Adolescent

It would appear that my fifteen year old brother is turning into something of fairly cool individual. He has started to form his own identity with hobbies and opinions of his own. Growing their hair and taking an interest in their appearance is probably standard for guys his age but is learning to play the banjo and a general interest in traditional music?

Shouldn’t he be playing computer games, planking (it’s an actual thing) in shopping centres and mugging grannies? I’ve been led to believe that the youth of today had been assimilated into text speaking dumbots who are willing to sacrifice any kind of dignity to become a YouTube meme.

From what I remember, it is far from easy being a teenage boy. Your body starts doing things you were not expecting at the most inopportune time. Hair begins to spurt on appendages and in orifices. You don’t know which way is up unless you use a seemingly constant erection as some sort of body compass because it’s always pointing that direction.

Yes, greasy hair, spots and loss of voice control make adolescence hard enough but body betrayal is only the start of your worries. Peer pressure and outside influence can be just as challenging. It takes a strong will to be your own man when you are still, for the most part, a boy.

It can be time in your life when the last thing you want to do is stand out so it can appear that the thing is to just blend in with the crowd. Wear the same clothes, do the same things, same is good, different is bad. You are still trying your personality out for size, so the more friends you have that approve of you the better.

With boys it can be hard to tell if your part of ‘the group.’ I’m don’t know if it’s just an Irish thing (I’m pretty sure it’s not) but boys make fun of everyone, whether they are friend or foe. They insult each other’s mother. They use cruel and mean nicknames. They highlight each other’s difference. It can be hard tell who is on your side and who wants to belittle you.

This was certainly the situation in my case. I was just about the most average teenager you could find. I wasn’t particularly gifted at anything, but neither was I rubbish at stuff. I was ok at sport, ok at school work, ok at being a teenager. I was made fun of and pranked but I would never claim to be bullied. But when I remember other kids and how they were treated, bullying is exactly how I would define it.

On a class trip, ‘the group’ once grabbed a boy, a guy I would have called a friend of mine, picked him up and threw him in a fountain. I knew it was going to happen, I’d been told earlier they were going to get him as soon as the teacher was distracted. I could have warned him or I could have tried to stop them. I didn’t. Maybe I thought if I stood up to ‘the group’ then I would be the one taking the swim.

I don’t think anyone in ‘the group’ turned out to be a mass murderer or corrupt politician. They are all probably decent people with families of their own now. But the pack mentality of teenage boys can lead to them doing some very horrible things.

Everyone wants to be the alpha male and the best way to show that is to force your way up the food chain and take out those weaker than you along the way, and if you can’t be the leader of the pack it’s better to be with him than against him. When you are trying to show the world that you are becoming a man, boys can behave like beasts.

I don’t think the mistakes of a teenager should be held against them. It’s a very confusing time and there are bound to me missteps along the way. But if you can be strong minded and try to stand up for what you believe, you will do just fine.

The important thing to remember is, that if it feels like life is hard at the moment, it changes, I promise. Whether that’s for better or worse is up to you. You’re at the start of a journey and you should have a good time figuring out who you are and if you need any help you can always ask.

Crush

I almost started this blog with one of those cutesy “While I was chatting to ‘her’ I thought about ‘x’” openings that really grind my gears. Firstly, no one cares that you have a loved one unless the blog is about them. And if it’s about them you shouldn’t refer to them as a pronoun. Her, she, him, themselves, it and yolky bobby are not terms of endearment.

If your girlfriend doesn’t want to be mentioned in your blog, but is an important part the content, then find some other way to bring it in. You’re a writer, use your imagination.

So myself and Jack Nicholson were playing basketball against Burt and Ryan Reynolds (no relation) when Burt started talking smack to Jack. Saying how his momma was an astronaut and what not. Jack Nicholson was having none of it and things got a bit heated when he mentioned how The Bandit had let the love of his life, Sally Field, slip out of his grasp.

While Ryan Reynolds was busy separating the two Hollywood veterans I couldn’t help dwelling on the image of Sally Field. When I was younger I used to have such a crush on her. I’m not sure I even knew what a crush was. I certainly didn’t know what the funny feeling I was having in my tummy every time I saw the star of Smokey and the Bandit and Mrs Doubtfire on screen. I just knew there was something special about her.

