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.