: Finally convincing Fergie to send his idiot brother out on loan so he can get some peace and quiet while preparing for matches.

Lowlight: Unfairly blamed for the 4-4 draw against Everton the little Brazilian didn’t feature again.



Patrice Evra

It says a lot about the irascible Frenchman that his most notable moment of the season came after the final whistle had blown in the game against Liverpool at Old Trafford. His full time histrionics in front of the Stretford End, and more notably Luis Suarez, were fully justified given the amount of injustice Paddy had to endure. And what United fan didn’t rejoice in the sight of our left back giving it welly?

On the pitch however things have changed. The player who at one point was our most consistently brilliant performer has now lapsed into a different kind of consistency. These days Evra is consistently average. He’s rarely awful but long gone are the driving, surging forwards runs of old. No more is Evra the nimble, athletic patroller of the left side of United’s defence. He is now just another left back. Another run of the mill defender in a league full of them. Yes there are occasional moments of brilliance which remind us of the Evra of old but no longer is he the mainstay he once was and it could be argued that only his captaining of the side is keeping him in the team. A challenger to his position is needed and fast.

Rating: 6

Highlight: His merry jig in front of the Stretty which so angered the Liverpool players. Diddums.

Lowlight: An insipid performance in the Old Trafford derby which was later explained by the recent loss of one of his brothers.

Nemanja Vidic

It was bad enough losing Vidic for the majority of last season, now the fear is that he may never be the same player again. Time will tell how he recovers from his ruptured cruciate ligament injury. But having never been blessed with the greatest pace or mobility and now the wrong side of thirty there has to be some question marks over the future of our club captain.

Fabio

Did he even play last season? Apparently he started ten games but I’m fucked if I can even remember one minute he spent on the pitch last season. Also does anyone think he’s starting to look less and less like his brother with every passing year? I can easily tell them apart now. And no not just by seeing which one is playing and which one isn’t! Should be even easier to tell them apart from next season as Fergie is shipping the non-playing da Silva brother out on loan.

MIDFIELDERS

Michael Carrick
My United player of the season for 2011/2012. Yep the perennial scapegoat for all that is wrong with Manchester United Football Club had, what was for me, his finest season in a red shirt and deserves a little bit more recognition than he’s got. From the time of his recall to the side in early December right through to the end of the season Carrick was our most consistent performer. Snuffing out attacks with a minimum of fuss, diligent use of the ball, contributing in both attack and defence without ever affecting the balance of the team, Carrick was a model of excellence throughout.

But because he doesn’t go charging into tackles in the manner of more agricultural players or leave his post to go on fruitless sorties in search of a goal he’s derided as a player who offers little. Carrick offers everything you can expect of a modern day central midfielder. His only crime is not being English enough in a league full of foreigners. Because make no mistake if he were called Michele Cariccione he would be one of the most feted players in English football.

Rating: 8

Highlight: Becoming even more unassuming that I previously thought. If he weren’t a footballer Michael Carrick would clearly be one of the most forgettable people on the face of this planet.

Lowlight: Being overlooked for England duty at the Euros. Although he’s probably better off in truth.



Anderson

Oh Ando how many more chances? Like a wife-beating husband we forgive and forgive the porcine Brazilian, always believing that this will be the time. This will be the time when the pain of the past will be forgotten and he finally comes good. And for a while it seems like our faith was justified. He zips up and down the pitch with his beautiful lardy arse poking out and we love him. We laugh as he scowls and smirks his way through games and we congratulate ourselves for having such patience.

Then the old problems rear their ugly heads. It starts with a hamstring injury and the promise that he’ll return in a few weeks. A few weeks pass, where’s Ando? Nobody knows. Chances are he has locked himself in the Old Trafford toilets with a year’s supply of KFC and isn’t coming out anytime soon. This particular wife has felt too much pain, got her hopes up far too often. Sling your hook Ando and make sure the door doesn’t hit your fat arse on the way out.

Rating: 5

Highlight: A sublime goal against Spurs in the first game of the season, capping a man of the match display.

Lowlight: Attempting to eat his own weight in Kit Kat Chunkys and failing by a mere two bars.