Of course she isn’t the only celebrity fancy I had when I was a young boy developing a curiosity for the fairer sex. Like every straight (and probably some gay) man my age Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia definitely stirred something in my pre pubescent self. Gold Bikinis and hair in funny buns will forever be fetish wear for men of a certain generation.

Of course these are both no brainers, Sally Field and Carrie Fisher were both beautiful women who radiate a cuteness while at the same time being can’t-quite-put-your-finger-on-it sexy. They tended to play sassy women who were more than capable of standing up to any moronic man. Had all my young attractions were so obvious I probably wouldn’t be writing this.

I need to point out that I was very young at the time. Not really sure what I was looking for in a girlfriend; I didn’t even know I was looking for a girlfriend. So I ask that you don’t judge ten year old me so harshly because he had a crush on the following women:

Carol Decker, the lead singer of T’pau who sang Heart and Soul and China in your Hand. She had curly red hair and could belt out a power ballad. Maybe it was the sepia tone lighting in all their videos but I always thought she was pretty. I followed her on twitter recently but that felt a bit weird.

Sonia. A bubbly Liverpool singer who was dubbed the new Cilla Black was another ginger chanteuse who appealed to my little boy sensibility. This penchant for redheads is not something that I have carried forward into my actual romantic life. I don’t know what it was about Sonia. Maybe it was the pinchable cheeks or twinkly eyes. Most likely it was the floppy hat and yellow bolero combination that she sported on her album cover Everybody Knows (which I owned on cassette tape, by the way.)

Dana. There I said it. I used to fancy Dana. All Kinds of Everything, Dana. I didn’t know she was a religious nut at the time. Before she wanted to be president and sign Ireland over to the Catholic Church I used to think she was very cute. She had big brown eyes and rosy cheeks. She had a seemed to have a kind heart; she helped Finn and Derval in Flight of the Doves. Playing Snow White in pantomime and winning the Eurovision proved how talented she was. How could anyone not be attracted to this woman?

In a time when Georgia Salpa is considered a sexy celebrity, it’s hard not to yearn for a simpler time. Or maybe I just have strange taste in women. Oh, I don’t think herself will like me saying that.

Year in Review 2011

It’s the third day of the New Year and so far most people seem happy to see the back of the year that was 2011. And who can blame them? Earthquakes, uprisings, riots, political upheaval and recession do not make for a joyous end of year summary.

Not that we talk about those kinds of things here at Insert Witty... No, we tend to stick to the stuff we know about, music, movies, books and giving out in general. Unfortunately the last twelve months haven’t been great for those either.

Movie wise it been a pretty ‘meh’ year. Far too many ‘it was ok I suppose’ (Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Super 8 and Oscar winning The Kings Speech) or ‘I can’t believe people thought that was good’ (Black Swan, Puss in Boots.) In fact a lot of reviewer’s movie the year fits perfectly into that second category.

Drive, starred Ryan Gosling as a moody, broody, stunt man turned getaway driver. As a movie it was a shallow homage to movies of the 80’s, a decade whose style over substance emptiness Drive emulates to perfection. There is absolutely no need for any of this movie to exist. From the horrible Day-Glo credits and appalling synth music soundtrack to its lack of script and video nasty violence, it is of zero artistic merit. Ladies tend to swoon over Gosling but he was in three other movies this year which are miles better than Drive.

In fact, one of those movies, Blue Valentine makes it into what I would consider the top five of the last year along with, in no particular order, Submarine, Tree of Life, Animal Kingdom and possibly Bridesmaids or Warrior. Like I said, it wasn’t a particularly great year for cinema but of what I saw, these were probably the best.

It was reported today that album sales (including digital units) for the last year are down. I can appreciate this. While there have been some good records, there hasn’t been anything that makes me want to listen to it over and over again. Bon Iver, Adele, Elbow and PJ Harvey have released decent efforts but nothing that has blown me away. So there is no JH album of the year.

My musical highlights have come from live gigs this year. As a huge Prince fan I was very sceptical about his gig in Malahide Castle. It was too expensive and the sound was bound to be terrible, I wasn’t going.


