What's in a name?

Why one of a parent's most important jobs is getting more difficult with each passing year..........

Choice is a terrible thing. Isn’t life so much simpler when there are no decisions to be made? What clothes to wear, what film to watch, what twitter account to follow: it’s all a bit much at times. Maybe the Communists had it right. Maybe we’d all be so much happier if all of these difficult decisions were made for us. But there’s no turning back now, we want more choice, more options, more, more, more!!

I don’t need to explain how Ireland has changed in the last thirty years. It’s boring. For both me and you. All that needs to be said is we were once a proud nation of potato munching, cap wearing, Guinness drinking, church going people with repressed feelings of guilt and self loathing, and now: now we’re something else. We could blame the British or the Americans for polluting our minds with their high falutin’ ways but in truth we were ripe for the picking. A nation of gap-toothed simpletons just waiting to be corrupted.

So there we were cycling up and down our roads with the children in our pockets and lumps of coal in theirs. Off home to listen to Raidió Teilifis Éireann in silent reverence, mugs of tay in our calloused hands. “Come in outtofit Peader.....and bring your brother Seamus while you’re at it”, “Peggy if I have to call ya one more time”, Kathleen?! Kathleen??!!! KATHLEEEEEEN!!!!! This nightly summons heralded the end of another evening’s play. We would emerge from darkened bushes like thieves in the night and scuttle on home for more fuckin tay. Envisage that very same scene now in 2012. “Madison? Where are you Madison? Hurry on in for your fajitas and call Corey on your way”.

In 2010 the most popular names for newborn babies in Ireland were Daniel and Chloe. Not too bad in fairness. Daniel is a fine name. Aboy Danny, good man Dan. A fine name. Chloe is a bit underwhelming. It doesn’t really mean anything and feels weird when you say it but it’s mostly inoffensive. The other names circling around the top of the lists aren’t bad either; James, Robert, Thomas, Anna, Isabelle, Katie, maybe we’ve not gone completely mad. But what these lists don’t show is the widespread eruption of new, unheralded names.

Perusing the top one hundred names brings up some questions about just where Irish society is headed. Coming in at 83^nd and 92^rd places respectively in the boys list are Tyler and Sebastian. Worrying. Tyler, to me, is just one of those makey uppy names. A collection of letters thrown together which just happen to make a sound similar to a real name. To the best of my knowledge a Tiler is someone who tiles, with tiles and that. The only problem with Sebastian is how irrefutably posh it sounds. It’s a name designed to be spoken by well heeled, upper class Brits or American suburbanites. But then again any Irish people calling their child Sebastian probably speak like that anyway.

This brings me to my next point. The Irish accent and how it pronounces certain monikers. There’s a reason why names such as Chantelle, Britney and Abigail don’t really suit Irish babies. “Shan-tell”, “Brit-en-nay”, “Abbey-gaale”, our uninitiated little mouths simply can’t help but make a dog’s dinner of these names and many more like them. The children in question may be angels sent from heaven but as soon as they utter that sobriquet the game’s up. The cavorting chanteuse on MTV may carry off those types of names with style and grace but bestowing a similar title on an Irish offspring just doesn’t work. Even more so if they’re a ginger, freckled little urchin with snot caked on their upper lip.

And yes, like it or not, MTV does influence the parents of Ireland when deciding what accursed name to christen their poor progeny. Blaming MTV is lazy on my part however. It would be more accurate to point to a popular culture which borrows from more and more questionable influences. Television in general is responsible for putting all kinds of notions in our prospective mothers, and fathers for that matter. But just because the little fella out of < insert tedious reality tv show title here > is flippin’ adorable doesn’t mean your runt will instantly take on that same appeal upon birth.

Being, as of yet, childless myself I am in no real position to condemn others for their choices. But I’m doing it anyway. My valiant swimmers may have been repelled in their efforts thus far but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it. And what interests me is the reasoning behind choosing certain names. I am no different to those who I have derided for naming their little ‘un after someone “off deh telleh”. I imagine studious little Eli poring over his schoolbooks and giving me a knowing wink as I ask him whether he’s finished his homework yet. And the brazen yet bewitching Scholesy sticking her tongue out at me as I playfully ruffle her hair. What?? Scholesy is a name! If Condoleeza is a fuckin name then so is Scholesy!

