Judged.

It's Christmas Eve and I thought I'd share a funny story. This happened last Thursday evening and it was only whilst discussing it last night, that we realised how funny the situation was. And people judged us to damnation with their eyes.

I was off work last Thursday and wanted to finish my Christmas shopping. Along with my wife and her sister, we went shopping locally to purchase our last few bits. My wife wanted to cut through a large relatively cut-price department store, to get to the main shopping centre.

On passing small Christmas gift bags, my wife commented on how nice and inexpensive they were to her sister. They had stopped - I had lost them mentally. They were distracted and in a shopping daze.

Gradually ushering them toward the exit and into the main shopping mall, they hesitated again. The rather awful Christmas jumper section had caught their eyes. Then I retold a story of how one of my best friends had stated to me the previous day, that he had found it difficult to find a decent Christmas jumper.

Little did I know - that I had been swallowed by the magic and allure of the department store. The Christmas music was also lulling me into the festive period, playing in the background.

I texted my mate telling him how great the selection was in this particular store. Then my sister-in-law suggested something that nearly made me fall over with laughter.

"Why don't we buy our Christmas day outfits here? And have a competition to see who can pick out the most disgusting one?"

I thought my wife would veto her mad plan, but she quickly agreed. I was totally in. I had spotted an awful jumper. I was confident of winning this test. And then the judging began.

The stern looks. The disapproving stares. The shaking of the heads. The way in which I laughed at something (which I thought was rotten) that others found fashionable. You can't hide that level of disapproval to a stranger. That made me laugh harder if I'm honest.

I know these large department stores hire store buyers that have their fingers on the pulse of fashion. They watch fashion trends and fashion houses to see "what's hot and what's not." But once I had spent five minutes in the awful, but beautiful itchy jumper section, everything seemed funny looking.

We split up and went our own ways picking up items for our Christmas day outfits. I picked up a rotten mustard jumper complete with brown elbow pads. It looked like wallpaper that hung on your parent's living room walls in years gone by.

I had decided to continue the 1970's look. So I bought tight, bright green trousers. Then continuing the theme, I picked up an orange hat, maroon socks and a large thick blue and red scarf. Feeling happy with myself and searching for the ladies, I thought I had chosen the perfect outfit. When we met up again ten minutes later, we laughed hard. My competition amongst the ladies was real tough.

My wife went for something akin to an outfit directly from the Roddy Doyle film, The Snapper. Bright and in your face. The kind of outfit where you need shades on.

My sister-in-law went for the librarian's wet dream look. Everything that any man, woman or child finds disgusting to look at. The funniest part was that she found the cardigan comfortable on.

As we shared how brilliant our outfits were, I felt eyes upon us. Judging us. Doing a twirl without drawing attention, I spotted five pairs of eyes gawping at us with derision.

Firstly - we were laughing far too loudly. Belly aching laughter that comes from the pit of your stomach. That was enough to draw people's attention. But then we became a little bit silly.

Customers were picking up some of the items we were ridiculing and then quickly putting them back. That drew stares too. We didn't mean to be disparaging of people's taste - we were just lost in the moment and a bit giddy.

Our giddiness was becoming infectious though. I started explaining why we were picking up these truly awful outfits. When they knew the story, they started laughing too.

The best part was when the two girls were paying for their clothes, they didn't notice how their laughter was affecting other people in the queue behind them. At least four of the five women in line were laughing to themselves - or at least smiling.

We were spreading Christmas cheer through our own silly mischievousness. Happy Christmas to you all!

The Funniest Little Man.

I laughed so hard at one stage yesterday, it nearly hurt my back. I know I cried - I tried to stop tears streaming down my face. That one simple sentence nearly floored my colleague and I. And it came from a young man. Aged just three years old - called Aaron.

This kid will break hearts when he is older. Whether he tries comedy as a future occupation is anyone's guess. He is a good looking boy and he seems to have the personality too. He acts as if he is 3 going on 73. That's what made his initial words so funny.

To hear the comment come out of his mouth seemed totally abstract and out of place. You don't expect to hear a three year old talk about the weather, just like an adult does. That's what nearly knocked us to the floor.

He stepped out of the rain, into the dry and said in a thick Birmingham accent.

"It's disgusting out there, innit?"

"What's disgusting?"

"That bleeding weather. It's hellish lashing out!"

He then walked ahead as if used to making statements like this. Like he didn't think it was anyway funny. He left two doubled-over grown adults, bursting their arses laughing in his wake.

We struggled to contain ourselves whilst trying to be professional. Then other adults started laughing and couldn't help themselves either. It became infectious. This little man didn't know the power of his words.

This is the type of laughter that hurts - in a good way. When no matter how you try to stop laughing - you can't. The kind of laughter that you wish you did more often. When something memorable like this incident, happens.

Little Aaron continued to amaze us for the short period of time he was in our company. He sat with his hands cupped across his chest and talked like a much older gentleman. He spoke with great manners and you could see from his Dad's gaze, that he was dead proud of his young son.

He apparently spends a lot of time in his grandfather's company and that's where the personality stems from. Aaron definitely has good role models in his life. And making others laugh seems to be at the core of his personality.

And don't forget the power of belly-aching laughter - it comes in all forms from all people - large and very small!

Bah Humbug to your lack of Christmas Spirit.

I arrived in Chicago this evening with a list that ended the Christmas shopping. I was a man on a mission with places to go to and items to be purchased. I had an actual list, so just like any man, all I had to do was hand the list to a store employee and ask where to find the remaining few pieces. Then I would stroll to the cash register and get the flock out of the shop as quickly as possible.


In the last week or so, I have started to get into the festive spirit. I, like most normal people, hate when the Christmas shopping mania starts when Halloween is just over. That is far too early for most sane individuals. I fall into this bracket. But once the first of December passes, I just can't help but fall into a better mood.

Is it the upbeat music? Is it the greetings you receive that sound more sincere when you walk into a store? Is it the sense of innocence that pervades each adult as they crave the need to be younger and have that excitement back? Whatever it is, I like it. I wish each month could be December, because everyone tolerates each other a little more patiently. Everyone gets a chance to enjoy themselves.

So tonight, after a successful nights shopping for the last few bits, I sat down in a famous pizzeria to gorge myself. I had run for three miles after a long days' work, so I felt I could splurge a little. I sat at the bar with other men and women who just wanted to tune out and eat carb-loaded food. Talking seemed to be the last thing on everyone's minds - which suited me just fine.

My pizza arrived just as a large party of people started to gather behind the bar. They were waiting for all of their friends to arrive before they were all seated. They were a mix of men and women, mainly couples who were eager to see each other before Christmas. They were all in great form and full of good cheer.

That's when I heard the first "tsk" on my right hand side. Then I heard the words "for fucks sake!"

I doubted myself initially, but then I saw my barman, Jeff, glance at the gentleman to my right too. He had heard it too.

As the group got larger, so did the banter. As more and more couples arrived, their greetings whilst polite and friendly, did get louder but weren't uncouth. I didn't mind, but one guest at the bar did. His tuttering began to become more pronounced. His body language stated that he didn't like their presence within the actual fifteen feet from him.

The man to my left spotted it too. It created an atmosphere that was totally unnecessary. All of a sudden everyone sitting at the bar was on tenterhooks, waiting for this guy to explode.

Finally, it became too much for him. Couple number seven arrived to much clapping of hands and hugs amongst multiple persons.

"Can you dumb fucks just pipe down! I'm trying to eat my dinner here!"

Quick as a flash, a silky, senior server intervened.