In the end my love of the man’s music got the better of me and I’m so glad it did. It was the fifth time I had seen him live and this was easily the best. It was definitely the best outdoor gig I’ve been at, possibly the best anywhere. A hits collection from start to finish (almost three hours,) he interacted and had the crowd eating out of his hand.

Then at Electric Picnic, I saw lots of great bands playing to appreciative audiences that where there to have a good time. Bands like Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, Public Enemy, Caitlin Rose, Midlake, Santigold, DJ Shadow and others all put on great sets to make for an enjoyable weekend. The Headline acts then went and turned it into an amazing experience.

Arcade Fire on Saturday night put on an incredible show, every bit as good as their performance in the O2 in 2010, and should have been the highlight of the weekend. That was until Sunday night when the man god that is Jarvis Cocker strode on stage with a reformed Pulp and sent me and my friends back in time to 1996. Singing and dancing along to Disco 2000 was an experience I have waited fifteen years for. It was worth the wait.

On a personal note, 2011 was a great year. I continued my efforts to become a proper human being and writer. I spent a lot of time helping kids write stories (I even appeared on the news doing so) and I helped educate some of them in the ways of proper comedy. The best bit, without doubt, was that I ended the year all loved up and in a relationship with a fantastic woman who I personally think is brilliant.

If I can keep that stuff going forward into this new calendar I will have a very Happy New Year.

Undertaker

My collection of tweaks and aches brought on by everyday events is gathering momentum. When I bend down my knees click, when I stand my ankles wobble. The collarbone I broke the night before my inter cert has started to throb when it’s cold and sting when it's hot. I ran for the bus earlier only to feel my back spasm in my first stride. When I was younger I could play full length football matches everyday without even stretching. These days when I play badminton the warm ups last longer than the game.

I was watching some WWE recently. The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Big Show have grey in their goatee. So do I, now that I think of it.

It's hard to say anything new and fresh about ageing that hasn't been said countless times before by bad TV comedians. I guess we're just lucky that we are alive now. The life expectancy of affluent men living in London in the 16th century was 35, 25 if they were poor. I imagine a jippy knee is preferable to the smallpox or diphtheria.

There is the wide held belief that men tend to make a bigger deal of being sick than women do. It is, of course, the fairer sex who makes these claims but, as a man, it’s hard to refute these allegations. Especially when you submit the evidence of my behaviour the last time I was properly ill.

In mid February 2010 I looked death square in the face and cried like a little baby. I’m not a big believer in putting a brave face on things, so when I was suffering from a tummy bug, I suffered aloud.

Anyone who would listen got to hear of how much pain I was in and a blow by blow description of my constant back and forth visits to the toilet. I was convinced my insides wanted to get out one way or another. If I wasn’t in the bathroom I was lying on bed feeling very sorry for myself.

Such was my misery and my conviction that my appointment with the grim reaper was imminent that I began to plan my own funeral.  The type of service, the music, the food served. In my self pity I event managed the world’s greatest send off.

I would like a non secular ceremony, with an open forum so if someone wished to share a story about me, good or bad, they could so. I don’t want it to be a place for people to mourn but to come and remember me.

 I want the cheapest coffin available, wicker or plywood, as I would prefer to be cremated and there is no point wasting money on expensive firewood. Ideally I think I’d like my box to purple but I won’t complain if it’s not.

Food wise, I had thought that my ashes could be used to season a casserole but this sounds distasteful to anyone who I have suggested it to, so I’ll probably stick to sandwiches. I would like a variety of music played including Vanderlyle Cry-baby Geek by The National, Mr. Boombastic by Shaggy and Ruby by the Kaiser Chiefs. I don’t particularly like the Kaiser Chiefs song but it’s impossible not to sing along to and I think that would be pretty amusing at a funeral.

My religious beliefs, or lack thereof, mean I don’t really have lot expectancy from death. I hope it’s painless and quick. I’d be very surprised if there is an afterlife but if there is I’ll gladly hold my hand up and admit that I was wrong.

This might not be a subject that’s to your taste. Some people don’t like to think about death. And if anyone is experiencing a loss that is still raw, I don’t want to bring up sad memories or make light of the subject. Death is something that comes to us all and we deal with in our own way. I just want to make sure mine is done right.

