The Sandpit

Friendship, how it begins, how it ends, and what it means to me

“The park?” she enquires hopefully, but it’s more of a statement than a question. You’re three-years old, since when do you get a say? And anyway the park is perfectly fine with you. It has a playground, and in that playground is a sandpit. The last time you were there you met a boy, around your age. He’d been brought to the park too. You’d been shy at first, but you so wanted to play with that truck. You sidled up to him, communicating in that garbled nonsense only three-year olds understand, and offered him your Action Man. He accepted, gleefully, but he hadn’t realised the truck was part of the deal. Now he had both, and he planned on keeping them. You grabbed and pawed in protest, but to no avail. Your only remaining option was tears. Mammies came - strangers to one another but brought together by their feuding Sons -  and restored order. You got your Action Man back. Crisis averted. But then something wondrous happened: he offered you the truck, “Here,” he said, “you play.”And you did, because it was a fine truck. You played and played until it was time to go home and time to give the truck back. You waved goodbye to “the nice boy” as instructed and hoped you’d meet again. You didn’t realise it but you’d just made your first friend.

Sadly, in spite of numerous visits to that sandpit, I never did see that boy with the truck again. He was probably hanging out at other sandpits, with other boys, talking about that cheeky little fucker with the Action Man who tried to steal his truck. But not to worry, I made other friends. Because at that age it’s easy to make friends, alliances are formed and disbanded at the drop of a hat, yesterday’s sworn enemy becomes today’s blood brother and loyalty only stretches as far as the contents of one’s toybox. In short, kids are friend-sluts, drifting from one person to another, enjoying the good times but then disappearing without so much as an explanation, only to be seen laughing it up with a new group of pals just days later. You’d feel hurt by the rejection were it not for the really cool pair of lads you befriended the day before.

And after all that, after all those japes and tomfoolery, you’re lucky if you end up with more than a handful of close friends by the time you reach adulthood. “Whatever happened to whatisname, that lad we used to play football with? The fella with the big teeth who smelled of turnips?”, but you can never recall his name, he’s consigned to history with all the rest of them. Dozens, nay scores, of forgotten faces who all, at one point or another, played an important part in your coming-of-age. Where are they now you wonder as you enter their name into Facebook - your trip down memory lane ruined by the anguish of debating whether to add them or not.

Maybe you’re different, maybe you still hang around with the kids you grew up with, but most of my close friends were added to the cause somewhere in my late teens. Indeed my longest lasting friendship began at the ripe old age of twelve, by which point I was a veteran of at least five-hundred best-friends-for-life relationships gone bad. Because somewhere around the onset of puberty the rules change, how they change is unknown but they do, the criteria you look for in a friend alters drastically. They have to be cool now. Cool? Who the fuck cares about being cool? Everyone, that’s who. If someone mentions heading to the sandpit for a day of rolling trucks around and making vroom vroom noises they’re out. I’d hazard a guess and say that for the majority of you most of your solid friendships were formed during those difficult, angsty teenage years.

And then, just when you’re getting a decent crew together, it all changes again. School finishes, responsibility beckons and people suddenly expect you to grow up. Fuck sake, it was only getting good and all. The friendships you’d worked so hard to maintain face a new challenge, the transition from boy to man isn’t quite complete yet but by the time it is you will have lost some of those friends. But chin up eh, ‘cos this is where the fun really starts. You can drink now, even take drugs if you like, you’re going to meet all manner of exciting people over the next few years. It’s like being back in the sandpit all over again, pubs and nightclubs full of giddy revelers every one of them a potential buddy in the making. Sessions, house-parties, gigs, festivals, the opportunities are endless, and I haven’t even mentioned work, college or the social welfare queue yet.

For me this period of time - my late teens to my mid-to late- twenties - was something of a merry-go-round. I clambered on every Friday night and by the weekend’s close I could be found stumbling in the general direction of my bed, white-faced and dizzy. The sounds and sights of the previous forty-eight hours reverberated around my aching cranium, faces and voices passing in and out, some lingering but most taking up residence in that part of the brain reserved for “I know that bloke from somewhere” moments. New types of friendships were forged, ones based on alcohol and other substances, ones that in actual fact couldn’t exist without some sort of stimulant. Until someone decides to permanently step off the merry-go-round and the one thing you had in common ceases to exist.

I’m patently aware that while reading this you may see certain references and wonder are they directed at you. Well you can rest easy, they’re not. Because although I cemented many a bond during that booze-fueled, hedonistic part of my life I am happy to say that lots of them have remained in place beyond it. Nothing like ten cans of Dutch and a handful of yokes to make you open up to one another eh? Because that’s what it’s all about, feeling comfortable with those around you. If you can speak your mind and open your heart without fear of censure then you’ve found the right people. You can’t be sure how you got there but it definitely wasn’t fate. Fact is you all gravitated towards each other, you left old friends behind, extricated yourself from other groups so that you could be here. Because these are your birds of a feather, and now you can all flock together.