Tom Cleverley

Did you know Tom Cleverley has his own website entitled TC23? On there you can read about and I quote “My Game”, “My Life”, “TC Community” and the rather intriguing sounding “TC23 Collection”. Fuck me. How many games has he played for United? Imagine what he’ll be like if ever becomes an established player? TC23. It sounds like a cream for haemorrhoids! “Ere luv get me the TC23 wilya me fookin arse is killin me”!!

I actually like Cleverley as a player though. A bit like Carrick he does the simple things well. Gets up and down the pitch and links the play quite cleverly (fuck I really thought I could manage it but I couldn’t). But like his early season central midfield partner, Anderson, he appears to be made out of balsa and he never really recovered from the injury inflicted upon him by the great, lumbering oaf that is Kevin Davies. Or KD14 as he probably calls him. But let’s just see if you’re the real deal before you go adding to that website of yours eh Clevz?

Rating: 6

Highlight: Bagging a Page 3 stunnah for himself. I have no idea how long he’s been going out with her but fair played to the lad, excellent exploitation of his status as TC23.

Lowlight: Filling the role of ‘injured midfielder who could really improve the team’ vacated by the departed Owen Hargreaves.

Paul Scholes

Why are you coming back Scholesy? Why risk ruining your legacy? It can only end badly you know? Just some of the questions that ran through my mind on the morning of the cup game at the council house which saw the return of the ginger ninja. It seemed like a step backwards for both club and player. The only plus point I could foresee was the subsequent end to the Manchester United career of Darron ‘Potshot’ Gibson. Scholes had retired for a reason and it seemed like a wise decision at the time. So why come back?

How happy I was to be proved wrong. After a jittery couple of games Scholes settled into the old routine. Invigorated by the break he was even better than we remembered. He even started getting forward again, popping up unexpectedly in the box like the 2000 vintage edition. He’s now decided to stay on for another year. I still kinda wish he hadn’t to be honest. This glorious swansong could have been the perfect finale to one of the all-time great United careers. But then what do I know.

Rating: 8

Highlight: All of it. Every single moment. From the dinked five yard passes to the long distance Scholesly specials.

Lowlight: A less than stellar second debut in the cup game at city.



Darren Fletcher

Never the healthiest looking individual we finally discovered the cause of Fletcher’s less than rosy complexion. Ulcerative colitis threatens to end the career of one of my favourite United players of recent years and its saddening to see such an honest, hard-working individual battle this illness while others at the club steal a living. I’m still allowed a joke or two at his expense though right? C’mon?!! Okay then I won’t mention anything about Fergie not allowing Dazza anywhere near the dressing room during squeaky bum time or anything like that, I promise.

Nani

Why is that with Nani that you always feel he is on the cusp of something? On the cusp of being a world-class player. On the cusp of having a truly outstanding season. On the cusp of finally fulfilling his potential. On the cusp of bringing a halt to his mesmerising footwork and eventually crossing the ball. About to enter his sixth season at the club Nani has never quite developed into the player we thought he would become. The childish impudence which marks his game has never quite left him. He’s still a fabulous footballer and one of United’s biggest assets but there will always be question marks surrounding the Portuguese.

You only have to look at his goals and assists over the past couple of seasons to recognise his growing importance to this current United side. After Wayne Rooney he is our most effective attacker but you could argue that that is a sad reflection on the quality of our frontline rather than anything else. Despite missing a large chunk of the season through injury he still managed to average a goal every three games in the league which is an excellent strike rate for a winger. But still the doubts remain.

Rating: 7

Highlight: His two goals in the Community Shield against city way back in August.

Lowlight: The mid-season injury which curtailed his involvement at a crucial period.

Antonio Valencia

What can you say about Valencia? Is he really a Replicant? I certainly think so. When was the last time you saw him sweat or even look remotely tired? This season has undoubtedly been his best in a United shirt. And that is despite becoming more one-dimensional than ever before, his play is now so predictable that it is only half a dimension. But just because defenders know what he is going to do does that mean they can stop him? I’m afraid not. Once Tony gets the ball out on the right-hand side he will stop at nothing to ensure he gets in his cross. He draws the line at using his left foot though.

