Fandom

On June 12^th 1988 I was in Co Wicklow with the 47^th Cub Scout troop camping. Before twelve year old had a mobile phone, we pitched our tents on the floor of a river valley surrounded by the greenest woodland and with the exception of the occasional plane flying over head the outside world could not get near us. That was until Ian Corcoran took his contraband transistor radio out of his rucksack.

We were not supposed to bring such things on camp; it was all about getting back to basics. Anyone caught with such an illicit item would be punished by having their mother told. But ‘Corco’ was willing to risk it. He wanted to hear what was happening in the match.

“What match?” I naively asked.

“We are playing England in the Euros.”

This was news to me although I did twig that by we he meant Ireland and that by the Euros he meant soccer. I didn’t have much interest in sport back then. I occasionally played 5 a side football (not very well as I have mentioned previously,) but I had always assumed that Ireland weren’t very good.

“They’ll slaughter us,” I said both unpatriotically and insensitively, considering the violent history of both nations.

“Not necessarily,” his scorn barely concealed. “We’re much better now that Jack Charlton is the manager.”

I remembered my dad giving out about the disgrace of having an Englishman as manager. And there were few more English than Jack Charlton; he’d won the world cup with them and everything. To hear my friend sticking up and praising this guy now was very confusing. So with a mumbled “so what” I went about the business of taking down our camp while Ian listened to the match.

He screamed when Ray Houghton put the ball in the English net. He gasped at every save Packie Bonner made. As the match progressed more and more scouts, including me gathered around him to listen to what would be a famous win for the Republic of Ireland.  A victory I didn’t fully comprehend until we were driving back to Dublin later that day.

As we drove through towns and villages people were dancing on the street, waving their pints in the air. Cars beeped their horns in celebration. Irishmen kissed each other on the cheek in an outpouring of emotion that had never before been seen on Isle of Saints and Scholars. It was a party.

And so my interest was piqued. I made a point of watching the next Ireland game against the USSR. They were definitely much better than us, surely. The England game was a fluke. The Soviets would wipe the floor with us, wouldn’t they? They didn’t and when Ronnie Whelan scored one of the greatest goals ever (with his shin) my teenage love affair with football was concreted.

Sadly over the years, as is the way with life, I have allowed myself to become cynical about soccer. Millionaire footballers running around the pitch with impeccable hair and sculpted chests mean nothing to me. I have no connection to someone who just wants the ref to blow so that he can get out and pick up his latest wannabe WAG.

It didn’t help that Ireland became a horrible team to support. Poor results matched by poor performances meant that the joy I got from being a plucky underdog had dissipated. We could barely beat Wales.

Then came Giovanni Trapattoni. The Italian embraced negative football. If the other team can’t score we can’t lose was his thinking. Not necessarily the most attractive way to play the beautiful game but it has been effective.

Today for the first time in ten years, the Republic of Ireland takes to the field in a major football championship. So for the day that’s in it I will allow myself to to be the hopeful, cheering pre pubescent that I was in 1988.

Come On You Boys in Green.

Knickers

Thus far ‘K’ has definitely been my least favourite stop on this alphabetical blogging odyssey. Up until this point I was loaded with a variety of options from my vernacular but with the eleventh letter I struggled to for a fitting word to headline my musings.

A Facebook plea offered up some hope. Kangaroo, Karma and Kaleidoscope were all possibilities. Kinky certainly had potential and when Ka-ching arrived courtesy of Sean Kennedy I was certain I had hit pay dirt.

Unfortunately it wasn’t just a title I needed. Usually I come up with a name based around the subject matter of the piece but sometimes I take the letter, find a word that I like and hope to get some spark from that. I was hoping this would be one of those times.

It wasn’t. Inspiration was not coming the way I needed it so Ka ching, while great was proving unusable at this point in time. This put me back to square one with this week’s blog. It was only after a conversation with an incredibly childish colleague did I come with this week’s bit.

