Irish crusader

Why can't people write an article?

2005-12-14T06:58:00.000-08:00

It's funny how some people, educated and adult people, have absolutely no idea how to write an article for a newspaper. In my work (which I'm sure has already bored all my readers to death) with Concern I have been writing profiles for the Irish staff away from home for Christmas. In many cases this was simple enough. I would ring Angola, for example, and interview Martina Collins from Limerick. Ask her how she plans on spending Christmas day and find out what Concern are doing in the target area. I would then bang a piece together for the Limerick Leader.
But in other cases, upon emailing the overseas staff, announcing my plans, I would receive an article written by the aid worker. I would have thought this is something to be appreciated, making my life easier and such, but in fact it only makes for further headache. One person, who shall remain nameless, started her piece, which she expected to be published, with the line: "Hello and Merry Christmas to all my friends and family!" Her piece continued in this vain and read like a four-year-olds letter to her family. She ended her piece with "best wishes from xxxx". I naturally rewrote her piece in newspaper style and submitted it to the regional paper, who as far as I know will be publishing it. She emailed me asking on how the piece was received and I told her that I had fixed it up somewhat. The poor fool went beserk and demanded the editors number so that she can explain she was not happy with any changes. I suspect the piece may not, now, be published.
The woman in question is not young and has certainly been reading newspapers for all of her adult life. And yet, the silly - although certainly good-hearted - woman thought her dribble could make it into print.

John Lennon - Sorry he's gone?

2005-12-14T05:43:00.000-08:00

It was 25 years ago that a deranged fan shot and killed John Lennon outside his Manhattan apartment building. I had the distinct pleasure, as a young ten-year-old boy, to be in Manhattan for the tenth anniversary of his death.
My father took to me to the place of his death where I was suitably humbled and impressed by the vast amount of people laying flowers in front of the apartment building by Central Park.
My father then took me for a walk through the park whereupon we came across a spot affectionatley referred to as "Strawberry Fields". I saw the aged hippies smoking some strange "wacky-tobacco" - as my father affectionately called it - and listened to their tunes ringing out from the rusty guitars. I was sold and became quite the Beatles fan over the following years.
And yet, now I find them tiresome and oversimplified. John Lennon's death was certainly a tragedy, but I don't necessarily rue the loss of his music.

World AIDS Day

2005-12-09T10:12:00.000-08:00

I spent the morning of Thursday 1 December at the Mansion House for the launch of World Aids Day. Junior Minister Conner Lenihan and the Dublin City Mayor were both present and gave short speeches. For the launch I prepared a press release on behalf of Concern. Might give you some idea about what I do as a communications officer for Concern.
Our HIV/AIDS advisor is a lady by the name of Breda Gahan. I had organised some radio interviews for her on the morning of World Aids Day, so it was important for me to be at the launch, with her close by, so I could get her to a room with a landline and coordinate with the radio producer.

a bit of a giggle

2005-12-06T06:07:00.001-08:00

Confused Paisley
Ian Paisley is riding through where ever he lives on a horse, he rides up to his son junior and says "you know son this horse must be a stallion". "Whys that da?" The bigot replyed "cause when I was riding through town there everyone kept saying would you look at the big bollocks on that horse."

Then Paisley goes and dies!
Paisley died and went to heaven. When he got there he knocked long and hard on the pearly gates. St.Peter came out and asked his name. YOU DON'T KNOW MY NAME ? I'M THE REV. IAN PAISLEY He roared at St. Peter. St. Peter looked at his list and could not find his name. Sorry said St.Peter you're not on the list. WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M NOT ON THE LIST??? DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO I AM? As a matter of fact I do, said St. Peter, but your name is not on the list, THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH I'M A VERY IMPORTANT PERSON MY NAME SHOULD BE ON THE LIST. St. Peter tried to explain that it's not easy to get into heaven, that you have to be a Catholic. When Paisley hears this he starts to complain. So St. Peter says that had he had been good to Catholics he would have some chance. WELL, roared Paisley, I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE BEEN VERY GOOD TO CATHOLICS, WHY ONLY TWO WEEKS AGO I MET A YOUNG GIRL WHO HAD MADE HER COMMUNION AND I GAVE HER A POUND AND TWO WEEKS BEFORE I MET A YOUNG BOY WHO HAD MADE HIS COMMUNION AND I HAVE HIM A POUND, NOW WHAT DO YOU SAY NOW MR. ST. PETER! St. Peter took a few notes on what he said. He told Paisley to wait that he would have to go and talk to GOD and get some advice. About ten minutes later St. Peter come out and said to Paisley, HERE'S YOUR TWO POUNDS BACK, NOW FUCK OFF.