The arrival of Ashley Young looked set to consign the Ecuadorian to the bench as he and the mercurial Nani manned the flanks at the season’s outset. But Replicants aren’t prone to panic, or any emotion for that manner, and Antonio simply bided his time and waited his turn. And once he regained his place there was simply no stopping him. If possible he appeared even more implacable, even more indestructible, than before.  But we know nothing about Valencia really. Yes Wikipedia may tell us some arbitrary facts about his career but do you really believe any of that? Someone, somewhere has the answers but for now Tony shall remain shrouded in mystery. Just the way he likes it.

Rating: 8

Highlight: The malfunction which lead to him shooting, scoring and celebrating at Blackburn.

Lowlight: Suppressing a giggle at one of Anderson’s wayward shots during training.



Ashley Young

Upon signing Young many United fans breathed a sigh of relief. Finally that problematic left winger position would be filled adequately. I , like many others, just automatically presumed that Young was as comfortable on his left side as his right. I presumed that he would skip round the outside of full backs and ping in crosses for our grateful strikers to get on the end of. I was wrong. Young uses his left foot only marginally more than Tony Valencia. So why is he a left winger then? I’m still not sure to be honest.

Being so right footed and playing on the left wing means that Young tends to cut inside a lot. He goes down the outside, beats his man and comes back onto his right foot. Then maybe for good measure he’ll do it all over again. Once he actually bumped into himself on the way back from checking inside. Young is far more dangerous from central positions and the quality of the goals he scored this season point to a player with the ability to strike and score from range almost at will. Already we have seen him play in a withdrawn striker role for England and you can’t help but wonder how he would fare in a similar position for United. Don’t ask me who we’ll play on the left though.

Rating: 6

Highlight: An outstanding two goal performance against Arsenal in the early stages of the season.

Lowlight: That dive against QPR. Wasn’t half dramatic enough for my liking.

Ryan Giggs

Is it sacrilege to say I think Giggsy’s time is up? It’s got to the stage now where you can’t comment on his performance without bringing his age into the equation. His ability to even play at this level of football is remarkable for a man of his years (see I just did it there),  but no way should he be starting games such as April’s Manchester derby. If he is to remain then his appearances in the side should come in the form of an occasional cameo and no longer should we have to inwardly groan at the sight of his name on the team sheet for a crucial game.

He made his 900th appearance for United at Carrow Road this season and wouldn’t you just know it he popped up with the winner in injury time. He is still capable of quality deliveries from his old haunt on the left wing, but like a boxer who has lost everything but his knockout punch that is one of the few things Giggs can still do effectively. He may prove me wrong, after all he’s been doing it for years, but I think this glorious autumn period of his career is in danger of becoming a harsh, unforgiving winter. And no-one connected with Manchester United wants to see that.

Rating: 5

Highlight: Scoring at Fulham to keep up his record of netting in every season of the Premier League.

Lowlight: Missing out on the trip to Amsterdam. He would have loved the scenery.

Park Ji-Sung

As the hours ticked by and every United fan waited nervously for kick off at the Etihad there was many a rumour about the nature of our starting line up. Most were summarily dismissed for the wums that they were. Then the official teamsheet was announced and we wondered whether this was the sickest joke of them all. But no, there he was in all his inept glory: Park Ji Sung. Rarely can three words have been the cause of such acrimony among United fans. Some laud him for his work-rate and ability to find pockets of space but most see him as nothing more than an excuse to sell tickets in the Far East.  

His performance in that fateful derby came as no surprise. Hopelessly off the pace he may have been but having not featured in the first team for over three months what else was to be expected? Over the years Park has forged a reputation as a player for the big occasion but some degree of match fitness is required to have a say in any game, big or otherwise. His future at United looks unclear, as at the wrong side of thirty he can no longer rely on an endless supply of stamina to prove his worth.

Rating: 5

Highlight: His customary goal against Arsenal in the 8-2 mauling.

Lowlight: The realisation that his time at United may be up.

STRIKERS

Wayne Rooney

If the opportunity arises then I think Wayne Rooney should leave United this summer. With Barcelona clearly in need of a central striker there may be a once in a career chance for Rooney to join the Catalans and be surrounded by the kind of players his talents deserve. Obviously I hope this doesn’t happen, he is after all our best player. But you can’t help but feel like Rooney’s peak years are in danger of being wasted at a club unable to match his ambitions. United and Fergie may make all the right noises but should another summer pass without some serious additions to the squad then Rooney has every right to question the club.