“Knickers,” she said like an eight year old.

It was perfect. I already had a story that I told relating to underwear and it would fit rather nicely into the style that you have all become accustomed to.

I need to point out that this story is mostly true. I may have exaggerated some of the facts and added some dramatic flourishes but as some disreputable journalist may have once said, never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

This tale takes place in my youth and like all good childhood stories it happened in one of those memory lane summers, where even in Ireland, glorious sunshine baked our young faces as we ran, skipped and jumped. The evenings lasted forever and there was a real sense of community.

To emphasise both of these facts, the local community council, or the Eight Roads committee as they were known, organised an evening football tournament for all of the kids who lived on the aforementioned eight roads.

Every child in the area signed up for the ‘road leagues.’ I say it as though we all volunteered but in my case it was more my mother wanted me out from under her feet so she put my name down. I would imagine there were one or two others like me.

I wasn’t very good at soccer and the organiser knew it. They knew who the kids that were rubbish were and they knew who the really good ball players were. Everyone else was in between. I wasn’t privy to the team selection process but it did seem that on each team of seven, there was one really good player, one woeful incompetent like myself and five others of varying ability. So it was pretty fair.

Split into divisions based on age, each team would play each other over three weeks and the top two teams would then play again on the final day. The games were played on a grass covered roundabout on Aughavannah Road and would usually be surrounded by parents and supporters of the kids involved in any of the five games played each night.

One such evening is when my story takes place. The sun was indeed shining and the roundabout was busier than normal. My team was playing and we were kitted out in red football jerseys, to which I added football shorts and socks, a very impressive ensemble indeed. Not that it really mattered because as I said, I wasn’t very good and my ‘manager’ had decided that I should stay as a substitute.

I was ok with that, I was maybe 10 at the time and while I’m sure puberty hadn’t started yet I do remember feeling somewhat self conscious about running around in shorts and looking stupid while the people on my time refused to pass to me. So I was doing my bit for the team from the sideline

That was until; one of my team mate’s mum called him in for his tea. I’m not sure if that was what actually happened but I was sent on to replace one of the other players. I looked over and saw my mum on the other side of the pitch. She seemed so proud. The manager told me to stick up front and if the ball came near me to kick it towards the opponent’s goal. That way I couldn’t do much harm.

For the first couple of minutes everything was going fine. I stayed clear of the action as it was mostly going on down near my teams goal. I ran around a bit up front, even though the ball was in the other half. People were shouting at me from the sideline to ‘chase back’ but I was following my coach’s instruction to the letter.

Eventually our goalkeeper caught the ball and kicked it as hard as he could up the field. There was no one near it except me and the opposition goalie. I ran for the ball and so did he. I was a bit closer but he was much faster than I was. I was almost at the ball when he came behind, knocking me over and kicking the football back down the field.

My possible moment of glory gone, I picked myself up and began to run around up front again. It seemed a little harder this time like I was running against something. It appeared that the elastic that held my shorts up had snapped in the tackle. My shorts felt looser and I was aware that they were slipping down. As was everyone in the crowd of about one hundred people.

One hundred people laughing at you because your shorts are falling down is the stuff nightmares are made of, especially to 10 year old. I tried to ignore it and play on holding them up with one hand but it wouldn’t work. If I held them at the front the back would slip down and vice versa. It definitely required two hands which made it even harder to run. The raucous laughter wasn’t helping either. I had never been so humiliated.

That is until at that very moment, my mother, feeling a million types of embarrassment for son with drooping draws, ran on to the pitch, while the game was still being played, grabbed my shorts and hoisted them up as high as they would go. She then turned the tops of them into my underwear so as they would stay up. She meant well but aside from the very painful wedgy she had just inflicted on me, she had managed to make my 10 year old mortification and the laughter of the braying audience a million times worse.

So there you have my knickers story. It’s something that has haunted me every day for the last twenty five years or so. I’ve tried to laugh it off. I tell it as an ice breaker when I’m sitting with strangers at a wedding or some such event. Some laugh, some creep away. It’s understandable.