"Excuse me sir! If you continue that kind of language you will be escorted to the front door and your dinner will not be served to you! That kind of behaviour is not tolerated in this establishment! This group is a long standing booking with us for Christmas every year, and we are pleased to have their custom. Unlike you, they are loyal customers - so if you cannot find it in your heart to be a little more forgiving for others who wish to celebrate the holidays, I'd appreciate it if you took your business elsewhere!"

Struggling to come up with an answer, Joe Schmuck grabbed his long black overcoat and high-tailed it toward the front door. Everyone took their time to clap the server. She seemed totally embarrassed - not only by her outburst, but by the venom she delivered to a gobshite that deserved it. I think she surprised herself.

But it is a message to us all - be more patient and more giving this festive season to family, friends and those who you don't even know!

 

 

 

The Circle of Life.

There is nothing like the smell of a newborn baby's head. Even if you don't particularly like infants or children, there is nothing quite like that fresh scent that makes you smile. Apart from chocolate obviously - but that's a chemical reaction. Baby head smelling is just amazing.

I had the ultimate pleasure of meeting my niece for the first time, on Sunday night. She is beautiful of course, but I expected no less as I am related to her of course! All babies are gorgeous no matter what they look like. Their need to be held, and dependence on others for their formative months makes them vulnerable and innocent.

Even though my niece was only twenty-four hours old, she really did take your breath away - and that was nothing to do with the smell of the first few vicious nappies.

She was calm and quiet the entire time. My sister said that she had been like that since the moment she arrived into this world. She was very content and gripped you tight, still craving touch and contact. I sat happily for those two hours absorbing her innocence and fragility.

We all have to be reminded from time to time about the gift of life. I'm not getting all religious and pontificating like a self righteous eejit here. But while I snuggled up to the most recent addition of our extended family in the warmth of a maternity ward - my wife that morning had attended the removal of her good friend's father, in the cold space of a front room laden with heavy sighs.

It's only when you attend the funeral of someone you love, that you start to ponder your own mortality. It's only then when you start to wonder what you've done so far with your life. Have you wasted large chunks of it? Or have you actually made the most of your life so far?

I know I've wasted several parts of my life doing stupid stuff. Nothing illegal, but just plain damn wasteful at times. So as I'm about to turn 37, it ends now. Enough faffing around.

I'm not going to be more conservative nor adventurous. I'm not going to risk life and limb just to get a thrill. I'm just going to respect life and treat it like tomorrow may be my last. Although I hope that doesn't happen - as I have to get the car serviced next week and that car won't drive itself.

One death, one birth in the space of a day. Life is fleeting and precious - but we still have to enjoy it.

Finding the happy medium -  is that key to your own happiness.

Smelling Ignorance From A Mile Off.

When you do a job for quite some time, you get better as you gain more experience. Dealing with the public isn’t always easy, but as you encounter different situations and individuals, you become well versed in dealing with anything that comes your way.

I know what I’m good at. I think I know my limitations and what I can and can’t do. I apply the basic principle that my Dad used to say – “If you’re going to do a job, do it right.”

So when Joe Soap comes into your workplace and tells you how you should be doing your job (when you’re doing an excellent job) – it’s very difficult to bite the inside of your cheek and chalk it down to experience. It’s difficult to suppress the desire to tell him or her to go and take a short run and jump off a cliff - but you do, because you’re a professional.

That was my encounter with a charming ahem, gentleman, late last night.

Was this gentleman well educated in my role and procedure of work? No, he didn’t strike me as if he did.

Did he ever operate in the same role as me previously? No, I seriously doubt it.

Was I doing anything that I hadn’t ever done before? Nope.

Was I operating in my role as I had been excellently trained to do? Yes.

Was this gent being absolutely obnoxious for apparently no reason at all? Yes.

Did he seem like the type of eejit to talk down to people? Yes, indeed.

So late last night, as myself and a work colleague dealt with his idiocies, we went over why we are great at our jobs. The FBI should take profiling tips from us.

We both spotted him as a potential pain in the ass from the very outset.

He took way too long to sit down. He moved personal items of other people’s so that his personal stuff was directly above him. His wife was very easy to initially chat to – he wasn’t.

He never made eye contact – most polite people when meeting someone for the first time, look you directly in the face – he didn’t. He talked at me instead of to me.

He had basic manners, but it never ever sounded sincere in any way.

His shirt was ironed to within an inch of its life - as were his jeans. What typical Irish man ever irons a pair of jeans – like seriously? His hair was immaculately brushed and styled. His shoes were shined so much that the sheen from them nearly made the moon orbit his loafers for a while.

But the piece de resistance? He gave out about how we only had type of tonic instead of another he was used to drinking.

“If you’re a serious tonic drinker, you’d know the difference,” was a quote directly from the horse’s ass.

But as ever, both of us continued to bite our lips and remained utterly professional. Just because someone pays a fair wad of cash for a particular service, are they are entitled to give an opinion on something they know little or anything about? Do me a favour.

But I was tempted to Google him when I got home, just to see what he actually worked at. Then I would march into his office or place of work, and point out how he wasn’t doing things properly.

And that despite my complete lack of knowledge about his job, I knew best!

 

"I'm Irish! So am I! I am too!"

Last night, my wife and I were treated to a comedy show. Except we didn't have to pay for it. Or actually face the comediennes. We sat with our backs to three Stepford-type wives who talked so much verbal diarrhoea, that I near choked on my chicken with laughter.

We were in a favourite restaurant of ours, sitting at the long bar. We sit at the bar purely because we know a few of the staff well and have a bit of witty banter with them - whilst we eat and have a couple of drinks.

This restaurant is very popular, and it was a usual, busy Saturday night. Some people sit and have a drink before they are shown to their table, and this was where we encountered our three main protagonists.

We were treated to the atypical air kissing when they all arrived and greeted each other. Both of us looked at each other and wondered why we always seem to attract these type of eejits. We didn't talk to them, but we always seem to be around the very presence of fake people. Or maybe we can just spot them a mile off.

Anyhow, after the fur coats and ski jackets were removed, the bullshit spewed forth. The three men took seats at the bar whilst the women corralled themselves into a small diamond of chatter. My wife had the "what car are you driving now?" on her left hand side, as the men measured each other dicks by the size of their engines.

Directly behind us we had the triumvirate of one-up-manship beginning. These ladies were all in their forties and fifties, and well accustomed to Botox and house servants. Their nails and hair were coiffed to the utmost degree and the mix of three strong perfumes in close proximity to my dinner was making me gag a touch. The usual "you look great" kicked off the proceedings.

But the conversation was gold. It more than made up for my now-flavoured Chanel chicken and mash. They talked about their children firstly and constantly talked over one another. I was nearly awarding points in my head to each contestant, as they one-upped each other with outlandish tales and stories.

The next subject that was discussed was Hurricane Sandy and the affect it had on their immense properties. This was where they could really embellish. These ladies lived outside Boston, a good distance from where Hurricane Sandy did real substantial damage.

One said she had two trees down in the back garden - another said she had three down - but the last one had almost won the contest - stating she had lost slates off the roof, the picket fence and her two wheelie bins! Ding ding! I was just about to award her victory, but the first one then interjected with a stonewaller. 

She stated that some rival waste collection companies were stealing the competitions' bins in order to win contracts. Knockout blow! This was starting to get bitchy. This is where we both laughed at each other with our eyes in astonishment.

Then came the final topic - holidays. Where they were going to spend the New Year skiing and what destinations they were thinking about for next summer. One of them mentioned Ireland and we stopped eating and drinking. This could be good.

That's where the ladies stated the title above, and much hi-fiving started.

Had any one of them ever been to Ireland? No.