In the season just gone Rooney scored 34 goals. But at no point did you feel like he was the potent force of previous years. How often did he look to be enjoying his football? Surely he must look around at some of his team-mates and wonder would he be better served playing elsewhere. He has gone from being flanked by Cristiano Ronaldo and Carlos Tevez to having raw rookie, Danny Welbeck, and the bumbling Mexican, Javier Hernandez,  as his main accomplices. While the club was still successful this wasn’t a major issue. But now that city have formed a title-winning side how do United respond? More bargain bin buys courtesy of the Glazers simply won’t cut it. Fail to respond in a sufficient manner and we could see the departure of one of the finest players to wear the shirt.

Rating: 7

Highlight: His new hair. It really is a thing of wonder. Not sure if I like his attempts to grow out at the end of the season though. Stick to what you know Waz.

Lowlight: Being forced into a midfield role during the winter months as our lack of options in that area was painfully exposed.



Danny Welbeck

Remember when you were a kid and you loved every single player on the team? You knew their date of birth, place of birth and favourite colour. They were idols to a man. Then as you got older you began to realise that very few of those players cared about the club in the same way you did. They talked of loving the club ,and in fairness they played like men who felt that way, but you knew they could never feel how you did. But every now and then a player comes along who truly seems to care. Eric was the obvious example.  Young Danny is another.

There is nothing quite as satisfying as seeing a young player make the grade. If he also happens to be a local lad well then you can triple that level of satisfaction. Upon returning from Sunderland this was to be Welbeck’s breakthrough season. And after a stuttering start that is exactly what it turned out to be. Strong as an ox, deceptively quick and the possessor of a great footballing brain Welbeck had an exceptional year. Perhaps not a natural finisher he does need to become sharper in front of goal but all that will come. Time is on his side and more importantly, the fans are on his side.

Rating: 7

Highlight: A vital match winning goal at the Emirates, celebrated in the manner of someone who really cared.

Lowlight: A barren run of eleven games without a goal before Christmas.

Javier Hernandez

We worried about it all summer. Would the Mexican take the necessary precautions or would he fall foul of that most terrible of illnesses. A summer spent playing for his national team did nothing to alleviate our fears. He returned a little later than the rest but once he got back playing everything seemed fine. Maybe he hadn’t contracted the virus after all. But then as the season wore on our worst fears were confirmed. Yes that’s right, the little pea had developed one of the most feared ailments for any footballer. The dreaded Second Season Syndrome.

If you were to judge Hernandez purely on his goals to games ratio then he didn’t do too badly. 12 goals in 36 appearances is hardly the worst case of SSS we have ever seen. But it was how his season ended which sticks in the mind. By the time the crucial title run in rolled round Hernandez was a mere shell of the player who took the League by storm in his debut season. He could barely control the ball and some wondered whether his flurry of goals the previous year had simply been the result of a less than assured first touch. I’m sure The Pea will return to form next season, after all there is no such thing as Third Season Syndrome. But a good rest is needed if we are to see sales of sombreros pick up again round Sir Matt Busby way.

Rating: 5

Highlight: The winner at Everton in the first game since the 6-1.

Lowlight: A particularly hapless performance at Ewood Park which was almost painful to watch.

Dimitar Berbatov

So the beguiling Bulgar is off then? Sadly there won’t be too many United fans shedding a tear at the departure of our record signing. It just never worked out for Dimi at United. Right from the off something seemed amiss. Outrageously talented he may be but Berbatov and United just didn’t go together. Fans will point to his goalscoring record as proof of his success but those stats hide the truth. He never did it when it counted. He never grabbed a game by the scruff of its neck and said “Don’t worry lads, I got this”.

To his eternal credit he maintained his silence when he was inexplicably frozen out of the team by a manager who had clearly lost all faith in him. Others would have ran to the press with sob stories and caused all manner of problems but Berbatov kept his counsel. But maybe that was his problem. Maybe he just didn’t care enough. All the best Dimi, it wasn’t the love affair we had hoped for but it had its moments.