I’m not sure how I’d react to a stranger revealing such intimate and traumatic details of their life. But I wanted to share it with you my loyal readers, mostly because, therapy is really expensive. Any psychiatrist who read this story will just see cash register signs. Ka ching.

Communication

So did you miss me?

When I wasn’t posting?

Blogs?

The thing you’re reading now?

I hadn’t posted any for almost a month. Nothing? I’m glad to see I’m making an impact on all your lives. Luckily I’m not sensitive or might not ever write again.
What’s that? You did miss me!!! Oh you guys, shucks.

Anyway, placating my ego aside, the good news is service has returned to normal here at InsertWittyPopCultureReferenceHere. I posted a quickie blog last week and hopefully for March we’ll have the more usual one a week. After some technical difficulties we are back in full effect. I say technical difficulties, what actually happened was I had no internet service.



If you’d have told me 4 years ago that being without the instant access to the “Information Superhighway,” (when was the last time anyone called it that?) would cause be such hardship I would have laughed in your face and poured Pepsi on your shoe. I didn’t need constant access to emails or social networking. I was fine living here in the real world thank you very much.

But times have indeed changed. When my old housemate moved out on the 27th of January taking with him his high-speed wireless internet connection I was left in something of a quandary. I didn’t want to sign a 12 month contract with a provider and the pay as you go options are just too slow or limited for me. So I took some time to weigh up my options.

For some people this would have just meant they would be without online gambling or internet porn for a while. This was true of me but it also meant I couldn’t post blogs or do any research. It also meant that I hadn’t a bogs notion of what was going on in the world.

I’ve spoken before about the brain killing effect of TV but I’m not sure if I told you that I actually got rid of my TV. I couldn’t take it, Daytime and Reality TV. Stupid American sitcoms. It had to go. It also meant I had no access to news programmes.

In fairness the quality of news reporting is no great shakes. The sensationalism of Sky News desperately trying to fill 24 hours with nothing stories about the engagement of Prince William and someone named Kate was pathetic. The failure of Ireland’s national broadcaster to never question the behaviour of our politicians (who also happen to be the ones in charge of the purse strings) was no great shakes either.

I could listen to the radio I suppose, but I have to say I find nothing more irritating than the sound of radio presenters either giving the mindless morons of the world a forum to air their idiotic opinions or the actual idiotic opinions of the radio presenters. Ironic coming from someone who gives his idiotic opinion on a blog, I know.

I think as a child, listening to the radio was always about the music and that’s what I want from it. I want the ‘DJ’s’ to shut up and play some tunes. Besides when I used to listen to news radio first thing in the morning on the way to a job I hated, it was just depressing. Job losses, murder, drugs, incompetent officials. I can’t be dealing with that before my coffee.

Then there is the newspaper. Well it’s the ink you see. It makes my hands go all black. Not to mention the fact that the broadsheets are so big and wieldy. I could get the tabloid version of them but that would just give away the fact that I can’t handle a ‘real’ newspaper.



So having exhausted traditional media the internet really is a vital tool for keeping up to date. Twitter is a fantastic resource if you want to follow a particular news story. A site like boards.ie, when you get past the unfortunate opinions, is a great place to get links to facts and information. And I was without my usual reference points in what was a very important time, personally, universally and internationally.

On a personal level, I was completely in the dark on one of the most dramatic days of the year. Football Transfer Window Deadline Day. It was more important than ever this year, with the series of events surrounding a man who I considered a hero. The will he, won’t he saga of Fernando Torres move to Chelsea had me on tenterhooks. I only felt the full force of his betrayal when I saw him the next day on the front cover of The Sun, of all papers, when I was in a shop buying a croissant.

Then, in even bigger news, The Rock returned to the WWE. This may be of little interest to you but anyone who knows the extent of my man love for The Rock will understand. I didn’t find out about his Monday night return until much later in the week.