The final shedding (there may be more ahead, I just haven’t got that far yet) comes in your late-twenties. Again we’re forced to do yet more growing up, when will this shit end? When will I be just grown? Your requirements change, things you were once content to overlook become glaring issues, it’s not enough for someone to just be a good laugh, they need a bit more substance if they’re going to stick around. And then one day you look around and find that you’ve got maybe a handful of close friends, a dozen good friends and the rest are mere acquaintances. But you like it like this. Those who remain have been through a lot with you, they know you, the lines are clearly drawn. It feels good to be with these people, they’re here for life now, or at least you hope they are.  

But in truth I myself should have been shed long ago. I no longer ride the merry-go-round, and I rarely see those I class as close friends, or those I class as good friends for that matter -  for all I know I might have been shunted down to acquaintance status by those I’ve categorised in a higher group. God, maybe I should make a few phone calls, y’know catch up, see where I stand and that. Obviously there’s mitigating factors here, people move away, your responsibilities change, some of us get all sensible and knock the partying on the head. The older you become the harder it is to maintain these bonds. Your partner, your wife, your husband, they become your best friend, and then the baton is passed to your kids, how can you find time to catch up with your old pals with so much going on?

Well however hard it is you should make the effort, how does the saying go “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.”And while we’re stuck with our family no matter how hard we try to get away from them friendships can easily fall into disrepair if left neglected. And who do you think will be there for you if that marriage of yours breaks up? Or your long-term partner runs off with the kids? Who you going to turn to then? Your family? Fuck that, they don’t wanna listen to your whinging. It’s your friends you’ll seek out. They know you better than anyone, they’ll be prepared for your heartache, they’ll most likely offer shit advice and suggest heading out on the lash to help you “forget all about her/him”, but that’s just their way of showing they care.

Of course things have been made easier, too easy you might say, by the birth of social media. Now we’re all fuckin’ friends. It’s one big massive sandpit and everyone is invited. Is it impersonal? Does it devalue the true meaning of friendship? Perhaps. How many of us, upon seeing a plethora of birthdays on a given day, bash out a set of identical wishes for each recipient? Where’s the effort there? But social media is a tool used to connect people, and a lazy, misspelled birthday greeting is much preferable to another friendship crashing and burning through lack of communication. With many of our generation littered across the globe Facebook and its ilk have become invaluable means of strengthening those ties strained by distance.

But real, lasting friendships will outlive Facebook, the Internet and most of your relationships. If you can reach your early thirties with a few strong friendships intact then you’re probably stuck with those bastards for life. Like me you might not see as much of these people as you’d like but when you do it all falls back into place as if by magic. I recall an occasion last year when me and three of my closest mates arranged a night of fun and hi-jinks based loosely around the Superbowl. We hadn’t had such a night in many a year, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it would still be the same. But it was. It felt like  slipping on a comfortable pair of old shoes, it immediately felt right, as if the intervening years had never even happened. And at one point, while high on emotion,  I marveled at how easily we’d assumed our old roles, to which one of those present replied, “Sure why wouldn’t we? We grew up together.” And he was right, we had. I hope we continue to do so.

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As an added bonus here's a little story as to how this particular blog entry came about:



The origin of The Sandpit...


Everyone is on Facebook these days right? And those who aren't only avoid it due to some weird, unfounded fears about the government tracking their movements which, ironically enough, only involve a walk to the shop every morning and an occasional sortie to the bookies. Every now and then though you get a friend request from someone who you genuinely hadn't thought about in years: a person that you knew before the dawn of social media, and someone who, for reasons only known to them self, had waited until 2014 to join Facebook.


Well that happened to me recently, a one-time friend - or an acquaintance if we're being honest - added me on Facebook and I happily welcomed him into my online world. A couple of days later he messaged me. He had been busy since we'd last spoken, so busy that he'd
only gone and made an album for himself. His query? Would I be so kind as to listen to some of his music? Why of course I would. From there we spoke about our respective projects - his desire to express himself through various artistic mediums, beginning with music, and my ailing attempts to complete my first novel - and we discovered that contained therein were many common themes and ideals. He's a people person, "most of the time" he felt, and his close friends mean a lot to him. I'm more of a people-hater but my friends mean a lot to me too.


This got me thinking, not just about my own friends and the nature of our friendships, but about writing something on this topic, maybe we both could? We spoke about it on the phone, excitedly. It would be a collaboration for the ages we said, a meeting of minds, a real think-tank. And then in the end we'd send our thoughts and ideas to the place where all good thoughts and ideas go to die…Social Media.


Our collaboration, while important to us, will most likely be discarded in a mere fraction of the time it took to put it together, but it's not all bad. He was once someone I only thought of as an old acquaintance, a face from the past. But now I consider him a friend. A talented friend whose music deserves to be heard and you can do so by following the link below. Before you do that, and if you've got any time left, you can read what the Social Media novice had to say in his startling letter below...




Dear Reader,


In the words of the great Robert Power, " I am Human ". In the words of the even greater, some would say, Morrissey, " I am human, and I need to be loved ". So, what am I on about? Well, let me try to explain. Just recently, a part of my soul was released into the world, in the shape of a collection of songs known as 1. Though it felt great to finally share it with the world after years of working on it, there was also the natural, for me anyway, feeling of fear and panic at how it might be perceived amongst those who knew me, or at least felt they knew me. Thankfully it has been a mostly lovely experience whereby some complete strangers, vague acquaintances and old friends have come to me with messages of love and support for the music, which is wonderful and really makes a difference.