Rating: 5

Highlight: A fruitful Christmas period which saw him bag six goals in three games.

Lowlight: Being consigned to the sidelines as his United career drew to an ignominious conclusion.





So that’s then. There were others who played a part this season but most aren’t worth mentioning. Michael Owen has finally slung his hook and vacated the number seven shirt he should never have been given in the first place. Darron Gibson’s departure was long overdue and of great relief to all. Ravel Morrison made his long awaited debut before being kicked out of the club for misbehaving one too many times. Paul Pogba? Who knows.
But what of next season? Fergie has said there may be two, perhaps three, arrivals. A midfielder, a proper one that actually plays there, must surely arrive this summer. A striker too. But with those penny pinching parasites still running the club it is impossible to predict the nature of the club’s business this summer. Just as well there’s no value in the market then eh?

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Bookfast


How I went from a devourer of books to starving myself of the written word...........



Occasionally when meeting someone new they will ask you “Are you a reader”? How do you reply? “Of course, sure I’m online all day”! “Oh you mean books? Not so much then”. That’s pretty much my response nowadays and I am ashamed to admit it. I had grown up an avid reader, a book a week was my absolute minimum as a child. But now I’m lucky if I get through a book a year and very rarely do I devote time to what was once my favourite hobby. So where did it all go wrong? How did I go from being a child who questioned the library’s decision to only allow five books out at once to an adult who would seemingly rather do anything than embrace the written word?



First off I must categorically state that I have never fallen out of love with reading. To me it is still the most immersive form of media and nothing compares to a good book. I love film, music and video games but at its best a book trumps them all. I put this down to the fact that you interpret a book in your own unique way, the characters, the locations, the sounds and the sights are all created by your own imagination. Unless of course you’re reading a book which has since been adapted into a film in which case you can’t help but see things as the director interpreted them. So if I still love reading so much why don’t I do it anymore?

I have pondered the answer to this question on many occasions, but like so much in life there is no sole reason, no one answer. Obviously I had a lot more time on my hands as a child, plus the Internet hadn’t been invented back then so there was no omnipresent distraction humming away in the corner of the room. There were video games back then though, my battered MegaDrive (RIP) is testament to that. Also there was the small matter of epic four hour games of football on a nightly basis, no matter the weather, to contend with. But yet I still found time to ‘curl up with a good book’ (isn’t that the most cringeworthy phrase of all time?) whenever I could.



You could try and point to the ‘coming of age’ years as the reason for my gradual decline but again it would be inaccurate. Discovering booze, women and a few other things may have changed my outlook on life in so many ways but still I read. Maybe not as much as when I was younger but still enough to consider myself a reader. I progressed from the playful scriptures of my youth to more diverse works and found myself not only being beguiled by the books themselves but by those who wrote them too. I looked up to these authors and found myself, almost unwittingly, quoting their work to invariably blank faces. Sebastian Faulks, Tom Wolfe, Irvine Welsh, these men were heroes to me.

As an adult reader I found myself as likely to discuss my favourite works of fiction with my friends as I was the latest album I had listened to. Books were regularly exchanged with people you barely knew, your desire to have them feel what you felt overcame any misgivings you had about not getting the book back. Without even realising it I was educating myself. I’d sit absent mindedly watching a quiz on television and find myself answering questions which I had no right to answer, “How did you know that”? asked my clearly impressed Mother, “Dunno, must have read it somewhere”, came the response.



But then something changed. No longer could I while away the night without lifting my eyes from the page. My attention span shrunk and with it my desire to read became less and less. At the time I didn’t realise what was the cause but from a position of hindsight I can now clearly see how it all happened. The Internet. Yes the Internet, that all consuming, all dominating megalith which at one time or another has been blamed for each and every one of societies ails. It may not be responsible for obesity or teenage pregnancies like some have suggested but it was responsible for one thing. Single-handedly turning me from one of the planet’s most dedicated readers into someone who can barely go ten pages without wondering if he has any Facebook notifications. Oh curse you Internet and your instant gratifications.