None of this, of course compares to the turmoil in Egypt or Libya. Real news effecting people worldwide. And I keep seeing that guy Enda Kenny on TV’s in shop windows. Did he get sacked or something?

I guess being incommunicado isn’t all bad.

Support Group

Dear C.L.

How have you been? Hope you are well? You don’t mind me writing do you? Its just….Its… I miss you. There, I said it. I really really miss you.

I’m sorry I know right to say this. We never said it was forever. I always knew you couldn’t guarantee to always be there for me. Hell, you already changed your own rules once when it looked like I didn’t have the stuff to get to you.

After that time I tried really hard. You know I did. And it seemed to be getting easier. But that didn’t last. My friends all say you are fickle but I understand. You have certain requirements and if I wasn’t meeting them…then I guess I can’t be with you.

I’ll never forget those nights we had though. You made me feel so alive. So much passion, so much excitement. I swear there were times when you had me so exhilarated my whole body throbbed and I thought my brain would explode.

Those midweek rendezvous made everything else seem bearable. Even when the bread and butter stuff was going wrong you always found a way to make me feel hope. Even with all the hassle with the bosses you were there for me.

I hear you’ve started seeing T.H. Does he make you happy? Does he give you the thrills I used to. I know its none of my business who you see but I don’t think he’s good enough for you. He’s just a poser from ‘Laandan.’ He doesn’t have the class that I have….used to have.

I know he got you on merit but he’s not what you need. Those fancy things he gives you. The Van De Vaart and Modric? They’re nice and all…but what about all the good times I gave with Alonso and Masch? I still have the El Nino….you deserve the El Nino. And even if Mr. G is past his best he still has more good qualities than T.H.

You know I’m seeing E.L. of course. I can’t keep lying to myself. I hate her stupid face. She isn’t half of you…not even a small portion compared to you. When I’m with her, I fake it. She makes me use a Poulesen and Lucas. What kind of tempo and penetration can you expect with that. And she takes me to places like Utrecht. It sounds like S.T.I.

Remember the nights we had all over Europe. Madrid, Barcelona, Turin, London. And Istanbul. What a night. I thought I was finished. Over before I’d even got started. But you, you inspired me. I pulled out the most magnificent performance I can ever remember. Do you remember how you joked about my ‘Big Pole.’

I miss you so much it makes my bones throb and my heart ache. What I wouldn’t give to be there with you once again, sharing the highs and the lows. If you can tell me there is a chance…just a glimmer of hope, I’ll walk through deserts, climb mountains, sacrifice Sammy Lee. Anything to just once more be able to say you might be mine.

Don’t let the company I keep fool you. The likes of Hodgson and Knochesky I only keep around for E.L. I’m still in your league. We can be great together once again.

I love and miss you so much.

L.F.C.

For those of you who haven’t guessed that is not me pathetically pleading to be taken back by some European beauty. If only. No these are the pleas of a man deprived of something even more special than sexy time with a Spanish senorita. I’m talking about football.

I’ve been supporting Liverpool FC since 1986. In the interest of disclosure I need to add an addendum to that statement. I began supporting Liverpool in 1986 when they won the league and F.A. cup double. Before that I supported Man Utd.

I know, I know. Heresy. You are not supposed to switch football teams and you are definitely not supposed to switch between Man Utd and Liverpool. In my defence, I was only 10. And I only supported Man Utd because my nanny had gotten me an easter egg with a Man Utd cup. They didn’t win anything that year and Livepool had.

So yea, you can call me a fair weather fan. I like to think I’ve endured enough misery over the years to restore the karmic imbalance of abandoning my first team. Man Utd as anyone with oxygen in their body knows have become the biggest and most successful team on the planet. Liverpool? Livepool have become the bane of many tortured existences.

As the only member of my extended family who supports Liverpool, I’ve tolerated the (good natured) taunts and jeers of my United loving uncles, cousins and brothers for twenty years. I could always resort to the fact that my team had an overall historical better record. Man Utd have since caught up and Livepool only have slight advantage.