Had any one of them ever been outside the USA? No.

Did anyone of them possess passports? Yes - they all did to visit Mexico and Aruba. Not exactly far away from the USA.

Were any of their parents from Ireland? No.

Had any of them Irish-sounding names? No.

Did any of them have an "Irish" look about them? No.

I was going to turn around and quite proudly state the blindingly obvious, but I restrained myself.

Instead, we guffawed into our dinner until they shuffled away to their table. We pretended to be laughing at something else, without any of the women knowing we were giggling at their expense. It was pure comedy gold - even the bar staff were entertained by the stories.

We went for dinner but inadvertently got a free show thrown in. Great value altogether.

Phone Rant.

I think I'm fairly considerate toward others. I am normally kind enough to think of others when I don't have to.

Let me point out firstly, that I am not an anti-phone person. Mobile phones have changed the world dramatically in such a positive way that it is almost impossible to gauge how they have revolutionised the globe. They serve such an important role in communication around the world, that life and death can sometimes, be decided with a simple phone call.

But these calls are not important in a cinema. When you've been told at least three times to turn off your phone. For two hours of your life. How hard can that be?

I was lucky enough to go see the latest James Bond film, Skyfall, in London the other night. It was a fabulous film and I encourage anyone who hasn't seen it, to go. It tips a hat to the older Bond films whilst still being current and interesting.

I arrived late to the cinema and had to make do with a seat at the front of a small screen. I didn't mind as we normally sit near the front anyhow when visiting the flicks. I had two seats to myself until they obviously sold the seats around me to other latecomers.

I had seats vacant either side of me and plonked my jacket on one of them. I had two young ladies on one side and two young men on the other. They were all in their late teens and chomped their way on popcorn and nachos for the first half hour of the film. I didn't mind that at all, because normally I'd be the one chowing down hard on a big bucket of salted popcorn.

We were almost one hour into the film before I began to get distracted by the lights of the mobile phones either side of me. Initially, I didn't really care, as it wasn't that off putting. But the lights slowly became more bothersome and more frequent.

Then the young lady on my right started playing Tetris on her phone. Then the gobshite on my left was checking his newsfeed on Facebook. I ignored it for a few minutes thinking that they would stop after a minute or two and go back to watching the film. He did put it away, but she stayed on it for over ten minutes.

I made my impatience obvious and without being rude, told her in no uncertain terms to turn it off.

The effect was immediate. The young lad beside me knocked his phone off too. Two birds with one barbed comment.

When I go into a public place whether it be restaurant or cinema - I turn off my phone. I would like to think that people in there go into those establishments to get away from life for a while. To tune out, to chill out. To get away from hand held technology and talk to actual people or to be entertained by the big screen. 

Has the world changed so dramatically that the contact with your phone is addictive?

On the way out of the cinema, I was glared at with sour faces for speaking my mind. Was I wrong here?

The Frankenstorm Drama.

No other nation does drama quite like America. No other nation is even close. This is the land of Hollywood, after all. They over exaggerate and blow things way out of proportion. That's what makes them unique as a nation and as a people.

So on Monday, the eastern coast of the USA expects a storm like they haven't seen in some years.
The name of the incoming hurricane is Sandy, but some of the television networks are calling it some hilarious names. My favourite is "Frankenstorm" - the reason that this storm is getting so much attention is that it is almost 700 miles wide. That's kind of big - no matter where you're from.

Accompanying the news headlines about the impending weather event is also funny. The red ticker tape than runs along the bottom of the screen (which actually is serious news) is so way over the top, that I spent two hours watching various channels just to see their hyped up versions of the same news.

I am not making these up - these were some of the flashing words that appeared on several different channels.

"SURGING SANDY TAKES AIM!"
"EAST COAST TO BE SLAMMED BY SANDY!" (Sounds like a porn film)
"WIDESPREAD PANIC BUYING!"
"SIMMERING SANDY STORM"
"POWER PREPAREDNESS PROBLEMS"over the next day or two
"SANDY STRIKE ZONE"
"BUILDING THE BEACHES"
"SANDY TO BRING TRAIL OF DESTRUCTION"
"TOPPLING TROPICAL TUMULT"
"A MONTH OF RAIN IN ONE HOUR!"
"SCRAMBLING STORES SUFFER STOCK SUPPLY SHORTAGES!"
"ELECTRICAL CHAOS!"
"FREAKY FRANKENSTORM!"

They've mentioned the film "The Perfect Storm" on many of the major networks when talking about the storm, which is only natural. But the fact that Halloween is just around the corner, they just couldn't resist mingling the two and coming up with Frankenstorm.

That's why I love the USA's version of weather updates. They are so bloody dramatic and over the top that you laugh. You think "that'll never happen", but these guys are so accurate, it happens to the very minute and location. It's mental how good they actually are. And it's mad to think that even the Weather channel is compulsive viewing!

On a more serious note - let's hope it fizzles out and people don't get hurt. Be safe out there in the Eastern states of the USA over the next few days.

The Irish Golfing Gombeen.

We meet all types of personality in our daily lives. But nothing seems to irk us more than those who look down their nose at us. Their feeling of superiority and all-knowingness makes us feel cheap and used. And then five minutes later, when they are gone, you think of the response you should have given them.

I had the simple pleasure of sitting down behind three of these types of gombeens recently. They reminded me of how much crap they actually talk.

Before I continue, I must tell you that my first job was in a fairly posh golf club, so I can see this type of person coming a mile off. I endured and tolerated some amount of politically incorrect stuff during my formative years. Not all members are like this, but a lot of them are this idiotic.

I was seated behind three grown men between the ages of 45-55. They sat in front of me and I bore witness to their immature chat during the morning flight. They were excited heading away on their holidays, which was understandable, as was I. But the kind of verbal diahorrea that came out of their mouths was hilarious, and a little bit disgusting. I had truly forgotten how this type of snobbish behaviour still exists - outside of Ross O'Carroll Kelly books.

My first boss, Vincent, instilled in me an ability to swallow your pride and accept shite from these plonkers. You would get further and last longer in the job if you just got on with it, he said. I knew that it wasn't acceptable, but behind closed bar doors and in kitchens we all laughed at their stupidity well after the fact. It was a form of group therapy, if you will.

For example - you spoke a different way to the full members and the visitors. You called the Captain of that particular year "Captain", instead of John or Mary, like you would normally do. They said it was based on respect, but I knew damn well it was just about power and lording it over the mere minions that worked in kitchens and bars.

My favourite incident I recall was working with an absolute lady, who for privacy reasons, I'm going to call her, Nell. Nell worked in the kitchen and was well experienced. She was born and bred in Finglas, but moved into the country when she and her husband started a family.

It was about 1994 or '95 when the Captain and Lady Captain of that year, had just had their Drive-In. It normally happens in early spring, when the Irish golfing season officially begins. One particular lady member, who had just been instated as Lady Captain, got ideas above her station all of a sudden.

This same 'lady', played regular golf and was heavily involved with the running of the ladies competitions. She was well liked by all the staff until this day. This woman had never worked a day in her life and had years previously married a very wealthy businessman - who was also obnoxious by the way, coincidentally.

The newly appointed Lady Captain had always been known to everyone in the golf club by her first name, Ramona. Cue the conversation from almost two decades ago when Ramona visited the kitchen to order something on an early Tuesday morning.

Knock knock on the open kitchen door.

"Hello there! Is there anyone in?"

"Yep. I'm just in the door. I'm over here emptying de dishwasher. Ah howya Ramona - 'tis only yerself. What can I get ya?"