It was a subtle change at first. As I read I’d feel my mind drifting away and be forced to focus on what was on the page so as to take it all it. But then I’d drift again, five minutes had passed and I hadn’t turned the page. What had I been thinking? This book must be crap I’d think as I powered my laptop on. “Ah there we go, the lovely Internet, with its online forums, Facebook newsfeed and all the information I could ever wish for, lovely”. Before I knew it three hours had passed and it was time for bed. That was what used to happen when I read I thought as I rubbed my bloodshot eyes and retired for the night with a headache induced from staring at a screen for too long. What have I become?



The die was now cast. I tried to swim against the tide but it was pointless. Any reading I did do was a fractious affair with online queries invading my thoughts at every given opportunity. Instead of immersing myself in my book I began to wonder about its content. I bet I could find out more about this online I’d say as the central character undertook his latest adventure to some far flung location. No longer did I allow myself to imagine. The Internet took care of that, because when you’re online there’s nothing left to imagine. I consoled myself with the thought that at least I’d read, and without those formative years spent inside a book I may not have the semi-average command of the English language I have to this day. What will become of the children of today, for whom the notion of reading a book is as laughable as a world without the Internet.

But I am fighting this affliction, I haven’t given up yet. I still don’t read anything like as much as I should but I’m getting better. Two hour train journeys to visit my nearest and dearest help the cause, but even then the nagging presence of my IPod prevents me from prolonged spells of reading. There may yet be a solution for my malaise however.  Something which will transform me from the dilettante I’ve become right back to the proper little bookworm I once was. It’s a form of technology but unlike those other intrusive devices it will aid not thwart my reading. An Amazon Kindle. Or an e-reader of any type I’m not fussy. I truly believe that having access to so much reading material in the palm of my hand may be the way forward. That utilising a piece of technological hardware will quell my desire for online news. I have to believe this. I have to. Because it’s my last hope. The only thing that’s stopping me from becoming one of those people who doesn’t read. And I never want to be one of those.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Memoirs of a Misspent Childhood

Part 4: What are you afraid of? 


The fictional characters who terrorised me as a child.



Do you remember how ridiculous adults seemed to you as a child? “Look at them there all huddled up together laughing and joking, they haven’t a clue have they”? For the most part they were just various forms of revenue which you could utilise in the pursuit of money when the opportunity arose. Yes they held a degree of authority over you but only because of a silent agreement on your part not to kick up a fuss until your teenage years when you would make their life a living hell. On and on they nattered about such and such a wan who had gone into hospital, how the country “had gone to the dogs” and “what an awful oul bollix the local priest was”. Yes we were listening, we were always listening, we had fuck all else to do during those interminable waits on the side of the road as Mammy chewed the fat with Mrs. O’Riordan, who she described as “a nosy fuckin bitch, stuck in everythin” when away from prying ears. Oh we were listening alright.

But every now and then no matter how hard we listened there were certain things we didn’t understand. Grown up stuff. The room would become hushed and all the adults present took on an air of solemnity not seen since the Pope’s visit in ’79. What’s up with ye at all we’d think as they smoked fags with shaky hands and littered the air with pleas for God to swoop down and rescue us all from this terrible predicament. How could they have anything to worry about? No parents telling em what to do, no short tempered teacher expecting homework which was never gonna be done. They could stay up as late as they wanted, watch telly all night, head off to the pub and stand around shouting, and sometimes fighting, until the sun came up. Sure they had it fuckin easy. Not like us poor souls who struggled to get through our days in one piece.

Oh the innocence of childhood. The reality is that life as an adult is one filled with infinite, intangible fears. Fears that accompany you everywhere you go. Half the time you can’t even grasp what they are but they’re there and you can feel them, breathing down your neck. There’s no point trying to escape them because they’ll always be there, it’s just part of our make-up. Show me a man without fear and I’ll show you someone who has nothing worth living for. But we weren’t to know that. For us, as children, it seemed that the world was designed to strike the fear of God into us. Everywhere you looked there was something out to get you. Were it not for those parents and their grown up ways we would have been done for.