Do I regret my decision to switch allegiances? Not in the slightest. For all the heartache and torment, following Liverpool has given me some fantastic moments. They have an unrivalled penchant for drama even in defeat. I still have nightmares about losing the league in 1989 to that last minute Michael Thomas goal.

When they do win? Oh they do it in style. Their ability to come back when all seems lost in the big games is a phenomenon. Never has a team mastered delivering high drama and tension the way Liverpool have. Especially when it comes to the Champions League.

Last Wednesday, as I was once again losing a game of pool to my good friend Al, Man Utd were on the T.V. playing in the Champions League. For those of you who don’t know, Liverpool didn’t qualify for the Champions League and are instead competing in Europes inferior (no other word for it) competition, the Europa League. It was then that I decided to write the above letter.

Since then it has been an incredibly tumultuous week for all Livepool fans. A 0-0 draw to the above mentioned F.C Utrecht was bad enough. Our new managers comments after the game however were bewildering.

Roy Hodgson, who’s previous managerial experience with the likes of Fulham, Neuchatel Xamax and the Finnish national team was deemed the appropriate experience to take charge of one of the biggest football names in the world, said ‘It's the first time we haven't won one of these games but to be honest it would have been unfortunate for them if we'd won the game tonight. They would have felt hard done by. For me, a draw was a more than satisfactory result.’

Well I’m sorry Roy, actually no its not. Five years ago Liverpool where the champions of Europe. Their pedigree is second to none. In no way should they be considered fortunate to be on a par with a mid table Dutch club.

It was to get even worse. Three days later, at Anfield, for so many people the home of football, we lost to Blackpool. A team in their first season in the premiership. A team with no star players. A team expected to struggle to stay up in the top flight.

A team with more heart and character than Liverpool.

At the moment Liverpool sit third from bottom in the league. Fernando Torres is injured again. Our marquee summer signing, Joe Cole, has failed to impress so far. The team are playing a dull passive style that is not the Liverpool way. It is however, the Roy Hodgson way.

We have great players but they aren’t performing. So many players are playing out of their best positions and it shows. No one seems certain of what they should be doing.

All this without even mentioning the fact that they got knocked out of the League Cup by Northampton. That’s Northampton who at the time of writing are 19th in League 2, three divisions below Liverpool. It really isn’t easy being a Liverpool fan.

The letter to the Champions league seemed like a nice little blog. Something to make fun of the current situation that my team find themselves in. Then as when the Utrecht result came in, I didn’t feel like poking fun. When the Blackpool game happened, I was too depressed to post.

A lot of the malaise has been attributed to the clubs American owners Tom Hicks and George Gillette. They took over a couple of years ago using the club as collateral and have since crippled it with debt which in turn has delayed progress on promised developments for the team such as a new ground and investment in the team.

They have angered and alienated many of the clubs great fans and have changed the atmosphere of supporters from one of hope and optimism to despair. Supporter groups have organised in an attempt to oust the owners. Protest marches and sit ins are a common occurrence at Anfield these days. And while I’m sure thick skinned , brass necked Americans like Tom Hicks couldn’t care less about fan protests there is finally a chink of light for the put upon supporters.

The Americans inability to pay their debts resulted in the banks forcing them to sell the club. If they failed to do so before the 15th of October the club would then be repossessed (as such) by the bank. The Royal Bank of Scotland did not want this and put in a non executive chairman to ensure the club was sold.

This morning it looked like a sale was agreed. With more American but this time ones who have a track record for reviving flagging sports teams fortunes. New England Sports Ventures are the parent company of the Boston Red Sox. Since taking over the Red Sox they won their first championship in over 80 years and followed that up with a second. They renovated their old Fenway Park stadium, redesigned the management and playing staff structure and basically woke a sleeping giant. The head of the consortium, John W Henry (not the Steel Driving Man) was recently voted the best owner in Major League Baseball.