"Em quite. Eh, Nell, could I please get tea and scones for three as soon as possible. We have a tee time in forty minutes - chop chop."

"Yeah, no problem Ramona. You take a seat in the bar and I'll drop dem down to ya as quick as I can."

"And eh, Nell - heat them for me and put butter and jam on all three also. And for God's sake don't let the tea go to to treacle."

"Yep - no problem Ramona. I'll do dat right now."

"And one more thiing Nell. It's Lady Captain from here on in. Lady Captain to you and your eh, sort. Do I make myself clear? I'm only called Ramona by my friends."

"No problem Ramona."

I had just clocked in to open the bar and Nell was fuming as I cut through the kitchen. I had just missed their special little chat.

I pointed out that Nell hadn't had time to sweep the kitchen floor - just yet.

Before Nell dropped the tea and scones down to the three ladies in the bar, we played a little game.

We called it Kick the Scone across the Dirty Floor with your Grubby Mucky Shoes On.

Nell delivered the tray to the bar, placed it on the table and said with a bright smile

"There ya go Lady Captain. Enjoy!"

Just remember that when you treat people like shit, it comes back to bite you.

Meeting a Childhood Hero.

Today I met one of my childhood heroes.

You won't find him in many databases, on Linkedin, on Facebook or many search engines. In fact, you might only catch his name in the odd local news report or people will know of him at the local town hall or church. Especially if you live in the parish of Skryne, just outside Navan.

The man is a living legend. He has given so much of his life to sport in his local parish - it is simply staggering. He is one of these "pillars of the community" - who moves mountains for others and asks for little in return. A quiet soul, who lets his actions speak for themselves.

I first met him when I was about eight or nine years old. Even then he was heavily involved in our local soccer club, a team in which my eldest brother played in. He would be up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning, washing the kit, pumping footballs and lining the pitch in preparation for the upcoming match. And this was the early 1980's, when soccer was still referred as the "foreign sport." He was also the manager on many occasions and goalkeeper whenever the need arose. This man had no end of talents.

After the game, he'd ring in the match reports to the local papers, and prep the gear for the following week. The man was a robot, in my young pre-pubescent eyes. Nearly thirty years later, he's still at it.

He's nor involved with the senior male set-up anymore, but prefers to coach and encourage the younger generation coming through. Although it's not on the same level as many Dublin underage clubs, it seemingly has been doing very well over the past few years.

Meeting him today, he still has the incredible drive and will to make sure his local area is well represented from a soccer point of view. I could still see the pride in his eyes when we both recalled past glories and stories.

When I was sixteen years old, I played in my first senior soccer match - and he was the manager. I still remember the words he said to me before I went on. I can't remember who we were playing, but he put me on the left wing.

"Just go out and play your normal game," were his simple words of advice. I played for that same club for twelve years - mainly because of him.

He was always encouraging, yet you never wanted to disappoint him. When he flew into a rage, which didn't often happen, you accepted it. You knew in the back of your mind, even if you didn't agree with him at the time - that he was right.

I had my fair share of heated exchanges with him and we went on many a night out and football trips abroad. He has always been generous with his time and chat. His slight frame and quiet disposition always gave the impression that he would be a walkover for many people who faced him, or played against him. But his cover hid a divil underneath - and he used that to his advantage. As a result, there's not many people who have been involved with local soccer in Meath over the past twenty odd years that don't respect him.

The man is a true gent in every sense of the word.

Take a bow - Dermot Carty.

The Generosity of the Irish Spirit.

It was only in conversation with three cruise companions this week, that a common held world conception, rang true to me for the first time in some while. Our companions were from Scotland and Canada and confirmed to both of us why the Irish abroad are held in such high esteem.

Is it the Irish lilt or the trusting face? Is it the glint in the eye when we talk or our ability to listen to the saddest of tales? Is it because our presence stretches to all corners of the globe? Is it the ability to sell an idea and make it seem that it was always a great idea? Is it our self-deprecation and begrudgery all rolled into one? Or is it our kind and generous nature whatever our backs are against a wall and the pressure is on?

Or is it a combination of all of the above plus thousands of more attributes?

 I’d like to think so. Of course, there are the exceptions to every rule. Cute-hoorism is almost directly linked to a sense of Irishness. Look at many of our past and present politicians as an example of a cute hoor. I shouldn’t brand them all as one and the same, as there are plenty in all walks of life.

Bob Geldof was the first Irishman in my early life, who was recognized on the world stage – I was only nine years old when he organized and mobilized the entire world music community, to raise money for starving children in Africa.

It’s not the major things though, that stand out for me. It’s holding a door open for others you don’t know or being courteous to those of an older generation. I hope that this still occurs when I am part of that age. Saying “bless you” when someone sneezes is another.

We are all taught at a young age the importance of our heritage and our innate culture. It leads to good manners as we all get older, wherever we end up on this planet.

That is Irishness.

Being kind when you don’t have to be. That’s what distinguishes us. Being kind with your time when people least expect it.

So this week, I fully saw first-hand what manners mean. We encountered approximately ten nationalities. The vast majority of them have no manners. I mean none - whatsoever!

With the exception of the handful of Americans, Canadians, Scottish, English, Polish and Irish people (which numbered about 200 of almost 4,000 guests) – we were staggered at the ignorance. Every night, sitting down to dinner we shared our tales of woe and mind-splitting madness that we had endured that day.

Having laughed, shaken our heads and tried to forget about it – we couldn’t. It was time for Plan B. Not the singer obviously, but to do what they did to us. In other words – if you can’t beat them, join them.

It’s not in my nature to be rude. I can’t help it, as it’s just not in me. But at times, I have a nasty side when I know I’ve been wronged. So, early the next morning in the mad, crazy rush for the buffet breakfast – we steeled ourselves and ploughed through the Italians. I didn’t stop to apologize for bumping into anyone – they never did for me, so why should I?

It soon became natural to me after one day. I stood on some young lad’s toe by accident and walked on. He was about to walk through me, thinking I was going to stop for him – but I didn’t. My rudeness was mainly held for the vast majority of the passengers who were of Italian descent.

Of course though, if someone was kind no matter what their nationality, I was kind back in reply.

I’m not a complete bastard - yet.

Rubbish and Shit.

I’m not easily offended. It takes a lot to irk me. I like a good first impression – it says a lot about a person or place.

Its day six on our cruise and we’ve entered our fifth port. Tunis seems like a nice place, yet we haven’t stepped off as it’s early in the morning here. By all accounts it looks clean and relatively modern.

The cruise cannot be faulted so far, but the ports of which we have entered have been, well let’s say, interesting.

We’ve stopped off in three ports in Italy and one in France thus far. They all have many things in common. They have many points of ancient tourist interest, places to go and cafes, shops and bars to frequent – in other words typical, tourist spots.

But the one thing that literally gets up my nose about all four ports - is the smell.

I know that rough smells are part of arriving into an international industrial port. I understand that oil, fumes, fish, rust and noise all play their part – all of which I can reason why those things exist there.

But the thing I can’t understand is the first impression the tourist gets upon stepping off the ship.

You get the usual haggling and harassment from tour guides and taxi men, which is to be expected. A simple “Non” or “No grazie,” usually is enough to paw them off. The terminals are clean and basic, but generally no frills. The odd statue to some nameless sea god or local former resident greets you in the dock.

Then the smell gets you straight away.

It’s not the aforementioned port smell, but rather the odour of molting rubbish and shit from some animal. I kid you not.

At our first port in Marseille, we didn’t get off but decided to take it easy on the boat. Two of our cruise colleagues though, told us of an amazing litter problem they seemed to have on the streets. They even said that people openly drop rubbish without any concern or fear of retribution from the authorities.