But little did we know that it was those blasted adults that were largely responsible for our terror. Yes they wanted to mind us and make sure we crossed the road okay, thanks a million, but once we were all safely tucked up in bed they got together and dreamt up ways to scare the fuckin shit out of us. Oh how laughed as they envisaged our horrified faces slowly creasing up until tears flowed and flowed and flowed. They imagined us waking up in the middle of the night, screaming the house down begging for mercy and they laughed some more. The bastards. You don’t believe me? Well take a look at my list of childhood enemies and tell me I’m lying.


FREDDIE KREUGER


Okay I know I shouldn’t have been watching Nightmare on Elm Street when I was eight years old but that’s not the point. What child could resist a film which bore that red circle with the number 18 contained within, it signified danger and we loved danger. The thing was we really didn’t. Someone would announce that they’d got Nightmare on Elm Street in their house and the first thing that shot to our minds was to run, as fast as we could, into the loving bosoms of our Mother’s. But we were damned if we were gonna be the one to say it. So off we trooped, like men on death row, to the living room of the house where no adults were present and on came Freddie.



Looking at him now he’s a fuckin joke. He looks like one of those particularly weather beaten drunks that you see cavorting round the park of a balmy summer’s eve. All that’s missing is a flagon of Devil’s Bit and the ensemble is complete. Yes he had a glove with claws on but so did Edward Scissorhands and no one was scared of him. What Wes Craven managed to create was a character that could get at you no matter who you were. One, two Freddie’s coming for you. Three, four you better lock your door. Five, six grab your crucifix. Seven, eight you better stay up late. Nine, ten you’ll never sleep again........I don’t care what anyone says that’s some scary shit right there. Krueger got into the psyche of my eight year old self and for at least two years he wreaked havoc. Eventually I got over my Freddie fears and slept again, but I never did forget that song.

THE TRASH HEAP IN FRAGGLE ROCK


That’s right laugh it up, go on. Laugh at that simple child who loved everything about Fraggle Rock, from the Doozers to Uncle Travelling Matt and especially Sprocket. That same child who was brave enough to watch the Gorgs try and capture his beloved Fraggles but never once looked away. He knew trouble was brewing when the Fraggles ventured into the Gorg’s garden but even then he held firm, I won’t let ‘her’ stop me, not this time. But resistance was futile. Once that big ole trash heap appeared on screen with nothing but an endless array of rotting leaves protecting her dignity it was all over. I turned the sound down, retreated to the confines of behind the sofa and waited for it to be over.



Eventually ‘Marjorie’, as I believe she was called, would impart some words of wisdom to the rapt Fraggle’s and they’d be on their way again. At which point I could exit my bunker and resume my television delights, vowing to watch it without interruption the following week.

DARTH VADER


We’re on to the big guns now, the crème da la crème of evil baddies. Standing seven foot tall and weighing in at an unspecified weight we have the Daddy of them all (well only of Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia as it goes but you understand the sentiment), Darth Vader! Although now parodied and lampooned to the point of breaking there was a time when Darth Vader was the single most terrifying thing in the world. I knew not why he was so wheezy, probably more of them fags given to him by some of them fuckin adults no doubt, nor why he had to wear a helmet in the shape of a bell (oo’er!), all I knew was that anytime he was on screen I nearly shat my little y-fronts.



But I loved Star Wars, and therein laid the conundrum. How could I ever hope to progress to the rank of Jedi if I couldn’t even make it through to the end of the first film? Maybe he was my Father too and that’s why I couldn’t bear to watch him on screen? I knew I was strong in the force, I just knew it, but try as I may I couldn’t face my destiny and by the time I braved the closing scenes of A New Hope it was too late. I was far too old to be trained as a Jedi no matter how strong in the Force. Such a wasted opportunity.

MICHAEL JACKSON IN THE THRILLER VIDEO


Save your jokes about Jacko and kids for another day, this was between me and him. And although he never invited me to Never Never Land or asked me to join him for cuddles he still managed to leave this particular fan with some childhood scars which took some healing. When children today go potty over the sight of Jedward or Justin Bieber I can’t help but smile. You see we had a proper superstar to idolise, not a pair of simpering oafs from Dublin. We had the real deal, a moonwalking, curly haired kid from Indiana who had us in the palm of his hand (careful) anytime we saw him.