The saga has not had its happy ending yet as Hicks and Gillette are attempting to block the sale as they make no profit from it. Despite the fact that they have put the club in a position where financial administration is a possibility they still have the audacity to try and screw over the club one more time. Thankfully it does not look like they have a leg to stand on legally.

So whilst always being aware of the old adage of ‘once bitten twice shy’ it looks like off the field there is hope for Liverpool. Now, if we can get the team playing to its ability and in a style that its fans have become accustomed to there may be more reasons to be positive.

Its rarely easy being a Liverpool fan. But for emotional turmoil, drama, intrigue and high tension I wouldn’t swap it for any other team. This blog has been one the more negative ones I done. My team have given me a hard time lately and yet I’m able to find hope to end it on. Having hope, that sums up supporting Liverpool in two words.

Mutual

September 10th 2009.A pretty non eventful day for many although not without consequence. One day before the anniversary the World Trade Centre attack it was surely significant for relatives of victims. A shared birthday for the unlikely celebrity trio of Ryan Philippe, Joe Perry and Arnold Palmer. Who can forget that it was 32nd anniversary of the last person to be guillotined in France? That being Hamida Djandoubi of course.

For me, however, it is a momentous date. It was on that day that my life changed, hopefully forever, and I began on what has since proved to be the happiest, most fulfilled period of my life. That is because on that day, exactly one year ago from the day when I type this, I walked out of Meteor Mobile Communications for the last time.

It was an amazing day. I was embarking on the biggest adventure into the unknown I’d ever taken. I had no idea what lay ahead. And I couldn’t have been more excited.

I know in this time of economic uncertainty that anyone excited about losing a job must be considered a mental health risk. Well if I’m honest in my case it was the exact opposite. Leaving Meteor was the best thing I could ever do for my sanity.

I’ve spoken before about how I was stressed by the job of Fraud Analyst and how it was genuinely affecting my health but I’m not sure if that paints a full and fair picture. Its not that the job itself was particularly stressful on its own. My performance in the role wasn’t good enough really. This was mostly due to not liking the job in any way.

If I was getting any joy from the job I probably would have worked harder. The work I did would possibly have been better. I would not have made the same basic mistakes over and over again. But I didn’t. This led me down the road to what is known as the ‘Disciplinary Process.’

You’ve all heard of it I’m sure. You sit down and discuss how ‘we’ can work on ‘our’ issues. If that isn’t successful you then have things like ‘Training Programmes.’ This is followed by warnings of the verbal and written nature.

If I had been honest, with myself and with my boss, when we were discussing ‘my issues’ I would have said I hate this job and left there and then. That, however, is not really a practical move. Everyone hates their job, right? No one walks away from a very decent job and decent package because they don’t like it. You suck it up, right?

And that’s what I tried to do. I ended up creating cycle of misery that was constantly perpetuating. I’d hate the job so I’d make a mistake so I’d hate the job so I’d make a mistake so I’d….you get the idea.
Have you ever rang in sick just because you know you made a mistake? It doesn’t make the mistake go away. It just delays having to deal with it. This I know from experience.

Without going into too much detail, one of my mistakes got so out of hand that it was the focus of a report by the RTE news programme Primetime. A call-back to a customer, something very simple, that I didn’t do got escalated to the point where it was on national TV. I didn’t call him back because he wasn’t listening to me anyway so I said fuck him.

Not great customer service I know but the results did seem a little exaggerated. Imagine having your boss call you to a meeting and say you messed up on this and by the way the country’s broadcasters are going to be covering it. That’s a lot of pressure. That was the straw before the straw that broke the camels back.

To be honest I can’t even remember what the actual final nail was. All I remember was I was on a weeks holiday away from it and recharging my batteries for one more push at being a dedicated, diligent and committed Fraud Analyst. On the Friday before I was due to start back I got a phone call from one of my colleagues. Just giving me a heads up, something I was supposed to do had gone awry.