Our next port was Genoa, in northern Italy. We ventured off this time and noticed right away that the litter problem wasn’t restricted to southern France. There seemed to be a complete absence of litter bins or cans anywhere around the streets - litter floated aimlessly through the air. When we walked through the main streets and pedestrianized areas though, we saw a different problem.

They are very proud of their dogs in Genoa, but don’t seem to clean up the mess after them. I’m not sure the words “Poop and Scoop” have reached Italy yet.

Napoli was next where piles upon piles of rubbish are quite a common occurrence. It has even gotten to the stage where the locals are now used to living with it. And you know what comes with piles of rubbish.

We visited Palermo yesterday. Of all three Italian ports, this was my favourite. You did get the smell of horse manure greeting you off the boat, but that was because numerous local horse and cart men were offering to take you for a ride – literally. We even have these cart-men in Killarney too, so I shouldn’t grumble. These streets were cleaner than anywhere else we had visited, yet still had a litter problem. 

Two other things we noticed about Palermo. How they park their cars is hilarious – they just stop, get out and park up. And the pavement is another place where you apparently can park too

Another weird one was the amount of adult hat shops there were in business. I can’t name any more than one in Ireland. On one street in Palermo, we counted three. Where are we again? Palermo, Sicily. Do I hear a faint hint of “The Family?”

So when you are abroad for a while, and land back home - you only appreciate the things you are used to everyday - until you are denied access to them. It’s only then, you appreciate them fully.

So if anyone tells you that Ireland has a litter problem – point them in the direction of parts of southern France and Italy.

If anyone slates the standard of our parks and scenic areas - point them to the places already stated above.

Do Irish people clean up after our pets? Most of them do.

“Ship to Shore, Come Feed Me Some More!”

Day two on our first cruise and it’s seriously relaxing so far. But we’ve noticed something seriously bizarre. It was after lunch today, when we both came to the same conclusion and initially laughed about it. But it’s not really funny – more worrying to be honest.

We’re on a large ship that houses some 4,000 guests and 1,300 crew. There’s plenty of space aboard to get lost on its eighteen levels and numerous cafes, bars and restaurants. And that’s probably not including the crew quarters.

We’ve attended two breakfasts and lunches at the same buffet venue and witnessed the phenomenon. This buffet is huge. So big it nearly encompasses the entire fourteenth floor. There are numerous food and drink stations, yet you find yourself avoiding people like obstacles on an assault course.

It’s not that the ship is being buffeted by high winds and rocky seas. Completely the opposite, in fact. The ship is steadier than any aircraft I’ve been on. So the outside elements cannot be blamed.

Is there a cultural difference between all the various nationalities I hear you ask? That isn’t it either.

It’s food. Plain and simple. Like horses with blinkers on, these people have tunnel vision when it comes to getting directly to the abundant never-ending lines of food. It’s blatantly obvious there is plenty of food for absolutely everyone. But that doesn’t seem to stop the guests, young and old from ploughing through each other to get at what they think might be the last morsel.

It’s hilarious watching it happen. People are willing to jump over an elderly man or woman to get their hand on the spatula or large spoon. Then they take these implements and shovel huge dollops of hot and cold food onto ridiculously oversized plastic plates.

And then they throw you a look when you wait graciously for them to put it down! As if you are depriving them of filling that last spot near the edge of their plate. And do you hear any simple manners toward the crew working seriously hard at their jobs? No you don’t, in general but there are some nice people aboard and not all are rude and ignorant.

But the gas thing is the amount of waste there is. The single biggest cost to the cruise company (apart from fuel), is probably the amount of food that goes in the bin. It is staggering. If we need to eat, there is always food around.

Some people on this boat however, don’t think about anyone apart from themselves.

Loss.

It's hard to quantify. It's difficult to measure. It's even stranger to cope with it initially. The song said that "you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." So true.

You don't know how to react when you first encounter loss. What should you do? Should you be doing something else? Or dealing with it in a different way? Loss deals you a hand you don't know quite what to do.

Firstly, there is the loss itself - you go numb.Then you go through the denial. It can't be happening. Not now, of all times to be happening. Then comes the grief and the shock of that being leaving your life - forever. Then comes the acceptance. How you deal with the aftermath depends on the individual. How the individual copes with life and the curveballs life throws.

My first loss in life was my grandfather. I wasn't really aware of him when he died. I was all of about five or six when he died. He taught me how to quack like Donald Duck - I can still do that. He was baldy and charismatic. But that's all I remember about him.

But I remember loads about my most recent loss. The fun I had, the good times far outweighing the bad. Many memorable moments, many of which I cherish. And I thank modern technology for making those fond memories stay very much awake in my present life.

My most recent loss in life was my Apple Macbook. I had the misopportunity of killing it recently. No one else to blame but myself. I was trying to place a rum and diet 7up on a tile coaster beside the laptop, when it didn't balance properly and spilled all over the keyboard. Goodbye Macbook.

I tried all the usual tricks of drying it out, but nothing worked. The damage had been done. So I called in the specialists. The kind of people that know the ins and outs of waferboards and drives.

The computer itself was history but the data I had input over the last three or so years was retrievable. I exhaled loudly, hoping they spoke the truth. They did - and so none of my previous work was in vain. I still have it all, thank fook.

And so I'm back blogging with a new keyboard - and happy that I've a new toy to work with for future writings.

But what an awful waste of rum!!

Ban the celebrity "My story so far" book.

I am sick of them. So called celebrities that flaunt their biographies before they turn forty. Your life has barely begun and because you have a modicum of status within the popular media, you 'tell all' about your life thus far. Please give me a bucket. Most of the pages in these books are barely worth wiping my arse with.

I was watching the Johnathon Ross Show the other night and witnessed another celebrity launch their autobiography. His name is Gareth Malone, better known as the Choirmaster. He is the same age as me - approaching 37. I am not discounting his ability as a choirmaster or indeed a broadcaster - but for feck's sake! You're not into your forties and are cashing in! It's exactly what he's doing.

He is not alone in the cashing-in stakes of biography. In fact, he is just small fry when it comes to the big deals being doled out by the large publishing houses.

In 2006, we saw the mother of all celebrity deals. Wayne Rooney signed a minimum of a five book deal over twelve years worth five million pounds plus royalties. What age was he then you ask? 20.

How can you possibly write your autobiography at the age of twenty?

There were some people that even suggested that how could he ever write five books about his life in that span. At this moment in time, the deal is being reviewed. This is mainly due to the fact that Rooney had a dreadful World Cup in 2010 and barely featured for England at the European Championships earlier this year. His book sales although strong initially, have faded somewhat. His star seems to be fading too.

In this case, you can hardly blame Wayne Rooney for saying yes to the five book deal, but is a life story worth that amount when it is churned out every two years or so?

Katie Price would tell you it is. She is the Queen of the 'My story so far' biography. She has sold over two million copies. Five books in less than ten years. That's what you call cashing in. And she hasn't hit the forty year old mark either.

John Terry hasn't retired from football yet either, has he? The man who just seems to love the limelight (for all the wrong reasons) has penned a deal a deal worth seven figures. And he hasn't even opened his laptop yet for his writer to do all the writing for him.

But worst of all! I hear rumblings that the stars of MTV reality show Jersey Shore are set to be offered book deals in the run up to Christmas - good God!

My rant is this - autobiographies are exactly this. A story of your life when you retire, recalling all the shenanigans and mishaps that blotted and coloured your life. Telling it in a fun and well written way, that leaves the reader with your aspect and your take on your life.