As part of the whole endeavour of releasing any artistic product, there is the task of promotion and " making connections ". This, for me, has been both the best and worst aspect. In my mind I just wanted to reach out and say " Hey people, I have something to share and maybe you'd like to hear it, share it too and who knows, maybe even buy it ". The reality, however, was different. Not having ever been in any type of social media loop ( I joined Facebook in January…2014!!! ), of any kind, meant, in some ways, I was starting from scratch. Trying to contact as many people as possible through a medium in which I had never operated on was daunting and at times frustrating, compounded by the natural feeling I had that the whole " social media " world was not for me.


So, I set about opening up the can of worms and reached out completely, indiscriminately and full heartedly. At first I felt that it was a brilliant way to connect with people and I really loved it. Then, slowly but surely, as time went on I began to look at my list of " friends " as a poor reflection on me. Not that there was anything wrong with any of the people on the list. Far from it. All of them were now, seemingly, these fully formed, media savvy, new age journalists, beating their path through the mundane and fascinating of life, and always with a slight pinch of salt attitude, which I loved. So, the problem wasn't my " friends list " at all. It was me. I didn't fit in. Nor did I want to. Not with all of them anyway. It broke my heart in a way. How can I fix this I asked myself? Surely I've got to try to be friends with everyone? If only I could sit and have a cup of tea, a beer or a romantic meal with each of them, one on one, at some point. That would surely cement our friendship and I could sleep better at night.


Having assessed the situation, and the time available, I thought it best to find another solution. Thankfully, I found it. It was simple. I should only be friends with people who are actually friends of mine or supporters of what it is I do. It might seem selfish, but why? After all, this is to be my world right? A place, though virtual, where I can engage with friends, like minded individuals and/ or an audience who care or, at some point hopefully, might care. All I want to do really is to share my work and engage with said like minded individuals - if there are any ;-). It was never going to be a case of me posting pictures of my dog, dinner or dog's dinner attempt at social commentary. Those type of posts are for the full blooded social media warriors and die hards, one of which I could never be. My agenda is too straight forward in a way. Share my life, through my work but not to share my life through my life, if you catch my drift. So the realisation that a lot of my new found " friends " were not really going to be a part of my world was kind of hard to take. What it boiled down to for me is that though they might be great and fine people, because of the disconnect in the connection, so to speak, why should I deserve to see their posts and pictures in my timeline or newsfeed etc, if I cannot truthfully call them a friend? In the same way, why should they be getting posts from me about this or that? Thats what a mailing list is for right?


The whole thing had me confused and I had to clean up my act, fast. There would have to be a cull, for want of a better word. So, before I began my Social Media rehab I decided to call an old friend of mine whom I had only had several conversations with in life but would certainly feel comfortable enough to call an old friend or, at least, acquaintance. He was entrenched in the world of blogs, posts and tweets and I knew he could shed some light on the situation for me. We spoke for an hour or so about the pro's and con's of social media and, more so, the nature of friendship. I asked him if he might send me a piece on the subject that could maybe help me see things more clearly. I thought, well, if he can write something and I can respond to it, then between us we might have something worth sharing with others. Whether its worth sharing or not is never, much like music, determined by the writer. In the end it is always the reader or the listener who makes the call on the merit of any piece. Even then, it is always a matter of personal opinion or taste. The writers only job really is to try to get it down and finally, when he or she is ready, put it out there. That is both the end and the beginning.


Anyway, to cut a short story long, I finally, after a few weeks of pondering and more pondering, came around to the conclusion that I should stick with, or to be more accurate, get a little more involved with, this Social Media thing, as it is " where it's at " these days, in many ways. I also thought it best to do it through my own page, channel etc and that is the plan. For sure, I need to enlighten myself a bit more on Social Media etiquette, here and there, and get used to the casualness of it all, but in general I think things are pretty much as vague in the virtual world as they are in the real world.


So, to conclude, I am feeling slightly more at ease with the gun Simon has placed at my head, and am allowing ( I had no choice ) him to press go or whatever the button is on his blog, and I await your apathy with an equal measure of my own.


If you get a chance and have some loose change, in your loose, or perhaps not so loose, jeans, why not take a trip over to my little part of the world wide web and take a chance, take a chance, take a chica chance chance on 1, the album, by…me.


Oh, and feel free to CONNECT :-)


Yours sincerely,


The Great (ahem)... Robert Power


the link… www.robertpower.com

Oh Tommy

A story about a boy and his Nan...

I open the front door, fling my bag in the hallway and go into the sitting-room. She's waiting there expectantly, like she always is.

“Well. How d'ya get on?”

I smile, savouring the moment.

“A hat-trick Nan,” I say with a grin.

“Ooh Tommy,” she squeals as she clasps her hands together in glee.

“I got an assist too,” I add, eager to maximise her delight.

“An assist?” she says, “What's an assist?”

“It's when you set someone else up to score a goal Nan.”