The start of this piece was taken from a post I did on my other blog Bus-to-Move. It came from a random thought as do all the posts on the site but it led to me to want to write about this in a bit more detail.

Pandering

First of all,

Повідомлення для всіх читачів з Україною. Дякуємо Вам за відвідування'Вставити Дотепний Поп Посилання культури тут. Запрошуємо Вас і, хоча явпевнений, що ви, ймовірно, потрапив сюди через якийсь спам-посилання ясподіваюся, що ви будете тинятися поблизу і прочитати деякі з речей, які янаписав. Та якщо ви робите, чому б не залишити коментар, я хотів би почути від вас.

And back to normal service. Regular non Ukrainian readers should relax, I haven’t been hacked and infested with a virus, nor have I been the victim of some type of demonic possession. I’m not writing in tongues. What the above paragraph is doing, is welcoming my apparently many visitors from the former Soviet Republic.

In the last couple of months, Ukraine has shot to third in the ‘all time’ league of nations of visitors to my little blog. It appears they are particularly fond of ‘Flummoxed’ for some reason. I hope they enjoy and read some other bits but in all likelihood they probably ‘x’ out of it as soon as whatever spam link takes them here.

And who can blame them with a charlatan like me slacking off constantly. Here we are in the last week of September and so far I’ve only got one entry for the entire month.  And I only did three in August. What kind of bullshit blogging is this?

You are right of course. It is unacceptable and I will have to get my act together. You people read my work and you deserve to be treated better than this. I appreciate that you take the time to come here and cast your eye over the latest witterings of a “fat fingered moron.”  I mean I don’t even have games like Farmville and you still visit. It means a lot, it really does.

I’m going to try and get some kind of work ethic going again. I’ve just been a little distracted recently. The run up to and the come down after this year’s Electric Picnic was fairly time consuming. It was worth it. It was amazing, with Arcade Fire, shamanic meditation, DJ Shadow’s 3D sphere, hot tubs and Chilli Con Carne from a shed in the woods among the highlights. 

Pride of place however, goes to Pulp who stole the show. Amazing performance and worth the fifteen year wait. The hug I shared with my friends afterwards was beautiful also, knowing we’d shared a moment that we had waited for since our days in the Roxy.

That said the main thing that has seen me neglect my opus is something that makes me even happier than a gyrating Jarvis Cocker. She’s very pretty, sexy as sin, tickles my funny bone and is much cleverer than I am. She seems to like me as much as I like her and we have a great time together. She has threatened to kill me if I write about her on this thing. So I won’t be doing that.

Although I suppose I could always write in Ukrainian.

Nuptial

Yesterday, the bastion of journalistic integrity, the Metro Herald reported that getting married and/or divorced can cause you to gain weight. Based on a study carried out in Ohio State University the article claimed that women weight just after the wedding while the male body is affected most by the stress of failed unions.

Having never been married I can’t really argue for or against this point but I do have a story about a wedding which actually caused me to lose weight.

Before I was doing whatever it is I am doing now, I used to work in the Mobile Communications industry and one of my employers was Vodafone Ireland. Vodafone’s base of operations was situated out in Stillorgan, a suburb of Dublin which unless it has changed in the five years since I left, has absolutely nothing of interest in it. Because of its situation in the middle of nowhere they used to bus staff in from more populated areas.

Head Office was a big glass building, not too dissimilar to an airport but with less chance of escape. They had abseiling window cleaners to make sure it sparkled inside and out. It was equipped with a gym and huge staff canteen, with subsidised meals and drinks, because there was nowhere else to get anything else to eat around.

What this usually meant was that you would lunch with your colleagues whether you wanted to or not, in a lot of cases, I did not. One such case was a girl whose actual name, for the life of me, I cannot remember. She will forever be known to me as Bridezilla.

This lady was engaged to be married and as such every conversation for an entire year revolved around the expense of hiring a band, the material for a self designed dress, wedding favours and whatever else she was doing before she frog marched ‘my James’ up the aisle. I often wondered if her James might have some sort of mental problem.

It got to the stage where I couldn’t take it anymore and the appearance of Bridezilla would quickly put me off my lunch. In a big open plan canteen where there is nowhere to hide, it’s hard to find a quiet spot to avoid the latest travesty of the two bridesmaids not getting on. So I went without food. It was good for my peace of mind and my waistline.