Biographies should be written by those who view your life as it happens, in fact and not fiction (although fiction sells better). But churning out your 'story so far' when you've barely even reached middle age spread is just nonsense and drivel to me.

What probably annoys me more, is that they sell, and sell well. Six of the top 20 books on Amazon right now are not fiction books. Two are autobiographies of the type I am moaning about, so maybe the problem isn't as bad as I initially feared.

Autobiographies should be a once off, and a nice little earner for the writer for a career that has spanned a generation or so. Not for someone who has barely lived life.

Look up you gobshite.

I'm becoming something of a psychic. I worked with a colleague yesterday who reminded me that the last time we worked together we had a bit of a scary moment. The kind of moment where you both hear something that's slightly deja-vu-ish and the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention.

Yesterday morning I was singing an old REM song as I got ready for work. I hadn't been listening to the radio, trawling the Internet or watching the television. It just popped into my head and I walked around our apartment singing the words. It reminded me of a time in school when it was cool to write the names of bands you liked on your schoolbag. And this song was one of my favourites from the Document album.

So imagine my surprise when I hear that same song later that day - a song I haven't heard played on the radio or anywhere else for years - on a different continent. It was my wife who said it first - "weren't you singing that earlier?"

The song was 'It's the End of the World as we Know It' and it was being used as the background music to a news piece on CNN. Both of us dismissed it as another weird coincidence and went to bed.

So this morning the weirdness continued. I got up early to go for my run before the heat of the day got to it's peak. I run with my ipod turned up high but I am always fully aware of my surroundings and potential pitfalls ahead of me before they happen.

If a crowd of people are going to block my path in front, I always shout politely "Excuse Me!" If they don't hear me initially, I repeat myself. A little more tersely if I'm honest. 99% of people are kind enough to step aside or make room on the path or route. But today I encountered a different problem that is on the increase.

It's becoming more prevalent than I can ever remember. We live in a more technological age I know, but this is just plain ignorance and not being aware of what's going on around you.

It's the head in the phone people.

Those who browse the Internet whilst walking about. Their head and eyes are on the phone or gadget and not on the road ahead. I had two collisions with one man and one woman at different occasions on my thirty minute run. I did the usual roar of "excuse me" to absolutely no avail.

Both times the path was slightly crowded. But they weren't moving for others. The man even had the gall to suggest that the collision was my fault. And that's when I became a little profane - calling him an Irish curse of sorts. The woman didn't even hear me as her earphones were in her ears, whilst browsing through her phone - she was never going to hear or see anyone. She was in her own little world.

Once showered and clean after my run, we went for breakfast. I ranted to my wife Michelle about what idiots I had met earlier on my run, as we walked into the restaurant. Having picked up a complimentary copy of the USA Today from the hotel, I was stunned to see one of the lead stories on the sidebar of the front page as I sat down.

"Distracted Walking taking toll on teens." The article read that the number of accidents to young teenagers is on the rise, due to the fact they are distracted while crossing the road or doing something similar.

In other words, their heads are in their phones or handheld devices. In my opinion, it's not just teens that have this problem - you have to include the "get out of my way I'm late for work people."

The shiver went down my spine again. I am definitely doing the lottery when I get home.

600 hellos and goodbyes.

I think I set a new record. Definitely for myself, and maybe for others too. Four flights to and from London Heathrow in under nine hours. I am wrecked after greeting and bidding adieu to that many people.

Of those of you that think that isn't a lot, you should try it. As the expression goes - don't knock it until you've tried it. It's fecking exhausting, especially at the end of five long, difficult days. Of course, that's not all I did for the nine hours - I completed other varied, strenuous and stressful tasks under extreme time constraints.

What wrecks you isn't the actual meeting and greeting - it's the ignorance and indifference that you encounter on every flight to Heathrow. They are a breed of passenger that really doesn't exist on any other flight.

Don't get me wrong - I love the variety of passenger that flies to Heathrow. You get the seasoned business traveller right through to the young Irish emigrant leaving for work and sunnier climes. You meet many people and cultures who have stories to tell - but what you remember in particular, are the idiots.

We seemed to encounter more than our fair share yesterday.

We initially thought it was one particular seat that was the problem. Seat 1D. But then we had one flight where no one was seated there, so that theory was quickly rubbished.

Was it the connecting flights that was putting our passengers under pressure? Nope - because we arrived on-time or ahead of schedule on all sectors.

Did we have supplies on board for all our passengers needs? Mostly.

Then, what irks them so? Was it the hangover London was feeling after the Olympics? Probably not.

There are always a bunch of people on Heathrow flights that look down their nose at you. They feel they have the right to patronise you. To demean you with a flick of their hair or dismissive glance. A look that displays their dissatisfaction at your very presence near them.

It's nothing to do with you at all - it's the company that you represent that makes them act like a proper plonker. Nothing they say or do makes any sense. They have no reason to treat you with such disrespect, but it happens on every Heathrow flight.

Then it hit me.

London was experiencing a mini heat-wave. With extreme levels of sweaty, sticky humidity.

The weather brought out even more eejits than normal - this week.

Ah Jaysus.

Most of us never fulfill our potential. Apparently only 0.10% of us actually achieve our potential of the talent we are blessed with. Never mind our dreams. Of course, most of our dreams of our future life occur between the ages of 8-13. They say that the potential chance of a young lad crossing to the UK and making it as a professional soccer player are about as likely as one in a hundred. 

  

That's kind of frustrating when you encourage youngsters to "shoot for for the stars." What else do you try and say to them? Kick him harder son?

Most of us will work jobs that we never initially thought we might work. it's a part of life. We all have to pay bills and accept responsibility. We all have to accept it and move on - or do we?

I say no.

Three years ago I decided to say no. It's still a work in motion, but I will and want to make it happen.

And I know I will. 

That may seem like stupid seemless obsession, but I'm determined.  

I may have been knocked back, but I'm stronger than that. I will achieve. I am good enough. 

And my work is good. Damn good.

Pure Inspiration.

The definition of inspiration is 95% perspiration. So I was told by a coach when I was aged just 13. His name escapes me, maybe because he didn't make that much of an impression on me. Or maybe I wasn't that good as an athlete. Or maybe I didn't have the dedication or application as a young runner. But in saying that, I'm still running - nearly twenty three years later. He probably had more of an affect on me that I actually remember. His words obviously stuck, to a certain extent.

The definition of inspiration is simple. It is an arousal of the mind to special unusual activity or creativity. Or it is the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something - especially to do something creative.

Both of those sentences sound the same to me - just written in different ways.

Yesterday I was a witness to history. History to Irish and world sport. History to remembering where I was when such an event happened. I remember where I was when September 11th 2001 occurred. It was a bit like when I grew up when adults around me stated where they were when JFK was assassinated, or when Elvis died. It was one of those moments in life that you remember where you were in the world.

I remember where I was when David O'Leary slotted home that penalty in Italia '90. I'd be very surprised if the circular green and brown carpet hasn't still got stomping marks - where I jumped up and down non-stop for two hours that day. I had it recorded and replayed it for all the neighbours, several times. I leaped about the place so many times, celebrating it like it was my first time witnessing the event.
I also remember vividly where I was when Ray Houghton scored against Italy in World Cup '94. I ruined another part of the swirly carpet.

Yesterday I knew I was witnessing history. This time I knew that I would have an opportunity to write as I witnessed it being made.

Lethargy. Ineptitude. Laziness. Over-confidence. Cockiness. Self-entitlement. I saw none of that in the young lady from Bray. We saw thankfulness, dedication and modesty ooze from her every pore.