And I choose these names because of their connotations. Eli, noble and brave yet kind and forgiving. Scholesy, heroic, majestic...yet unassuming and humble. Long gone are the days when Irish people simply chose from the shallow pool of names available. If I think back to my formative years in the Irish education system I’m almost certain there was only about fourteen to fifteen names in use across the entire secondary school I attended. But Irish names are so versatile. That’s why we didn’t need any other names for years. Patrick, Pat, Patsy, Paddy, Pa, Peader, Packie, Pádraic, Pádraig and of course Patricia for the girls. Don’t even get me started on all the variants of Michael.

Thankfully almost all of these names are still being chosen for the new generations. Not with the same regularity of course but they still exist which is the main thing. Another element to the changing face of Ireland has been the growth in traditional Irish names. Almost as an act of defiance the names of our ancient forebears have begun to crop up in previously unseen levels. We’re suddenly breeding a mob of young Celtic warriors as Oisins, Cillians and Fionns stare menacingly out of their cots with fiery little Irish eyes. How long before someone goes the whole hog and names their unsuspecting little brute Cú Chullain?!

But modernity will always claim its victims and it seems some names are destined to fall by the wayside. Imagine someone showing you their proud bundle of joy and exclaiming “Here’s baby Teresa”, you’d laugh your fuckin bollix off. My own Mother is called Teresa but she’s likely to be the last in our family to go by that name I’m afraid. How about ‘Baby Norman’? Or ‘Baby Nigel’? ‘Baby Eileen’ perhaps? It’s just not happening is it? Those are the names which you can only possess if you’re a grown up. People with those names were probably just referred to as ‘the babee’ when they were first born.

And what of my own name? Simon. I’ve grown to like it. Being born and bred in the UK where the name is quite popular I never really gave it a second’s thought as a child. However upon moving to Ireland, where just the sixteen names were currently in use, I became quickly aware of how much of an anomaly I was. Simple Simon, Simon the Pieman, Simon and Garfunkel, I heard it all and for a while I wondered why I couldn’t have just been called Jimmy like all the other boys. It’s a name that’s never really taken off in Ireland but just for your information the Simon’s of this world tend to be charming, witty and intelligent young men with devilish good looks to boot.

So maybe choice isn’t such a bad thing after all. You can call your children whatever you want nowadays. Fourteen girls were entitled Eh last year. That’s right, Eh. Outstanding. Five boys were given the rather threatening label of Notorious. They don’t stand a chance really do they? Best of all though and proof that there is no limits to humanities lunacy was the child, boy I presume, ordained Tank. I hope for his sake he grows up to be a sturdy, stocky young fellow with a penchant for the gym. One name remains mysteriously absent from all of these lists though. I can’t for the life of me fathom why it’s not on there. Not a Scholesy in sight. Well, we’ll see about that.

Limerick City: An outsider's perspective

I've been living in Limerick for almost a year now, here's how I've got on.........

“You’re moving to where? Limerick?!?  You’re fucked lad”!!! Oh how they laughed as I packed my bags and left the comfortable environs of the sunny South-East to take up residence in the ‘most violent city in Ireland’.  It may have only been just over 100 miles in a westerly direction but for some it seemed like I was entering the twilight zone. As they bid me goodbye I could have sworn I saw one of them mouth the word forever. For chrissakes lads it can’t be that bad, can it?

Violent or nay there was no turning back for me now. But I’d had plenty of time to get used to the idea and I figured I was ready. So why move to Limerick? Why come to a city with a reputation so bad the mere mention of its name had people rolling their eyes and voicing any one of several well-worn stereotypes?  Well I certainly wasn’t moving here for the good of my health that was for sure. I was coming to make a fresh start. Having secured a place on the Journalism course at the local University I was moving lock stock and was ready to make Limerick my base for the next four years. And a few scary stories about some local ne’er do wells wasn’t about to put me off.