Getting married seems to be a lot of expense and hassle for what is essentially a bit of a party. Of the seven or eight weddings I have been a guest at, I’ve always tended to enjoy the ones done on a smaller, simpler scale. I wonder how much of that has to do with the people actually getting married being less stressed because they didn’t take on so much.

The institution of marriage is not something I’ve any real interest in. I don’t believe that a piece of paper is needed to show commitment to the person you love. You can do that with three very simple words. Even if you do tie the knot, there is no guarantee that it will last, especially with young couples. Ironically the divorce rate in the UK is at its lowest in decade because people are waiting until later in life before committing.

I don’t want to spoil the party, it’s a great day out for the family and apparently it’s the biggest day in a girl’s life. All I’m saying is maybe she needs to reassess her priorities.

Media

If you were watching the Six One News back in early June you may have gotten a bit of a surprise and recognised a familiar face. Yes, the beardy visage on your telly was mine and before anyone cracks wise I didn’t commit any crime, I featured on a piece for Fighting Words, the creative writing organisation I volunteer for.

They were up for an award and the news wanted to cover some of the nominees. It was all organised at very short notice, with Fighting Words only finding out the evening before that the cameras would be rolling the next day. They were good enough to give me call as soon as they knew to see would I be happy to appear on screen. Not wanting to make things difficult, I said of course I would, but I have to admit, I did have some reservations.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been on RTE programming. Back in the mid nineties I made my television debut on the comedy panel show Don’t Feed the Gondolas. At the time it was a very poor attempt to be Irelands answer to ‘Have I Got News You?’ but in retrospect, with the current plethora of piss poor panel shows, it seems like halcyon programming.

I attended a recording of the show as a member of the audience but when I was approached in the holding area by a man with a clipboard and a huge headset asking if I would like to appear on camera and ask the panellist a question I was very excited and instantly agreed. I signed the appropriate forms and was given a card with the question I was supposed to ask written on it.

Having made a couple of attempts to forge a career as a stand up comedian at this time, I presumed that the show’s producer had recognised something in me, a hilarious quality that would make excellent viewing. This was my opportunity to break out as a star.

I can’t recall now (which is highly appropriate considering the rest of the story) what exactly the question was but it had something to do data protection or freedom of information. I was supposed to put my question to one of my heroes, American comedian Rich Hall and, bizarrely, Nigel Pivaro who played evil Terry Duckworth in Coronation Street. I was instructed to read the question when the host, Sean Moncrieff asked for the first question from the audience.

But reading is for losers. I was superstar in the making, with three open mic spots in various comedy spots around Dublin and the lead role as Elvis in Waterford IT’s production of Bob’s Last Stand under my belt. I’d quickly learn my lines and deliver them with such panache that the head of RTE would have no choice but to immediately sign me up to a million punt contract for my own chat show. Unfortunately, none of this happened.

Perhaps it was the three or four glasses of the revolting but free white wine that was laid on for the audience in the waiting room, perhaps it was nerves addressing my favourite Montana native or maybe it was just the pressure of the cameras focusing on me. My mind went blank. I knew I supposed to say something but nothing was coming out.

The audience, including the friends who I had gone with thought this was hilarious. So did Moncrieff and the other regular panellist Brendan O Connor. Rich Hall sat there with insouciant bemusement that anyone familiar with his work would expect. Nasty Terry Duckworth, however, was lovely about it, told me not to worry he was always messing up his lines on Corrie. The only two people in the studio who didn’t seem to get some sort of amusement from the fluffing of my lines were me and the programme director. In no uncertain terms did he tell that I didn’t have to learn the question and I should just read it.

I could feel everyone looking at me. This was intensified by the fact that the two full size motorised television cameras with men riding on them were pointing right at me. Between this and the fact that it was sweltering under the studio lights, I was feeling faint. All the blood rushing to my cheeks made me feel like the most blushingest man in Ireland. I read the question out meekly and left the comedy to the professionals.

My televisual initiation ruined, I struggled to sleep that night and the next day I was on tenterhooks wondering if they would even show my question when the episode aired that night. I had foolishly told some people that I would be on the telly and it now seemed possible that I would be left on the cutting room floor.