“Oh I like that,” she smiles. “Unselfish.”

But here's the thing, I didn't get a hat-trick or anything even like one. Instead I just wandered up and down the sideline like I do every week. At one point I thought Dixie was beckoning for me and I set off at a gallop towards the dug-out - but t'was one of the other lads he was looking for. He'd never take a risk on me in a game like tonight's; a top of the table clash against our fiercest rivals. I usually only got a run-out if we were winning comfortably or losing horribly, no risk situations with nothing at stake. The rest of the lads probably wonder why I even bother turning up, and sometimes I wonder it meself. I guess I just want to feel part of something.

You might think that telling lies to my Nan is a bad thing, but it's not really. All I'm doing is putting a little sunshine into her life. If I were to tell her the truth; failing miserably in school, not many friends, little success with the girls and a quite terrible footballer it would crush her, and neither of us want that.

I've been living with my Nan since I was five. I woke up one morning and they'd all gone. My mother, her boyfriend and the new baby. I didn't know they'd gone forever at the time so I just turned on the TV and waited for them to come back. When it started to get dark I got the first inkling that something might be up. So I went in next door to Mrs McManus and asked her if she'd make me a sandwich. Next thing I know I'm sitting by a big, lovely fire with the McManuses eating chocolate digestives and watching Coronation Street. I wondered if I lived with them now. But then my Nanny came and took me to her house.

Nanny said I'd be staying with her for a few weeks while Mammy was on holidays. Why didn't she bring me, I asked. Where's she gone? Will she bring me back a present? I was little put out that she hadn't brought me but sure staying at Nanny's was a holiday in itself! Meself and me Nan got on great and she always let me stay up past my bedtime. She had nice things to eat too, not like our house where you were lucky if you got a mangy custard cream with your tea.

As much as I loved it at Nanny's I still couldn't wait for my Mammy to return. I missed my own room and my own bed, I missed all my toys and I even missed my shitty little brother. But most of all I missed my Mammy. She sometimes gave out to me and made me cry but I loved her. But after two weeks had passed with no sign of her return I began to get a little worried. I came home from school every day eagerly expecting to find her sitting at the kitchen table with Nanny, but she was never there. I took to gazing out the window watching out for his car but it never came. Eventually I stopped looking out that window, she wasn't coming back. It was just me and my Nanny now.

“Tommy! Tommy! Wake up! You'll be late for school!”

I awake with a start. School. Oh no. But instead of the early morning gloom flooding in through the curtains my room remained in pitch darkness. I immediately look to the fluorescent alarm clock on my bedside locker; 03:23. Fuck sake Nan.

“It's not time for school yet Nan,” I call out, “go back to bed.”

I listen out for a response but none arrives. All is silent for a moment until I hear the shuffle of Nan's slippers as she crosses the landing back to her own room. I sigh deeply and sink back in to my pillow. My last thought before drifting back to sleep is that today is Saturday.

Later that morning, having had a thoroughly good lie-in, I descend the stairs for what I hope will be my customary Saturday morning fry-up. But instead of standing, stationed by the pan I find my Nan in the back garden. She's on her hands and knees and is furiously digging into the earth with a trowel. This is odd for two reasons; my Nan has never taken the slightest interest in gardening for as long as I've known her, and it's pissing rain upon her silky thin white hair.

“What ya doing Nan?” I enquire.

She looks up at me startled by my words. For a second or two there is no hint of recognition, her face is a total blank as she struggles to ascertain my identity. But then things click seamlessly into gear and she's all smiles and warmth.

“Ah Tommy my love, how was school?”

“No school today Nan, it's Saturday.”

“Ah of course Saturday,” she says propping herself up on one knee, “best get your fry on.”

I help her to her feet and we head into the kitchen together.

“What were you doing in the garden Nan?” I ask as I dry her down with a towel.

“Oh your Granddad asked me to do a bit of work for him so I thought I should get started.”

“Okay Nan, but maybe leave it 'til a drier day eh?”

“Hmmph,” she snorts, “you know what your Granddad is like, everything has to be done yesterday, rain or no rain!”

I watch her potter around the little kitchen and, not for the first time, wonder how she'd cope if anything happened to me. My Granddad Joe died four years ago and since then her dementia has got gradually worse. If anyone found out she was in this state it'd be a nursing home for her and God knows where for me. We've managed up to now, but after her last mid-afternoon wander which concluded in a bookies four miles from here I've been forced to lock her in when I go to school.

I collect her pension every Friday and I've set up direct debits for all the bills, but I know it's only a matter of time until someone finds out. A 15-year old boy and a senile old woman; it's a social workers dream. I've resolved to leave school and get a job. The plan is to earn enough money to get Nan some proper home care. But finding work is not going to be easy. This isn't the dark ages where kids my age are sent to work as if they're men, mores the pity. And even if I do get a job it's unlikely I'll get one in this small village. I'll probably have to go further afield and where will that leave her? A nursing home that's where. And I've seen how they treat people in those places. No way am I subjecting my Nan to that.