So what did I know about the place which was to become my new home? Well very little as it goes. In fact I would go as far to say that I knew fuck all about Limerick City and was relying on anecdotal evidence to educate me on my new habitat. Friends reliably informed me that I would be lucky to survive more than a few days and warned me not to leave the house without a carefully secreted blade somewhere on my person. Loved ones choked back the tears and told me not to leave the house at all, ever. But luckily I’ve never been one to pay heed to the words of others and so on a rainy (more on that later) Friday afternoon in early August I found myself sat on a chair in my new home looking out the window at my new city, Limerick City.

Early impressions? Mostly positive. I noted with some degree of wonder that the main thoroughfare was remarkably long and could in many ways be compared to the Las Vegas strip. Okay so it had none of the glitz and glamour you associate with that Mecca in the Nevada desert, but drunken idiots stumbling along its entire length? Yep. Bright shopfronts luring you in with false promises? Uh huh. Thousands of discarded chewing gums worn into the pavement? Most definitely. And the great thing was from my city centre apartment I could watch all of this action as it occurred and didn’t even have to leave the comfort of my own home. The folks back home would be relieved.  

With over three weeks until my time in UL began I had plenty of time to familiarise myself with my new surroundings and as someone who likes nothing more than a good aimless amble Limerick was perfect for me. Mooching around the city was one thing but I wanted to go further afield, see what the real Limerick was like. I was well aware of where not to go but only knew those places by name. Best to just find out where the rough areas are by myself I thought as I struggled to shove a carving knife down the front of my trousers. So off I went like the intrepid traveller that I was, eager to meet new people and discover new places, I was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

The first thing that struck me was the River Shannon. I’m not exactly what you’d call a seafarer and I can’t even swim but I couldn’t help but be impressed by this vast expanse of water. And the array of bridges which straddled it, connecting the Northside to the Southside only added to the appeal. But was there a North v South divide I wondered as I crossed one of these many bridges? Which was I? Should I align myself with a particular side if things kick off? So much to learn and so little time to do it I thought as I continued my walk through what was now the suburbs I presumed. But wait, what was that ahead? A road sign which if I’m not mistaken says “Welcome to County Clare”!! Had I been walking that long? Had my daydream about all things North and South lasted for days rather than minutes? No my watch reliably informed me that I’d only left my house a mere 45 minutes ago. And here I was in another county. Crazy stuff! What was Limerick, or Clare, going to throw at me next I wondered?

Further walks provided me with enough intel to know where and where not to go. My rule of thumb was to never go beyond the shadow of Thomond Park and I’ll be safe. Lovely stadium by the way, pity they play such a shite sport inside in it. That brings me to my next observation of Limerick City. They don’t half love rugby do they? Fuck me!! Knowing nothing of provincial rugby I couldn’t for the life of me understand why every second person seemed to be wearing red jerseys, jackets, sweaters, hoodies, polo shirts, vests, t-shirts, bras, tank tops, overcoats, undercoats, blazers or any other type of attire you can name. What’s with the little Stag emblem I thought to myself, is this yet another fashion craze which has somehow passed me by? Further inspection revealed that for once I wasn’t lagging behind in the fashion stakes and this ubiquitous sports clothing was that of the Munster rugby team. Ahhh I see.

So yes, Limerick people love rugby. Understood loud and clear. And sure why not? Their hurling team is shite. Gaelic football team? Couldn’t tell ya. Their soccer (football to you and I but soccer for now to avoid confusion) team is apparently one of the most progressive clubs in the country but still finds itself in the second tier of our national league. So rugby it is. Well you’re welcome to it lads, thanks all the same. It’s pretty difficult to avoid it though, especially on Heineken Cup days. I’m no lover of rugby but I can still appreciate the effort made by everyone in the city to create a carnival atmosphere whenever Munster are playing at home in Europe’s premium competition. It’s an atmosphere I’m content to soak up from indoors though as I wouldn’t dream of fraternising with those canapé scoffing, face painted simpletons.