Men are from Mars....
WOMAN'S DIARY: Friday 18th November 2005 Saw him in the evening and he was acting really strangely. I went shopping in the afternoon with the girls and I did turn up a bit late so thought it might be that. The bar was really crowded and loud so I suggested we go somewhere quieter to talk. He was still very subdued and distracted so I suggested we go somewhere nice to eat. All through dinner he just didn't seem himself; he hardly laughed and didn't seem to be paying any attention to me or to what I was saying. I just knew that something was wrong. He dropped me back home and I wondered if he was going to come in; he hesitated but followed. I asked him again if there was something the matter but he just half shook his head and turned the television on. After about 10 minutes of silence, I said I was going upstairs to bed. I put my arms around him and told him that I loved him deeply. He just gave a sigh and a sad sort of smile. He didn't follow me up but later he did, and I was surprised when we made love. He still seemed distant and a bit cold, and started to think that he was going to leave me and that he had found someone else. I cried myself to sleep.

MAN'S DIARY: Friday 18th November 2005 Keane Leaves United. Gutted. Got a shag though .

Dinner with the Swiss Ambassador

2005-12-05T13:50:00.000-08:00

Many's the time I've strolled nonchalantly down Ailesbury Road, acting as if I belong there, and gazed longingly at the grand homes, their tall impressive windows and imposing doorways.
So when the opportunity arose, as it did last week, to be entertained in one of these cheeky castles I jumped, jumped and jumped again.
My girlfriend spent a year on a Swiss scholarship in Lausanne researching how authors, both French and German, have been translated over the years. Riveting stuff I'm sure. As a result of her year hanging out on the ski-slopes and drinking Evian water she was invited to the Swiss Embassy last Wednesday for dinner. Plus one said the invitation. Plus me, said I to her.
We dressed well and oiled the nerves nicely in Ashton’s bar before arriving punctually to our dinner date. Greeted by a Philipino tux-wearing waiter carrying two glasses of bubbly on a silver platter. Gulp, thank you and immediately refilled.
Josef Doswald, the Swiss Ambassador to Ireland, welcomed us in the impressive lounge beside the grand piano. Others were present already. The beautiful table in the adjoining dining room was set for twelve people.
I found myself standing beside the Ambassador and discussing the recent Turkey Switzerland World Cup play-off which was marred by violence at the end of the game and landed one Swiss player in hospital after being kicked in the you-know-where.
Forever the diplomat, Ambassador Doswald, could not be called upon to denounce those Turkish thugs responsible.
"It is a great pity when football is destroyed by violence," said the Ambassador.
Yeah, sure.
I was seated beside probably the worst of those present. An irritating, obnoxious fool by the name of Peavoy. Dad is someone important in RTE, he told me. Essentially an historian, but has a masters in developmental studies and studying for his doctora in blah blah blah, he informed me. After stifling a yawn I glanced across the table and listened in on another nincompoop dribbling some more pretentious filth. This girl, by the name of Zedine was, like me, not directly invited. A plus one. And yet on she went like a derailed train.
Her "area of expertise" is, wait for it, Space Law. A fairly important and developing field, she would have anyone listening believe.
"Is it not all null and void?" I asked with a surreptitious grin.
She gives me some straight and boring answer about the growing amount of attendees at recent conferences.
"But does space law offer much work in the field?" I ask leaning pointedly over the table.
Her answer reflects the lack of humour prevalent in a spatial vacuum.
Losing my patience, I ask her whether, by any chance, she was a fan of Star Trek.
"Yes, I love it!" I instantly regret the question as she sets off at 100 miles per hour on the intricacies of the Star Ship Enterprise and holograms or something.
The one shining light of the evening is the standard of food and drink. After some finger food to accompany our bubbly in the lounge we were presented with a delicious tomato soup for our starter. Then came some sumptuous salmon. Both these course were served with a white wine which I would describe as excellently pronounced. Then some lamb (I think) with vegetables and baby potatoes and gravy. White wine was replaced at this stage by a delicate red. Desert was not Swiss roll, but fruit and ice-cream. Delicious.
Everyone was asked to speak, between courses, on their experiences in Switzerland and what continuing connections they had with the country. The topic being "Switzerland".
And yet, nearly every person sitting at the table decided this was an opportune moment to blow their own trumpet and tell us all how highly educated they are and, quite simply, how absolutely brilliant they are. Example. Mr please-stop-squeaking-through-your-nose Peavoy started his monologue by saying: "Hello. I am Mary Lavvin's grandson. I'm sure you all know her."
I wonder if anyone did. My girlfriend later told me she is some famous Irish writer from a long long time ago. Most people I've asked have not heard of her.
I told everyone about my disgust at our inability to beat the Swiss in football and explained that was about as far as my connection with the host country went.
The evening wound down with some cognac and chocolates. My girlfriend and I left our salubrious surroundings giggling and reminiscing about all the very strange people we met and wondered if this is what we are all striving towards. A propensity for pretentious dialogue coupled with a smothering and sickening arrogance.

