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.