She was sharp and quick. Her body was tuned perfectly. She had earned this moment plainly just for the past twenty odd years of training.

Her time was now.

Her defence was rigid. Elbows in close to the body. Even though her opponent was waiting on the counter-attack for the slightest opportunity, it never really came. She didn't allow it. Dancing feet for the four rounds that lasted eight minutes. I tried to dance like that for twenty seconds as an exercise, and I was bloody wrecked. And I consider myself fairly aerobically fit.

She may have been nervous a touch, but that was to be expected. This was an Olympic final after all. The crowd expected too. Even Princess Anne had to shield her ears from the noise generated from the roar of the hordes gathered.

But pure inspiration poured forth. All those years of hard work bore fruit. The young Katie did Ireland proud - especially for her family and herself.

Let's hope Ireland garners this enthusiasm and moves forward with as much positivity. Feck the cynicism and negativity - look what happened when we last embraced four amazing years of sport from  1990-94.

Oh - and did I mention in amongst those World Cups we won our last Gold medal in Barcelona 1992?

Maybe we owe all our congrats of prosperity during the boom years to Michael Carruth - not to either soccer team.
Here's hoping the Katie effect will be as generous to us all.

Bucking the Stereotype.

We all like and appreciate a good stereotype. It doesn't mean that they are all true. In fact, we all like to see and see a stereotype that bucks the trend. Hell, I'm one myself at work and I should be gay - according to the atypical stereotype, of course.

We all come across typical stereotypes everyday. Ninety percent of the time the stereotype fits the mould that you have formulated in your head or that society tells you is true. If I suggested: white male, early forties, pin-striped suit, neatly coiffed hair and briefcase - what would you come up with? Banker / accountant / solicitor / professional of some sort - would you ever consider drug dealer?

I, like most of the world, have been watching the Olympics with great admiration. A friend of mine stated on Facebook that she thought that they should be held every year. Hell no!! Most of you will echo this (including my sister-in-law who lives in London at the moment and calls the wandering tourists around the city Olympricks) - but wait for the explanation.

The reason she said this was for one reason alone - she is crying happy tears for all the heartfelt stories she hears every day coming from different nationalities and cultures. Take the example of Hamadou Issaka, the rower from Niger who has captured the hearts of many around the world. This man only took up the sport of rowing three months ago and trained in an old fishing boat. And please remember that the country of Niger is entirely land-locked - the Longford of Africa, if you will.

The individual athletes overcome horrendous situations and battle the odds to represent their country in a worldwide event. And then you have the winners - everyone loves the stereotypical nationalist hugging the gold medal and singing their national anthem with great gusto. And tears fall down their cheeks as the cameraman pans around to the proud parents - who wouldn't start to well up with that image?

I have travelled around many countries of the world through work and holidays with my wife. We have been fortunate enough in our life to witness and experience many different cultures. That also means we do a lot of people watching. There is nothing better than sitting out in the open air and having a beer and watching the real men and women of the world go by.

And then we start guessing. What the next person does for a living; if they have a significant other; what they are thinking; what their day has been like and where they will be in ten years. The vast majority of what we come up with is complete and utter nonsense - but we have the benefit and experience of many years of working with the public.

Our own versions of stereotypes are well honed. Who hasn't walked down the road in any country of this world and spotted an Irish man a mile off? They have a particular way of dressing, walking and carrying themselves. It's an innate part of who we are.

But my favourite part of the stereotype guessing game is - what country is this person from?

So yesterday when I was travelling on the Orlando I-Ride (public bus), my own preconceived ideas of national stereotypes were well and truly challenged. Many nationalities travel on this mode of transportation and I started forming my own ideas of where everyone was from.

When I got on the I-Ride, about a dozen passengers were already on board. I decided to make it more difficult, depriving myself of their speech patterns and accents, by putting my ipod in my ears on full blast. When the bus was near full four stops later, I started guessing the nationalities. I took in their gait, clothing, tattoos and facial expressions. I was aided somewhat with the amount of extended maps of Orlando - clearly tourists. Then when I was satisfied with my guesses, I removed my ipod.

I had spotted two families and I had guessed English - I was right. The sleeveless Dad t-shirt, tattoos, beer gut and slightly aggressive stances gave them away way too easily. Near the front I picked out a middle aged German couple, and was correct. Their stiff backs and silver-rimed glasses gave them away. The fact he didn't take off his backpack, even when sitting, was also telling. I also picked out the locals and those who were using the bus to get to work. It was all going swimmingly until I came to the final couple, sitting up beside the driver.

What probably threw me was the plastic IDs that hung around their necks. These are normally an indication of someone attending a local conference, and these people are most likely Americans. They sat relaxed and even chatted to the driver, as if they knew him. I took longer to assess them than anyone else, and that's why I was so surprised. Their faces, ages, friendliness and clothes all told me American couple from Carolina or somewhere similar along the East coast. They looked fairly well-to-do, so why were they taking the bus?

When I took my ipod out, I still couldn't hear their accents. Moving forward, I was shocked to hear what came next. It has made me re-evaluate my thinking on stereotypes. A American lady sitting across from them, with another plastic ID around her neck, had started chatting to them. As I neared them, I spotted a tell.
His hands - red and callused. He leaned forward and then sat back like someone sitting on a high stool, as if chatting to another in a pub at home.

"So what part of Ireland are you from?"
"Ardagh - 'tis about six mile out of Longford town."
"And where is that?"
"Wesht of Dublin."

I totally didn't expect that. So much for my stereotypical preconceptions. We all live and learn.

Multi-tasking Irish Mammy.

We all are good at something in life. We all excel at either (a) our jobs or (b) our hobbies. It could also be a sport or exercise. But what if it was a combination of all of the above?

Two days ago I came across a lady with talents I will never possess. Her ability to juggle multiple tasks at will and still retain her sanity was truly remarkable. She even had the time to have a glass of wine after she had performed minor miracles.

The lady was about 33-35 years of age and had five children under the age of ten. This in itself was admirable, but she was about to embark on a long-haul flight with these children on her own. No help from any other adult - none whatsoever. Until we gave her a helping hand - she even stated that she didn't really need help!

She was well able and confident enough to do everything on her own. She got a little frustrated on one occasion, saying "feck" for the first, and only time. And that was the end of it. No more cursing or expletives. No more terse adjectives said out loud in front of the kids. No more stress - the lady just wasn't wired that way.

The kids were a fine example of herself. They were calm and independent. They weren't needy and hyped up mad on Pringles and Fanta. Two of the older kids came directly to me and asked for water. And what they then did was outstanding too. They poured water for the others before pouring for themselves - what percentage of kids anywhere in the world, do that?

This lady had one boy and he was the eldest, at ten years old. He was a little gentleman and the lady said he was the apple of his father's eye. He was so mature for his age and helped out his mother at every turn. In fact, I don't think I was as mature as him even when I was sixteen.

Then came the two girls, aged eight and four. But the amazing part of how she managed this trip was that she had twin baby girls aged just fifteen months. And she had car seats. For both of them.

This lady came on a long-haul flight with two special zipped bags that contained car seats for the twins. The eldest boy carried the bottle and nappy bag - he carried nothing for himself. The two younger girls carried toys for the twins and colouring books for themselves. This lady carried only her purse for herself.

Six people - one bag and three small personal items. Fecking amazing. I nearly carry more going to the gym.

But the best part was that not one of them cried. The twins fell asleep with bottles from Mammy that were pre-prepared before the flight. They were asleep within an hour after takeoff, as if tuned to a clock. Irish Mammy sat in between them and watched her TV, with only one earphone plugged in with the other ear listening out for noise or disturbance.