Not all glamour in the Champions League

2005-11-21T07:42:00.000-08:00

Upon leaving college, I thought it best to escape the bastion of alcoholism, where I certainly flourished, that is Ireland. And so with a few pennies in my pocket I deserted this blurred land and sought refuge in the rainy hills of Galicia, Spain.
I obviously needed to obtain some form of employment, but in an area of Europe where unemployment is the song of the day this was never going to be easy. Say nothing of the fact that I spoke absolutely no Spanish, or Galician for that matter.
Doors were knocked on and phones were rang, but as far as I knew, the answer was always one of bewilderment. What was I doing in this seemingly impoverished hole seeking stars and lights and bags of money? I guess I hadn't fully thought it out.
But then I sent an email to Uefa. With the European Championship rapidly approaching in Portugal I suspected these football enthusiasts could do with a helping hand in pulling off this sporting extravaganza. In administration maybe. I speak German, so maybe I could chaperone the Klaus' and Juergens around from game to game. Make sure they're not late for kick-off, you know. So I sent a CV to Uefa and to my utter surprise they were quick in getting back to me.
"Hello there young Irishman," said some English dude claiming to be the editor of Uefa.com.
"Hello," I replied.
"I see from your CV that you have some journalistic experience," said the editor.
"Ah well, I guess, I mean yeah...that's right I have journalistic experience."
"Well, I need you to travel down to Porto for next weeks Champions League tie between Porto and Utd."
"Manchester?" I asked.
"No, in Porto." He replied
"Right, but Manchester Utd are playing?"
"Yup," replied the editor. " I need a 600 word preview an hour after the pre-match press conferences. Then I need a running match report during the game. And finally another 600 word review an hour after the game. Will that be ok? I hope so. We'll book you into a five star hotel and pay you a significant amount of money."
"Grand sure,"I meekly respond in a quivering voice.
First things first. I needed a laptop and I had very little money. Fortunately my one Spanish contact was able to put me in touch with some crony of his, who was only too glad to get rid of a laptop. He was anxious to get rid of it very quickly though and had either a crik in his neck or was simply the nervous type. I got the crappy piece of hardware at knock-down price after he was convinced I was not a member of the local policia.
This purchase essentially emptied the coffers. And so with about €30 to my name I boarded the train to Porto, with copious amounts of notes, printed off the internet, in tow. The notes detailed all the players I would be encountering and the players I would need to be recognising from my place in the stands.
I was booked into the Porto Palacio Hotel from the following morning for two nights. I decided to stay up all night before checking in, in order to save some precious pennies for food and other peculliarities that may crop up.
Not as easy as I thought, the whole staying up in a foriegn city with nothing to do scenario. I tried sleeping on a bench, using my laptop as a pillow, but I missed my feathers. It was also quite cold. But by reading a book and staying alert to the dangers offered by my wasted junky neighbours the night was eventually eclipsed by morning and the onset of civilsation.
From rags to riches then. Porto Palacio is to be recommended and I was suitably impressed with the grand foyer, obedient servants and bountiful buffet breakfast. (Loaded up on sandwiches to get me through the day.) The room was huge and the bed massive. Grand. Although, to my utter dismay, my presence was required at Utd press conference.