The Thriller video was in itself revolutionary. Never before had an artist taken such care and time over a music video and the result was a mini movie which not only perfectly accompanied the song, but added to it. However I had one slight issue with it. While Jacko and his girl stuck together everything was okay,  that’s what I convinced myself as they sauntered through what looked like an entire neighbourhood of crack dens. As the undead rose from their graves and circled on MJ and his now stricken companion I feared not, Jacko will sort em out he’s one of the good guys. Then it fuckin happens. He’s only gone and become a zombie. And that was it for me, out the door, up the stairs and screaming out the window for anyone, anyone to come and save me from the darkness which lurked within.

GROTBAGS


Similar to the Trash Heap Grotbags doesn’t appear all that menacing when viewed through the eyes of a relatively sane adult. But when viewed through the eyes of a child for whom life was just one big headfuck Grotbags was the ultimate fucker of heads. Part of an increasingly sinister crew of eighties children’s TV characters she was essentially a big, fat, green witch who bullied and harangued anyone who dared cross her. My memories of Grotbags are hazier than that of all my other childhood foes but a quick look at some of her videos on Youtube confirmed my worst beliefs. She still creates a morbid fear in my heart and a chill in my soul. I couldn’t move quick enough to stop the video and get out of there.



THE BOGEYMAN


Just who was this fucker? At one point I was convinced he was a myth created by my Mother to get me to behave. But upon consulting my friends it turned out that they’d heard of him too. The bogeyman. Who was he? At different stages throughout my childhood I was convinced he was, among others, the coalman, an old man with one eye who lived in a tent, my next door neighbour, a strange tree dwelling hunchback who talked with a lisp, Ian Rush, a half monkey half bull creature who could climb up walls, my Uncle Fred (I don’t even have an uncle Fred!) and at one point I even wondered if I was in fact the bogeyman.



Whoever he was he was capable of quite extraordinary feats. He could exist in the wardrobes of at least a dozen children at any one time and no matter how hard you tried you could never see or hear him due to his ability to become invisible at any given time. His reputation preceded him and although I oft speculated about his true identity in a way I was glad I never found out who he was. Because of that I can continue the myth and subject my own, as yet unborn, children to a life of bogeyman related stories and tales.

WORZEL GUMMIDGE


I’ve saved the worst till last. Out of all my childhood foes he was the worst. I say ‘was’ as if I’m no longer scared of him but nothing could be further from the truth. I can’t even bring myself to look at a picture of him let alone watch a video so any research will be limited to exploring the hitherto locked parts of my brain in an attempt to dredge up some repressed childhood traumas. Where do you start with Gummidge? He was a scarecrow that came to life. Is that not scary enough? I’m not even a crow and already I’m petrified. The worst thing about him is that I can’t even fully be sure what it is that freaks me out about him. In the intervening years I’ve watched all manner of fucked up films containing images which by all rights should have left me back behind the couch like all those years ago. But no, I’ve serenely sat through them with barely a flicker of emotion from my increasingly desensitised mind. But even show me a picture of Gummidge and I come out in a cold sweat.

I think a lot of it is the voice. He sounds like a camp yokel on the wrong end of a spectacularly bad drug experience. Incessant blabbering on, all the time lisping like Chrith Eubankth in his pomp. Then there was the heads. I can’t recall how many heads he had or what they were even called but each one was worse than the last and offered little or no respite for this by now traumatised child.  He somehow managed to procure himself a girlfriend, Aunt Sally I think she was called, and she was just as freaky as he was. How the two children that accompanied them during their days didn’t end up in the mental home I’ll never know. Gummidge and this Sally character were probably eventually run from the town and forced to live out their days in some remote part of Yorkshire, where they spawned equally freaky children who could change heads, voices, and arses at will and intermittently visited the nearest village to frighten the life out of the local children. Bastards indeed.


So that’s them all accounted for I think. I’m not sure if this experience has proved therapeutic or not, I suppose the only way to find out is to spend the night re-engaging with my childhood tormentors and loosening their stranglehold over me. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem but if you think I’m even going near a Worzel Gummidge clip you can fuck right off.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Bananas in Pyjamas

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


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



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

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



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

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




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

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



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

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




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

Friday, January 20, 2012

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.  

Monday, January 16, 2012

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.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

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.