I sat on the chair in my parent’s sitting room as the programme started, the opening credit reigniting the feeling of ignominy I felt when it occurred. I watched with dread, waiting to see what would happen. When it was coming close to the part where the host goes to audience I couldn’t look at the screen.

“And now a question from our audience.”

I couldn’t not look either. There I was, on screen, my face the colour of Wales’s rugby jersey, wearing a hideous Hawaiian shirt (like I said it was the nineties) which seemed to blur and flare against the lights I sat, head bowed, blatantly reading the question from a card in my lap. Relief washed over me like the greatest shower known to man, cleansing away my anxiety. It wasn’t so horrible after all. I’d gotten away with it. Or so I thought.

A couple of months later, on St. Stephens Day, I got a phone call from a friend who thought I’d been hilarious on TV. I had no idea what he was on about having forgotten all about my experience. He told me I’d been on Don’t Feed the Gondolas the night before. Had they repeated the episode I’d been on Christmas Day? How cheap were RTE?

They hadn’t repeated it; I was part of the Christmas special, where they were showing the best bits of the previous series. I was hoped they just showed me in context of a hilarious response that my question got (again I can’t remember what it was) but no. They had decided to show the out take of me getting my question wrong.

According to my friend I swore a bit and you could see my face gradually turn crimson. I looked like I wanted the ground to swallow me up. What he didn’t understand was why after I got it wrong the first time I didn’t just read the question. Why did I keep trying to act natural?

Hang on! I had only made one attempt at ad libbing.

With the help of editing, showing me from different angles, replaying the incident in different sections and cutting back to the host for a witty comment about how incompetent I was before showing the same clip again they made it look like I messed up lines five or six times. I was made to look like a complete buffoon. Over the next couple of weeks I would bump into people I knew who had seen me looking like a jackass on national television on Christmas Day. I was humiliated but because I signed a waiver I didn’t think I could do anything about it.

Having been burned once, I think my trepidations about appearing on the news were understandable. As it turned out though, they were unfounded. Thanks to being forewarned by Orla and Sara in Fighting Words, I made an effort to ensure I looked somewhat presentable, instead of my normal rolling out of bed and running out the door. The camera was a handheld one so it was easier to ignore and the camera man was quite friendly and put me at ease.

I thought I looked well on TV this time. That I was doing something I enjoy and am semi good at helped. I even looked taller than I normally do, (in fairness I was talking to a bunch of nine year olds who were sitting on the floor.) I was only on for thirty seconds or so but I didn’t feel awful about it.

It’s not as if I’m going to run out and start auditioning for reality TV programmes, but I’m really glad I did it and I would probably be ok to make appearance like it again, as long as I had the appropriate time for hair and makeup.

Of course if they do use some outtakes for a Christmas special all they will have is me talking about farting robots and telling a bunch of children that my boss hates them because they are from Navan. And that’s hardly the worst thing to be caught on camera saying. Just ask Richard Keyes.

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.

Satellite

“Let me take you on a journey. A journey into German Opera”

The above statement was contained in a text message I received recently. Apropos of nothing, that would be quite a vague sentence for anyone to take the time to type. However, it been preceded by a rant about the banalities of the current crop of BBC presenters and their insistence on using clichés when segueing into the next link, gave it some credence

It had come from a friend who had just heard that very sentence used on T.V. Angered and appalled by such tired presenting she felt the need to text me and vent her frustration (She also text me when McDreamy was shot…whatever that means.) I agreed with her that is was ridiculous and trite and we concurred that he should be taken out and beaten about the face with potted plants. It was an enjoyable conversation. She told me I could use it in my blog.

Now there a couple of reasons why I wouldn’t do this (oh the irony.) The first reason is that “Let me take you on a journey” is used at the start of The Mighty Boosh. A wacky comedy show that the ‘kids’ love. I enjoyed its off the cuff irreverence at first. The more I watched and the more I heard the ‘kids’ saying how genius it was the more I questioned it. Its really not as clever or as funny as it thinks it is.


One word that is constantly bandied about when describing it original. Its no more original than I am. Its style and humour can directly be traced back through the likes of Vic and Bob, The Goodies, Monty Python and The Goons. I’m not saying its terrible but they didn’t invent comedy as some internet boards would have you believe. In fairness my problem is probably more with their fans than their comedy.