Her three eldest kids sat happily behind her and watched films on their TVs until two of them fell asleep. Even the area that they sat in was clean, neat and tidy - an indication that they treated everything with respect. Guess who stayed awake throughout the flight to keep an eye on his sisters?

They say that we are reflections of our parents. We take different aspects of their personality and mould ourselves into the people we are today.

I took the time to say to this lady before she disembarked our plane, that she had done an amazing job bringing up her children. They were a fine example of her kind and gentle direction, and no doubt her husband's too.

But her skills as a mother and general of her small band of troops was utterly jaw-dropping.

I just wish all kids behaved this way on a plane.

Work Idiots.

We all work with idiots. No matter what your job is in life, you have a work colleague that is a bit of an imbecile. There's no getting away from that fact - they are everywhere.

Whether they are more junior or senior to you makes no difference - their very presence makes your skin crawl or makes you suppress your rage. But you maintain and control those little bits of anger hiding beneath your apparent calm exterior - because you are the better person.

They are the one person you meet in a hallway that you don't want to meet - and it always happens at the most inconvenient time for you. You say hi to each other - but you are muttering multiple expletives under your breath after you pass them.

They are the person who loans your stapler and never puts it back where they took it from. They are the people who mess up in front of your bosses and who never seem to get punished for it. If that was you, you'd get demoted, put on probation or get the sack. But not these plonkers - they probably don't even see the stupidity of their actions.

Or my favourite idiot - the person that constantly does things slowly and incorrectly - and then gets promoted. That makes me want to pull all strands of my hair out - one by one.

No doubt, I have this ability to make people's skin itch. There are plenty of people in my workplace that probably think I'm an idiot. It doesn't bother me in the slightest. I probably think the same about them too.

You are never going to get on with all people in life. Especially your work colleagues - life just doesn't work that way. In life we can just walk away if someone is annoying you. But at work, you have to see these people everyday. And every day you spend in their presence builds your resentment toward them. How you deal with it reflects on you as a person.

We are all individuals with different opinions and values in life - not everyone will agree with another person's take on life. That's what makes us unique - the ability to think for oneself. Those that get influenced unduly by others are sometimes too afraid to make up their own mind for themselves. That's where bullies get their way - they can sense an opportunity to strike and influence someone. And this is what gets me boiling - the bullies.

There are those that love an altercation - whether it be physical or verbal - to get them through the day.

They love the interaction and provocation involved. That gets their juices flowing. They just love making someone else's work or life miserable. But remember that all that hate and resentment will eventually eat them up inside, and you will come out the far side a better person.

I hate to see injustice and unfairness, but it exists in every workplace. The longer I live on this planet, I'm coming around to the conclusion that it's not what you know, but who you know. That may sound a touch cynical, but I'm also realistic. I know it impinges on my (relatively) positive outlook on life, but not everything is actually sweetness and light.

The one certainty in life that I truly believe in is karma.

How you treat others reflects on you. Sometimes we all get frustrated with karma's actions and inactions.

But remember that karma does come around in the end. It might take its' time, but it gets there.

Eventually you get the satisfaction of saying "about feckin' time he/she got their comeuppance."

And then you will smile. A warm self-satisfied grin will cross your face.

You were right - they are a complete arsehole.

Old Attitudes.

There is only one thing in this world that is constant - change. If you don't adapt to the ever-changing world, you stagnate. Some people never change, no matter what circumstance throws at him or her.

Today I came across a man who seems stuck.

Stuck in the world of work that he left twenty years ago. Still referring to himself in the third person and still giving himself the title before his surname, that he used to have. Very telling to me and my colleague, but we couldn't show our amusement.

You could tell this man was used to the finer things in life at one stage and was used to getting his own way. But that was twenty years ago and he still expects to get everything for nothing.

He spoke like he had golf balls in his mouth and stood with his chest firmly stuck out. His nose was pointed north with spectacles perched on the bridge. The man barely smiled or interacted with his wife for two hours.

Everything he did talk about was spoken in a patronising tone. The only time light shone brightly in his face was when he talked of his former glories -  of when I was but a glimmer in my father's eye. I listened intently to him - firstly out of politeness and secondly - it interested me.

But when I spoke of more recent times, he suddenly became disinterested. When I spoke of when I started working, he rudely picked up his paper.

He may as well have said "Go away now, young man. I've finished talking."

That's what annoys me. When people stop learning things about themselves or others. When they stop growing as a person. When their tolerance of simply listening to another person reaches a "full" level.

They are, in effect, giving up on life.

It fascinates me that this man has travelled the world and probably seen many things in his life - yet seems intent on focusing only on his own existence.
Old habits die hard. Kind of sad really.

Irish Breakfast.

Having spent the best part of the past week travelling around Ireland going to two friend's weddings, I have now become immune to the Irish hotel breakfast. We pay to stay in nice hotels, but the staid Irish breakfast buffet is beginning to do my nut in. I know the hotel buffet is in vogue because it offers choice and keeps costs down - but is it really?

I do travel a lot and spend a huge chunk of my time in the mornings eating. I could spend anything up to two hours enjoying my breakfast. It's my favourite meal of the day - and according to all the various health enthusiasts - the most important too. No matter where I am or what time of the day it is - I make time for breakfast. But the difference in America is that - they cook to order.

Say what you like about American people as a whole - but they love their breakfast! You have to appreciate the mix of foodstuffs they offer for all people. It is a country of extremes, but I like the variety of choice. They also cook and serve the freshest of fruit, meat and produce - and cook it to order. Their offering of choice is far better than what we get offered here in Ireland.

I am not attacking Irish chefs - Ireland has come on in leaps and bounds as a world culinary force. But simple things have been overlooked. Not all hotels are like this - this is just some of my experiences.

In the sage words of my friend Sean who said about ten years ago - "If you're not happy, send it back." He was so right.

Irish people are beginning to cop onto this. Having had wealth grip the country recently, we have learned to say no. Now that our spending habits and patterns have changed, I honestly hope we don't go back to the idiotic "Ah sure it'll do - aren't you lucky to have it."

That's why I sent back white toast the other morning. I had asked for brown - a simple request and not one that should tax someone greatly. The server looked dumbstruck and plainly couldn't tell the difference. I then asked for scrambled eggs and the cook/chef pointed me toward the covered bain-marie. I shook my head and lifted the silver lid - the scrambled eggs were swimming in a fluid that I think was water. He couldn't see my point. I wanted freshly cooked scrambled egg.

The previous weekend was three nights staying in a four star hotel in Mayo. A beautiful hotel but their breakfast buffet was baffling. Irish breakfast buffets have a certain penchant for a large bowl of prunes in a sugary sweet fluid. Don't get me wrong - I like prunes - but every hotel has this fare and how long has it been sitting there? And tinned fruit cocktail and grapefruit! What happened to local Irish fresh fruit like strawberries? The saving grace was some lovely sliced melon.

My wife loves black pudding and constantly gets disappointed with how hotels serve it. If it is served to order, there is no problem. But left sitting over a warm flame for a long period of time - it dries up very quickly. It's no wonder American people don't like it - it gets served poorly for breakfast. Whatever happened to cooking an Irish breakfast to order where all ingredients are cooked freshly? Bed and Breakfast hostelries do it - why can't hotels?

So that's why I write this. Say no to rubbery chicken. Say no to a salad that has ingredients in it that you didn't ask for - why do nearly all Irish establishments have cucumber and peppers in their side salad?

Say no to vegetables that the server says are meant to be "al-dente."
My arse mate, I can't cut into them.

You are the customer.

I'm not happy with this. Send it back - no matter what our economic times throw at us.