A whole week off of relaxing and gearing myself up for once more into breech, gone. Out the window. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was dreading Monday and was fully expecting that I would go in on Monday morning and be fired. What happened next was an unexpected piece of fortune

Not wanting to endure the whole rigmarole that goes along with these disciplinary meetings I went in ready to end it all. Like a Samurai about to perform Seppuku I explained I knew what had happened and I knew what the repercussions would be. I asked them to make it quick as I wanted to get it over with as I was tired of it all and if it wasn’t for the fact that I couldn’t sign on the dole I would quit right now.

This apparently was some secret magic formula. The powers that be went from being my (self-perceived) worst enemies to being the people who were happy to help me set up what was to become my new life. A package was agreed and I would be ending my working relationship with Meteor by mutual agreement. MUTUAL AGREEMENT. Just like Martin O’Neill.

I finished up two days later. They were keen not to drag it out. In fairness if I was slacking off when I was trying to keep my job what would I be like when I knew I was going.

On my final day I had an exit meeting with my manager. For the first time ever I was able to just be honest about my feelings for the job. It was really liberating.

I do need to make one thing clear. Meteor Mobile Communications is a great company to work for (or they were most of the time I was there.) I have no bad blood against them or my managers who were doing their job when I wasn’t doing mine. I was just not meant to that job. Since then I think I’ve figured out that I’m not cut out for office work in general. I think Meteor bore the brunt of my brain and spirit rebelling against 8 years in an air conditioned, neon lit purgatory.

When I left the exit meeting my colleagues were waiting with cake and biscuits to say goodbye. It was really nice. They didn’t really know the circumstances of my leaving and as we sat around and chatted about what I was going to do it began to feel more and more that not only was it the right decision but it felt like it was my decision.

One colleague asked if I was going to miss them. I the time I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to offend anyone. As people I knew I would miss some of them but I wouldn’t miss going into that office to see them everyday. If I were to see any of them in the outside world I’d be delighted.

So once the cake and biscuit was gone and the goodbyes were said, I was escorted from the building. A standard procedure but it still felt funny. I didn’t mind though. They could have had an armed response unit throw me out the door and I’d still be delighted. I got in my car and drove into the afternoon sun having chosen Ghost Town by the Specials as the song to play as I left the Meteor car park for the last time.

Of course it can be argued that with hindsight it’s easy to say it was the best thing to ever happen to me. But even then, as soon as I realised I was free, I knew ‘it’ would work out for me. Whatever ‘it’ was. I had no idea what I wanted to do, or where I could do it. I just knew I’d be happy.

And I am. I work part time to pay the bills. I do some voluntary work which is incredibly rewarding and I have the time to pursue a dream of being a writer. I mean that’s what I’ve always wanted to be. I remember being child with the whole world in front of him. Then a teenager with hopes, not twisted by years of working a spirit sapping low reward jobs. First he wanted to be Indiana Jones and then a writer.

I don’t recall him ever wanting to be a Fraud Analyst.

Brick Wall

So how are we all enjoying the World Cup? In fairness it has picked up since the knockout rounds, but so far,for me its been pretty meh! Although in the interest of giving props when due, I have to say I was quite impressed watching Brazil take on Cote d’Ivoire the other night. Brazil seem to have mixed their traditional flair and attacking football with a solid defence which is a little different for the boys from the Copacabana.

Being something of expert myself, I was fully expecting the lads in the studio to agree with my analysis at half time. So while I sat there waiting to hear Didi Hamman and Eamon Dunphy confirm my incite into the beautiful game, I found myself being distracted by what has become something of a familiar irritant this last week or two.

Vevuzalas. The annoying plastic horns that have been blaring a slightly off key B flat droning out of our televisions screens all the way from South Africa. I mean its bad enough when its going on during the game…but for the half time studio discussion? I thought that is a bit much.