Enter Alex Ferguson and Ruud van Nistleroy. Oh, what a grim disgruntled pairing they make when faced by a room of eager hacks. Ferguson was to the point in his answers. So much so that he actually manged to keep most of his answers to a mere one or two word response. Adding an evil grimace for punctuation. Good quotes were hard to come by. And Ruud, well Ruud was very Dutch and frustratingly boring.
Press conference number two of the day. Enter the chartismatic Jose Mourinho.
"Can you tell me how you are going to approach the game in a tactical sense Jose?" I nervously asked.
"Well, I do not like to answer this question. This question I should not be answering. To answer this question would be to answer another. How will we win? Ok this I will answer. We will be tactically brilliant. We know this Manchester team incredibly well. We know everything about them. I know quite a lot and now my players know quite a lot. And they know about this Manchester team. We will take them on and we will score goals. We will score more goals than they do and by doing this we should win the game, providing we score more goals. More goals than the other team. That is the plan and that is what I have been telling my players to do. But I don't like to answer questions about tactics. Our tactics are winning tactics. We will use them, how do you say in the English, to great effect."
And on and on he goes. What breath of fresh air after the stifling responses given by his Scottish counterpart, Alex Ferguson.
I arrived at the game the following day and sought out my seat in the press box. The stadium was rapidly filling and I envied all those fans who could sit and watch and enjoy, instead of writing, while at the same time trying to pick out which player did what and what time he did it and did anybody see who put that cross in for South African striker Benni McCarthy? Actually all this, as it turned out, was to be the least of my problems. My internet connection did not work. My Spanish thief-friend had ensured me my laptop would have no such problems. Why I believed him is beyond me. Naive hopefulness maybe?
I would be required to dictate my first half report over the phone. But of course I had no credit for my phone. Certainly not enough to ring the London office with. I ran downstairs to the press room, while the players were meeting in their respective changing rooms, and sought out help from a gentlemanly Daily Telegraph photographer. He very kindly let me use his landline, for which I am eternally grateful and I dictated my dribble to an understandably concerned sub-editor.
I rushed back up to my seat, having missed ten minutes of the second half. With shaking fingers I typed as I watched and reminded myself that I needed to file again with ten minutes left in the game. And so I did, but upon returning to my seat I was astonished to find that Utd were down to ten men. Roy Keane was sent off and I had missed it. Shite. I spoke quickly to a Portugese journalist and he assured me in his broken English that the red card was not fair and that Keane should definitely not have been sent off. Ok, fine I said, and prepared a paragraph to that effect and then wrote my introduction and conclusion. Back to the phone and speaking to London.
"How can you say he didn't deserve to be sent off? Sure he stamped on the goalkeepers back!"Questioned my less than patient sub-editor.
"Well I'm pretty far away, to tell you the truth. I thought your man was just fooling around, you know."
"Anyway, listen, can you not just write the opposite of everything I just said about the sending-off incident, because I have to rush off to the mixed zone and then these bloody press conferences and then send you another bloody 600 word bullshit review. OK?"
Although highly stressful, the rest of the night passed without any major incident and I returned back to my suite, collapsing on the beautiful bed, dreaming of deadlines and footballers and Roy Keane kicking people at random.