My Nan might be as mad as a box of frogs but she's not stupid. If she finds out that I'm leaving school it'll break her heart. But if I were to leave school for a once in a lifetime opportunity, a shot at the big time, then she might think differently. And so it is that after another ninety minutes spent standing in the cold I return with some exciting news.

“I think there might have been some scouts at the game today Nan.”

“Scouts? Like them little boys who tie knots?”

I suppress a giggle, “No Nan, football scouts. They're talent spotters who travel around the country looking for young players.”

Her eyes light up, she doesn't even need to ask the question.

“Yes Nan, I think they were there to watch me.”

“Oh Jesus Tommy,” is all she can muster.

“I think some of them might have come from England.”

She comes to me and cups my face in her hands, “If only your mother could see you now Tommy eh? Scouts from England! My God.”

I flinch at the mention of my mother, I don't even like to acknowledge her existence.

“But Nan, here's the thing....”

She takes her hands away and looks at me earnestly. “What's the thing Tommy, what's the thing?”

“If these scouts think I'm good enough.....I might have to move to England....to live.”

“To England Tommy? To live?”

“Yes Nan.”

The enormity of the situation hits her and she fumbles her way to the armchair. I sit beside her and take her hand in mine. “I'd be earning good money Nan, enough to send some back here. I could get you some home help.”

She flashes me an indignant scowl, “Home help? I don't need home help, I can perfectly manage on my own thank you very much.”

I sigh in resignation, this isn't going to be easy. Then, as if to underline my point, she gets up and primly announces, “Now if you don't mind I'm off out to the pictures with that lovely boy I met last week.” And with that she's away out the front door to go a'courting with some distant memory from her past.

“How old did you say you were son?”

The foreman eyes me suspiciously, I've always been big for my age but I'm also cursed with maddeningly cherubic features.

“Nineteen,” I reply in the gruffest tone I can manage.

“Hmm,” he looks down at my application form and then back at me again. “And if I were to ring these references they'd all verify that they would?”

“They would,” I nod assertively.

He leans forward in his chair, “Listen kid, we both know you're not nineteen, I'd give ya seventeen at best but if you're willing to work off the books then I'm willing to take you on.”

I flush with joy, I can hardly believe it, a job, a real job. I don't even know what working “off the books” means but it can't be all that different to working on the books.

“Brilliant,” I say, “when can I start?”

He rises from his chair and escorts me to the door, “Be here Monday morning, seven o'clock sharp, and wear some working boots, no poxy trainers allowed here.”

I walk through what is soon to be my workplace and out the large factory gates; I entered a boy but I'm leaving a man.

With an hour to spare until my bus home I head to the library to complete some important paperwork: a letter certifying that the mighty Manchester United wish to acquire my services as a professional footballer. I procure a PC and set about penning my masterpiece. 'Dear Mrs Devlin, It is with great pleasure that we contact you today. We have been watching your grandson Thomas for some time now and with your permission we would like to make him a part of our esteemed football club. Our scout called Thomas “one of the finest talents I've ever seen” and the entire staff here are very excited at the prospect of his arrival. As he is so young it is unlikely he will feature in the first team just yet but given his abilities it surely won't be long before he is knocking on the manager's door...'

I pause and read back over it, I try and imagine Nan's reaction as she fetches her jam jar glasses and slowly peruses the document. How her eyes will slowly widen with each sentence, until, at it's completion, she'll beam with delight and hug me 'til it hurts. Is it worth it? You bet it is. I add the official club crest, and some other administrative info which is sure to impress her, and I'm finished. I collect the print-out and hurry to the bus station.

When I arrive home I find Nan in floods of tears. She's sat on the edge of her bed surrounded by old photos, they're littered everywhere: all over the floor, on the bed beside her, boxes of them some unopened others overflowing, it's a mess.

“Aw Nan,” I say, “you been reminiscing again?”

She looks at me, all teary and sad, “He was just a little boy, not even four years old,” she says with a gasp. I sit down beside her, put my arm around her shoulders and press her head to my chest. The little boy in question is my uncle Frankie who died from polio sometime in the 1960s, he was Nan's only other child apart from my Mam. I've never asked her why she didn't have any more children because I already know the answer, the trauma of Frankie's passing sucked the life right out of her and she was neither willing nor able to countenance the arrival of another baby. Sometimes when her Alzheimer's is really bad she'll mistake other people's children for Frankie and scare the life out of both parent and child by grabbing the little mite and vowing never to let another doctor within ten feet of her “poor Frankie.”

Her plaintive moaning eventually dies down and I gently extricate myself from her. “Nan? I've got some good news.”

She gets up and take a tissue from the box on her dresser, blows her nose and returns back to me.

“What is it Tommy,” she says the spark returning to her eyes.

“Remember those scouts Nan?”

“Yes, the scouts, talent-spotters who roam the country looking for young players.”

“That's right Nan.”

“What about them Tom?”

“They've been in touch Nan,” I say as I reach for the letter in my pocket. I've purchased an envelope in the stationery shop and even gone as far as affixing a stamp for extra authenticity.

“Here, read this,” I say as I pass it to her.

“Oh God, where are my glasses,” she says as she scans the room hopelessly, she moves to get up but I stop her short, “I have them here Nan, they were downstairs. Now go on, read.”