Of course being the clever person that I am, I eventually realised that I was mistaken. The sound wasn’t coming from my TV this time. It was closer.

I looked around to see if I could locate the source of the noise. Quick scan of the room. Eyes searching. There, in the skylight on my roof, the buzzing cause of my vexation. It wasn’t the horns of Bafana Bafana sounding like a trapped bumble bee this time. No, this time, it was an actual trapped Bumble Bee.

A little black and yellow fuzzy nugget of noisy nuisance. Flying into the window. Over and over he (I’m assuming it’s a he because of his failure to ask for directions) would draw back and attempt to make his escape through the window. Wings flapping, buzz buzzing he burst forward expecting to feel the wind coarse through his hair.

Again and again he was repelled with a thunk. His little bee head bouncing of the pane of glass. I watched this with more amusement than a man of thirty plus years should get from an insect. Thirty seconds, a minute, a minute and a half passed and I was still smiling at his futile attempts at escape.


By the time two minutes rolled around, my mirth began to ease. I watched him as he continued on his mission and I felt a twinge of guilt and then sadness then finally recognition. To paraphrase Dr F.J. Lewis from History Today, ‘That’s me that is!’

I saw something in that pesky bee that rang true to my heart. As he continued to pummel his head against the glass wall, I thought about how I constantly do the same stupid things over and over again. Things that I understand aren’t in my best interest but yet time and again I go back to the well.

Be it poor choice of female companion, or behaving in a manner detrimental to a relationship. Over consumption of alcohol. Making compulsive decisions that are not conducive to a happy and healthy lifestyle. Over the years, repeatedly, I have gone back to that well of self sabotage.

With the help of psycho analysis I have learned to recognise when I am heading down these roads. It doesn’t always stop me going down them. Most of the times I halt my negative behaviour, but sometimes, sometimes I allow myself to go further than normal because I convince myself that I know what I’m doing. This is not true. I’m like that guy in the big river in Egypt.

Living this way has in the past made me incredibly unhappy. I don’t want to have this kind of existence.

I recently watched the movie Greenberg. It stars Ben Stiller as a miserable, disaffected , sad lonely guy.
When I was in my twenties I loved movies about these kind of characters. They were cool and indie. I related to them. Usually because they were in their twenties. This character, Greenberg, I fucking detested.

In this movie Ben Stiller was in his 40’s. He was angry and confused because his life didn’t turn out the way he expected. I can appreciate that. However what I can’t appreciate is that the self serving whiney asshole did nothing to change it. He was miserable and he excused himself for being a dick because he was unhappy. Sadly this is something I’ve probably been guilty off in the past.

In general the movie made me think ‘I can’t be doing this crap when I’m in my forties.’ I can’t keep messing around and expect people to understand. I need to make things different. I need to keep pushing with the changes I have made in my life.

So, why am I telling you about it, you ask? Good question my friends. I’m going to need help. As I said a lot of the time I recognise when I’m doing stupid things. Sometimes I recognise and ignore it. What I need from you, if you see me making one of my poor life choices I need you to highlight it to me. I need you to be vocalise the annoying little voice that’s going on in my head.

Of course there is no point in you just saying to me ‘Don‘t do that John‘. I didn’t listen to my mother enough when she said it and I probably won’t listen to you . In all likelihood just think you are a killjoy and I’m in control, I’ll be fine. And that is blatantly not the case.

What is needed in a situation like this, as any submissive sex slave worth their salt will tell you, is a safety word. A single word which will spark my brain into action and make me realise that I’m doing something stupid again.

A good safety word should be something that is strong and unusual enough to not come up in regular everyday conversation. I’m thinking, in honour of my inspirational friend of going with bumblebee. But if anyone has a better suggestion I’m always open to a good safety word.

Oh and in case you’re are wondering about the bee. Eventually he realised he was banging his head needlessly against the window. He stopped, changed direction and flew out the door. You’re all smart people. I don’t need to explain that metaphor to you, now do I?