But how on earth did rugby ever become so popular in this part of the world I thought to myself. You have to be outside to play rugby and it is a sport which is best performed on grass. How did they manage to brave the rain for long enough to learn the rules of the game? Why wasn’t Limerick the home of mud-wrestling and not rugby? Surely that would make more sense? What I’m trying to get at is it rains a lot in Limerick. A helluva lot. It rains all the time. It could be the sunniest day with not a cloud in the sky but mores the fool you if you leave the house without some form of rainwear. Cos that rain is out there and it can strike at any time. One minute you’re walking along commenting on how tanned you’re going to get, the next you’re diving for cover as the heavens unleash a monsoon of epic proportions. Limerick is by far the rainiest place I have ever been to in my entire life. The thousands of creatures which reside in the Amazonian rainforest wouldn’t last five minutes here.

And what of the creatures who reside in this concrete jungle? The natives. What are they like? Yes we know they love rugby but there must be more to them than that. First off there’s the accent. Not the pretty, lilting accent of the well-bred, upper-class though, that’s perfectly unremarkable. I’m talking about the hard Limerick accent, the stuff they speak on the street innit. If I had to sum up the Limerick accent in one word I would call it....... interesting. It’s like the Cork accent but different, not quite as sing songy. It sounds as if those speaking it wish to molest the words before they even exit their mouths, leaving nothing but an indecipherable squawk once it finally hits the air. Sometimes I just sit by my open window and listen to the locals converse in this strange dialect. And I feel just like Darwin must have done all of those years ago.

They may talk in a rather odd way but what of all this unprovoked violence I was promised? Where had that gotten to? In my previous abode in Waterford City I had been privy to a variety of stabbings, murders and general tomfoolery all in the space of a couple of years, since moving here: nothing. Not a dicky bird. I did nearly get run over by a swarthy man commandeering a horse and cart but aside from that I remained intact. I have seen something else which I wasn’t expecting though and it is something which is saddening for locals and outsiders alike. I have seen heroin addicts, and lots of them. Whether it be morning, noon or midnight these lost souls roam the streets of Limerick City and were it not for their continuous begging for “change for the bus” I might feel a modicum of sympathy for them. Kudos goes to the quite creative chap who asked me for money for a takeaway one night though. I treated him to a four course dinner at the Cornstore for his efforts.

It may seem like I have done nothing but take the piss out of Limerick and its inhabitants during the course of this article and for that I can only apologise. Like the little boy who does nothing but pull the hair and steal the comb of the girl he fancies I have chosen to express my love for this fine city by poking fun at it. It’s a great place and I love living here.  It may be cast as a dangerous badlands by the national media but nothing could be further from the truth. The jewel in its crown is obviously the University but even discounting that for a second there is plenty to enjoy in the city. I could go all ‘Lonely Planet’ and start recommending places to go and things to do but where would be the fun in that? Better to just come here and check it out for yourself. But maybe bring a little Stanley Knife with you just to be on the safe side.

You just don't get it

Did you like that film? Are you sure? Are you really sure?

“What is your favourite film”?

For many this question is a simple one and the answer is given without a second’s thought. Your favourite film is like a badge of honour and it says a lot about you. Upon telling a fellow movie fan the title of your beloved you nervously wait for their reaction. Have you passed the test? Is your movie cool enough? Are you to be derided as a no nothing philistine unable to form an intelligent opinion all by yourself? Oh the tension of it all.

My favourite film is The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. If you feel the need to ask which one then stop reading now please. However when people ask me that ill fated question I don’t always respond as I should. I don’t wax lyrical about Tobe Hooper’s classic and explain just what it is I love about it. Instead I sometimes fall back on my number two option: One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Why do I do this? Why do I shy away from firmly pledging my allegiances to one of the most visceral pieces of cinema ever made? Because I’m afraid that’s why.

In today’s society so much emphasis is placed on liking the right things. Now you’d think that I’d be old enough and wise enough to be unaffected by this pretentious charade but no, I’m affected too. Not as much as others admittedly but still enough to think twice before divulging my love for TTCM. Just picture the scene: I’m at a late night soiree where I know only a handful of the people in attendance. The conversation turns to film. “So what’s your favourite movie then Simon”? Time stands still. Will I or won’t I? I smile nervously as I utter those dreaded words, “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”.