She needs no further invitation and I watch in silence as she digests this life-affirming news. She takes an age to read it and then pauses briefly before starting again, I sit there patiently waiting for her response. I want to see that smile and I want to get that hug. After several more reads and re-reads she sets the letter down among all the photos of poor, tragic Frankie. She's crying again, but this time the tears are different, they're tears of joy. She pulls me to her and we cling to one another as if our lives depended on it.

I lay flat out on my bed exhausted from the day's work. This being a man malarkey isn't all it's cracked up to be. But it's serving it's purpose and I can't ask for any more than that. I made nearly five-hundred Euro this week, half of which has gone toward home help for my Nan. It feels good to know I'm looking after her. All those hours spent humping animal carcasses around the factory are worth it if it means she's happy. But I know something that will make her even happier; a call from her talented grandson, all the way from Manchester. I clear my throat and try to imagine myself in a digs amidst the shadow of Old Trafford, instead of a dingy bedsit not forty miles from home.

“Hello Mrs Devlin speaking”

“Howya Nan”

“Ooh Hellooo,” she coos, she does this every time I call her even though she hasn't a clue it's me on the other end of the phone.

“It's me Tommy,” there's a pause as she tries to figure out who she knows called Tommy, “your grandson.”

“Ahh Tommy my pet, how are you getting on? Are they treating you well? Are you eating okay?”

“I am Nan I'm fine,” I reply as my stomach grumbles.

“And how's the football? Any more assists?”

I envisage her grinning away on the other end of the phone.

“I played my first game the other day Nan, for the youth team,” I say as I pick at some raw meat embedded in my boot.

“And....”

“A hat-trick Nan, a hat-trick”

Amid the frenzied hysteria I can make out but a few words, “so proud”, “your uncle Frankie”, “a real Devlin” and “Oh Tommy”.

Mrs Annie Devlin sits by the fire waiting for the woman to bring in her tea. She better make it right, she thinks, my Tommy always made it right. The woman returns with her tea and by golly it might just be the finest cuppa ever made, fair played to her. In spite of herself Annie feels her attitude towards the home helper soften. She turns to her conspiratorially, “See that picture on the mantle?” she says pointing to one of her Grandson Tommy.

“This one Mrs Devlin?” says the woman as she beckons to the smiling youngster in the football kit.

“Yes, that's my Grandson Tommy.”

“Aw Mrs Devlin he looks lovely”

“He is lovely, and you know what else?”

“Yes Mrs Devlin?”

“He plays for Manchester United”

“Manchester United?”replies the woman, “Wow.”

“I know."

“You must be very proud of him.”

“I am," says Annie Devlin, "more proud than you could ever imagine.”

Seven days and one week

A round-up of the week's major news stories as seen through the eyes of an inattentive, misinformed moron.

Boomtown rat

Calum Best, Paris Hilton and Jack Osborne, what do they have in common? Well obviously they're all annoying cunts but apart from that? They've all exploited their parent's fame for their own benefit. None of them have any particular talent of their own but that hasn't stopped them becoming worldwide celebrities. And they're not alone, it seems that as soon as the children of famous folk hit a certain age they themselves are flung into the spotlight whether they like or not. Most shy away from it and contrive to make something of their lives away from the public eye, and others...hello Calum.

Peaches Geldof falls into that category too I'm afraid. “But she's a journalist!” I hear you exclaim, “and a model!” Fuck off. I'm not having that. She got where she is in life because of her surname, simple as that. Although her journalistic skills should be praised in light of her efforts to shine more light on the Ian Watkins case. Using her super sleuth skills Peaches went online, read the names of women alleged to have allowed Watkins access to their children, and then tweeted those names to her 160,000 followers. She must have been absent when ethics and standards was being taught.

How stupid could she be? The power of the celebrity ensures that should someone in her position so much as fart the whole world will know about it within minutes. And with a case like this, which has garnered huge attention, she may have lit the blue touch paper and watched the whole thing go up in flames. Peaches now risks being prosecuted herself, but of course the identity of her superstar father ensures that this will most likely not happen. The contradictory benefits of fame eh? As for Watkins – that fucker is going to, quite literally, get torn a new arsehole once the boys in C block get their hands on him.

A level playing field?

I like Boris Johnson. How could you not? He's your atypical bumbling Brit and appears blissfully oblivious to his own shortcomings. But not everyone agrees with me, there's always been certain sections of the British media that have had a problem with Boris and boy did they have a field day this week. And for what? He simply pointed something that we all know; that your intelligence plays a major factor in how you fare in life. Here are his words in full, “Whatever you may think of the value of IQ tests, it is surely relevant to a conversation about equality that as many as 16 per cent of our species have an IQ below 85, while about 2 per cent have an IQ above 130.” Taken on it's own that statement might not resonate but in the context of his speech, which included discourses on inequality, Gordon Gekko and cornflakes, it has caused hysteria among the liberal left.