The second reason I wouldn’t be using it in my blog, is because it wasn’t my idea. If it had come to me naturally after the conversation well then I would have used it. A clever little dissection of the decline in quality televisual reportage. However because she suggested it, it would be a little cheeky of me to take her idea and claim it as my own.

It did however make a nice change to have someone suggest that I could use something I shared with them on here. People have become a little paranoid about meeting me. Many conversations and encounters are suffixed with, “don’t talk about this on your blog.”

I find this a little offensive to be honest. Over the years people have trusted me enough to share secrets with me. A vast range of confidentialities have been entrusted to me. I have never once felt the need to share. And some of them would make great stories. Who wouldn’t want to hear about the girl who cries out “Oh thank you, Easter Bunny” at the height of passion (you know who you are.) But I have never betrayed her trust.

Also what they fail to understand , is that its not about them. Even if they are featured in one of my pieces, its not about them. Its about me. I know that sounds a little egotistical but hear me out. Even if someone is involved in one of my little tales, its not them I am talking about. Its an imaginary version of them that I have created to fit my mood. Doesn’t everyone do that?

I guess its like that part in High Fidelity (the book, not the movie) where Rob is talking about how he is the star in the movie of his own life, but when it comes down to it he’s probably only an extra in a crowd scene in someone else’s movie. For someone else’s movie, I’m probably left on the editing room floor. But here on Insert Witty Pop Culture Reference Here, I’m the character, subtext, romantic subplot, comedy relief and gratuitous nude scene. But none of that would make any sense without my supporting cast. (That’s a compliment I swear.)

So in the context of the movie of my life, I’ve decided to cast it with the crop of Hollywood's finest. Of course I can’t cast everyone who has ever featured in my life so some of the characters are a composite of more than one person from reality.

Of course to play me I would love to cast John Cusack. He’s smart, funny, has a good track record of playing men struggling to reach maturity. However I don’t think people would buy him as me. Instead I am going to cast him as a cross between a spirit guide and my conscience. He will play the part Adeela, my therapist (who by the way was lady of Pakistani origins, Cusack has got range.)

To play the role of my parents I am going to reunite one of Hollywood's power couples from back in the day. The part of my Dad will be played by Jack Nicholson. Mostly because some of Jack’s facial are very similar to my dads. To the point where I was uncomfortable watching As Good as it Gets. His wife will be played by a woman who has played a lot of Irish mammies lately, Angelica Huston.

My two oldest friends will be played by Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, despite the possibility of Affleck being attacked by lumberjacks. My other friends will include, Kevin Bacon, Jarvis Cocker, The League of Gentlemen, James Galdofini, Dylan Moran and Basil Brush.

The love interests will be played by Reese Witherspoon, Jeanane Garoffolo and Uma Thurman. Oooh I can hear the women I’ve known wondering out who is whom as I type. They are compositions ladies.

I suppose for me we are looking at someone like Jack Black. I do however find his schtick really irritating these days. So instead I considered going to go with the greatest actor of his generation, Philip Seymour Hoffman but when I thought about it, he’s just doesn’t have the requisite sex appeal. Clooney and Pitt are too ‘traditionally’ handsome and Johnny Depp is frankly a terrible actor. So I’m left with no choice but to play myself in my opus.

And off course I’ll find a role for my good friend Glen, who is a professional actor and this week is appearing in J.P. Shanley's ‘Doubt’ in the Teachers Club on Parnell Square West. It is an excellent play and I heartily recommend you go see it if you can.

I’ve even thought about some songs that should be on the soundtrack. It contains music from people like Whale, Paul Simon, Avril Lavigne, Fighting Spiders and Elton John. It would be a must have album for a generation. Like the soundtrack to Pulp Fiction or Trainspotting.

I am aware that this makes me sound incredibly egotistical. However, surely everyone is entitled to be an icon in their own head at least. I’d love to hear who you would pick to play you in the movie of your life.

I guess most people wouldn’t be vain enough to post it on the internet for all to read. Let me have this one thing. Let me be a star. In fairness, in the movie of your life I’ll probably be played by Leo from Fair City.