Immediately the majority of people in the room have me down as some sort of deranged loon. “He likes that schlock horror genre, what an absolute peasant”. As others in the vicinity are quizzed a variety of answers come up, Woody Allen’s name is mentioned a few times, film-noir, I think the word dystopian is bandied about a bit too. I should feel like the uncultured fuckwit that I clearly am. But I don’t you see. I don’t. Because I’m unique in this room. How so you ask? Because I’m the only one telling the truth.

All these imaginary people and their imaginary choices may just be a product of my imagination but they are all too real. We have all encountered them. The type who feel that associating themselves with an obscure piece of art automatically makes them more intelligent. The type who will suppress a snigger as you dismiss their favoured work as “fuckin shite” and knowingly reply “you just didn’t get it”. I just didn’t get it. I didn’t get the hidden meanings and the references to the work of Shakespeare or Cervantes or Oedipus or whoever. Oh poor me, I am so stupid.

Hidden meanings. Since when were films about hidden meanings. It’s not a Where’s Wally competition. It’s a film. I got all the meanings. What do I win? There is no prize, I’m sorry. As a reward you can talk to all the other dullards about how you all got the hidden meanings and how bloody great you all are. Half the time the hidden meanings aren’t even intentional. I’ve lost count of the amount of film reviews I’ve read where the boorish critic meanders off on aimless tangents all based around a hidden meaning which the director probably has no idea even exists. Give me strength.

Ah yes critics. Those who criticise. I put a lot of faith in film critics and will rarely watch a film unless it’s been received to relative acclaim. I have no idea why I do this though. Is there a more pretentious bunch of clowns on this earth than that of the film critique club? I call it a club because I imagine them all meeting up for port and cheddar on a weekly basis while talking out their collective arses about the latest film releases. Yes occasionally they get it right and there are plenty of film critics whose views I trust but on the whole they’re a bunch of pompous, self-preening egotists.

Take Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. They went into overdrive on that one. It’s so authentic they said. It really captures the mood of 1970s England they said. Okay I said, I’ll go see what the fuss is about. And oh yes how very authentic it was. And how very reminiscent of 1970s England too. Marvellous stuff. Just one little problem. It was utterly devoid of entertainment. But yet each and every critic couldn’t get enough of it. Was I the only one who ‘didn’t get it’? Not again, fuck sake. But wait, no. There were others. Countless others. In fact everyone I spoke to thought the same as me. Drab, uninteresting, soulless movie-making of the worst kind. So why all the plaudits then?

I have a theory on this. All the members of the critique club gather at the first screening of TTSS ( I love a good acronym me). As the credits roll one of the senior members looks around the room for a reaction. He’s met by the searching eyes of his fellow club-mates. What to do? He ponders the mood for a second before nailing his colours to the mast, “Well I thought that was jolly well stupendous, so many hidden meanings”. At once all of his companions nod in agreement and so it begins. Yet another wankfest. One or two of those in attendance felt exactly like you and I. They thought it was awful, terrible in fact. But when it comes to writing their review what do they do? They tow the company line and give it five stars. And why? For fear of being accused of not ‘getting it’.

So this then filters down to the public at large and in no time at all I’m sitting at a soiree steadfastly refusing to bow to the pressures of the group mentality. “How could you not like Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” they say, almost incredulous at my sheer sub normality. Not to be outdone I turn the tables on them, “So what did you like about it then”? I ask with a forked tongue. This sets them off on some idiotic ramble which sounds ever so familiar. When the spiel finally comes to a protracted end I know I have won. I may have won but sadly society has lost. Because this ostentatious oaf has just spent the last five minutes reciting, almost word for word, the film review penned by one of the very worst offenders in the critique club. Circle of life indeed.

When it comes down to it I like what I like because I like it. On any given day that can be a spectacular effects-laden action movie, a slow-paced cerebral Ukrainian drama or a stoner comedy featuring one of those blokes with the curly hair. There truly is no accounting for taste. But liking Michael Bay’s new release doesn’t make me an imbecile, in the same way that enjoying Michael Haneke’s work doesn’t automatically make me an aristocrat. They are films. Nothing more. Don’t look down on others for not sharing your appreciation of David Lynch. Don’t smile your conceited smile and say “You just don’t get it”. But most importantly don’t judge me for loving The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 

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 900^th 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?

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.

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.