The complaints stem from the belief that Johnson was mocking the underclass and making light of their plight. 'SOME PEOPLE ARE TOO STUPID TO GET AHEAD IN LIFE' screamed the headlines. It's true, some people are too stupid to get ahead in life. The inability to make the most of your lot is not restricted to the 'stupid' though, there's plenty of supposedly intelligent folk who can't get their shit together either. In fact the main issue with Boris' statement was that it didn't factor in social class and how big a part that plays in someone's life regardless of how clever they are. You could be the brightest fucker in the world but if you live in the wrong part of town, and don't have access to the resources needed to make the most of your talents, then forget about it.

Johnson didn't once suggest that the 16% came from underprivileged areas, the namby pamby press did that for him. And by doing so they merely added to the stigmatisation that these people suffer on a daily basis. This self-congratulatory reporting on Johnson's innocuous speech merely shows how far removed the British media are from those who they claim to represent.

Sacked in the morning

 A few weeks ago I defended the right of Spurs' fans to sing songs about their Jewish heritage. I've always been of the opinion that football supporters pay a lot of money to watch their teams and are entitled to sing what they want – within reason. But I'm not sure the manager of that very same club would agree with me. During Tottenham's two nil victory over Norwegian minnows Tromso AVB was subjected to some seemingly good-natured taunts from a member of the crowd. Reidar Stenersen Jr, who was seated near the Spurs dugout, took to telling Villas-Boas that he would be “sacked in the morning” during the early stages of Thursday night's game. For his efforts he was rewarded with an ice-cold stare.

But when he resumed his one-man assault towards the end of the half he found himself being asked to move seats after Villas-Boas complained about him to the police. Aw, diddums. I'm not sure what's worse, the fact AVB complained or that the authorities acted on his behalf. This is what happens in football, you take abuse and if you're lucky you get to give a bit back at the end of the game. Perhaps Stenersen Jr was unfortunate in that he was by himself, if he'd managed to corral a group of rowdy Norwegians to have a go at the beleaguered Spurs boss then it's unlikely they would have faced censure. The lesson to be learned here is if you've got something nasty to say about someone make sure you do it with the backing of a large crowd. Power in numbers that's what it all about.

And as for Stenersen Jr? He declined the offer to move to a different part of the ground and retired to the pub for the evening, presumably to shout obscenities at AVB from the comfort of a bar stool.

 I'd give my left bollock for one of those

The human body is a quite resilient piece of kit. You can break its bones, poison it with alcohol and even take parts of it out, and it'll still keep on chugging away. But for the majority of us it truly is a temple and we treat it with the respect and care that it deserves. Unless there's red sports car on offer that is. Mark Parisi, from Las Vegas, has revealed his plans to sell one of his testicles to US scientists for the princely sum of £22,000. Poor fella he must be really down on his luck to have to do that. Not really, he plans to use the money to buy a Nissan 370.

He could at least get a Ferrari, if you're going to all that trouble and plan to spend the rest of your life with just one veg to accompany your meat you should be aiming higher than a fuckin' Nissan! But maybe he's working his way towards that. We often hear of people donating kidneys to loved ones, perhaps Mark will sell his to generate funds for a helicopter. What else have we got that we can live without? I'm not sure but I bet Mark knows. If you see a limbless, earless figure driving along in a high-end sports car any time soon chances are it'll be Mr Parisi just living the dream. 

Seven days and one week

A round-up of the week's major news stories as seen through the eyes of an inattentive, misinformed moron.

Balon Bore

When did the annual crowning of the best footballer on the planet become such a big deal? Time was when the Balon d'Or and the separate World Footballer of the Year award were handed out with a minimum of fuss to the players that most agreed deserved them. But that was before the days of Messi and Ronaldo, the greatest footballing rivalry since, well since ever. In a team sport it's rare to see two individuals develop a conflict like their's, even more so when you consider they're rarely in direct contact on the occasions that they line up against one another. And you could argue that if it wasn't for Cristiano's gigantic ego there wouldn't be any rivalry at all. Messi appears happy to just plod along and receive whatever plaudits come his way, Ronaldo on the other hand..

For what it's worth I prefer Ronaldo as a player, because you have to pick one don't you? His ties with United may have something to do with that but my reasons are my own and I won't bore you with them right now. But even as someone who believes Madrid's number seven is the finest talent on the planet I've found myself getting irked by the continued campaigning for him to win this year's Balon d'Or. His backers point to his goalscoring feats and his individual masterclasses as evidence of his credentials, they compare the stats of his competitors and declare each and every one of them his inferior. I think they're missing the point.

The Balon d'Or, like any annual award, is not about who is the best player but who has had the best year. Yes Ronaldo has scored five-hundred hat-tricks and broke records that were never meant to be broken, but for what? A runners-up spot in La Liga and a Champions League semi-final. His international exploits can't be overlooked, but does his performance against a pretty average Swedish side suddenly propel him to the top of the list. Not in my opinion. The players that have had the best year in the world of football all currently play for Bayern Munich. They may not have wowed audiences with their goalscoring feats or had historians scrambling for the record books, but they won everything. Philipp Lahm, Bastian Schweinsteiger, Franck Ribery and even Arjen Robben deserve the gong more than Cristiano, because what they did mattered, what they did brought glory, and ultimately that's all that counts.

Bookworms

Remember all the excitement surrounding Fifty Shades of Grey and it's successors? Women worldwide were visiting book shops for the very first time and getting all hot and bothered by the antics of Mr Grey, or whatever the fucker's name was. It was a sexual revolution and hardware stores reported a sizeable increase in the sales of chains, ropes and other bondage type materials. The female population were outed as the kinky little tarts they were and us blokes simply sat back and enjoyed the ride. But it couldn't last, neither the depraved coitus nor the interest in literature. Where are those ropes and chains now? And more importantly where's your copy of Fifty Shades?

If you loaned your book out to a friend or an acquaintance you might wanna think twice before asking for it back: because you have no idea where it's been. Researchers at a Belgian laboratory undertook a study which involved running chemical tests on the ten most popular books at their local library. All ten tested positive for cocaine; that's hardly surprising though given the prevalence of the drug in most urban areas. More concerning is that two of the books – one of which was Fifty Shades – tested positive for herpes. Oh my. 

And just in case you were thinking this was just a strange coincidence you should be aware that the other book which had traces of the clap was also a romance novel, Tango by Pieter Aspe. But don't text that slutty friend of yours telling her to keep your book forever just yet. Because although traces of the herpes virus were found on the books the researchers were quick to point out that there was no possibility of catching the disease from simply handling the saucy tomes. So you can rest easy, unless of course you're one of the filthy fuckers smearing your dirty microbes all over one of E.L James' novels, in which case you need to get yourself to a clinic and hand back that library card right now. 

The wait is over

The relationship between the déise and the good folk of neighbouring county Kilkenny is at best, fractious. But for the most part this antipathy is rather one-sided. Sure what have us Cats got to be angry about? A constant, steady stream of All-Irelands makes one very content with their lot. And that in turn explains the sourness of pusses in and around Waterford county and city. They hate us, fuckin' detest us they do, and in reply we ruffle their hair, pat them on the back and say “maybe next year lads.”But 'tis only sport at the end of the day and I personally have great fondness for Waterford and it's people having lived and worked there at various intervals in my life.

There's one thing that Waterford has that us Kilkenny people are all secretly jealous of though, no not the minor All-Ireland sure we've loads of them! The Blaa. Ooh I'd love a Blaa now, but I'm in Limerick and you can't get them here. Which is how it should be. If you've never heard of a Blaa you need to get yourself to the South-East to sample their floury delights, but in the meantime I'll describe them as best I can. They're kind of a round little bread roll, with flour dusted on to the surface. And they're crunchy on the outside and squidgy in the middle. They go great with corned beef, luncheon, salad cream, crisps, bananas, cheese, pickles and anything else you can think of – although not all at the same time obviously.

And in a testament to their delightfulness we, and people from the surrounding counties, took to naming our Waterford neighbours as...the Blaas. And they weren't even offended, if anything they were proud to be named after their finest export. That pride swelled even further this week with the news that the Blaa was finally to be granted European Union protection, meaning that it is now illegal to use the name Blaa to describe any other type of bread. To give you an idea of how big a deal this is other foodstuffs to be awarded the same protection include the likes of Champagne, Cornish Pasties and Gorgonzola cheese. 

So all in all it's a proud moment for the Blaas, both the people and the bread. But while we'll continue to sneak into their land and nab some of their lovely rolls they have no chance of laying a finger on a single one of our All-Irelands. 

Yes, I'm seeing someone

Single men have it tough. They might not have to contend with the daily stresses that come with being in a committed relationship but all in all the negatives far outweigh the positives. Yes they can head to the pub whenever they want and, in theory, they can shag as many women as they want but it can be a quite lonely existence. It's all very well getting pissed with the lads and waking up beside strangers but all most of us really want is a good woman to cuddle up to of a chilly winter's night. But by far the biggest problem any single man faces is how other people perceive him. 

If you go a couple of years without entering into a serious relationship chances are your sexuality will be brought into question: “Jaysus I haven't seen himself with a young wan in a while, dya reckon he's, yknow, gay?” If women decide to be single for a while then they're congratulated for being independent. But if men do the same, well then there's clearly something up with them. Arrive at a family gathering by yourself and straight away suspicions are aroused, “When you going to find a nice girl for yerself?” “I know someone who'd be lovely for you,” they say, automatically assuming that you're a lovelorn loser incapable of meeting someone all by yourself.

But now a solution is at hand. Whether you're a single man who's enjoying his freedom or someone who's hapless in affairs of the heart then the Invisible Girlfriend app is the thing for you. For just €7.35 a month you can fool friends and family into believing you've finally landed the girl of the dreams. Interactive text messages, voice mails and a false Facebook account to be 'in a relationship' with should go some way to convincing them. But that's just the basic package, stick another €30 on top to avail of the 'Almost Engaged' plan which includes random gifts and phone calls from your mystery lady. 

Many fellas will be looking at this and thinking “€37, that's a lot cheaper than the bitch I'm with now, and I wouldn't have to listen to any nagging either.” But until they offer a deluxe deal which includes a few extras I think most of us will be happy to remain with our living, breathing and all too visible, better halves.