The Olympics of my Youth

I remember one Saturday night when I was 19. In those days Irish summers were long and sultry, or at least that's how they appear in the foggy memories I have now. We were young men filled with lust and lager and we'd meet in Russell’s Bar Saloon with the intention of drinking ourselves towards that delicate nexus where we became brave enough to talk to girls.

It was a volatile balance however. One more pint of Harp and you'd go from talking prose to mumbling meaningless shite. Thankfully, I normally stayed one pint on the side of shyness, which didn't help me in my quest to talk to girls but at least left them thinking I was simply aloof and not a gibbering idiot. Occasionally we'd hit the perfect balance and on those nights we'd take ourselves off to the nightclub.

They weren't called that back then of course. We knew them simply as discos and my home town had lots of them. Our proximity to the border made us a sort of El Paso to Northerners looking for a beer after midnight (the Proddies in Northern Ireland didn’t like people enjoying themselves on Sunday mornings) and the chance to meet a nice Southerner. We offered them a sexy accent of sorts, despite our nasally toned North Louth voices. Our thick tongued mumbles sounded like music compared to their South Armagh screeching. We also offered an escape from the daily routine of road-blocks and army harassment, or at least we pretended we did. We were really only interested in a snog against the car-park wall at 2.30am.

When the disco finished it wasn’t all happy couples skipping towards an evening of romance and shared curry chips. Most customers left unsatisfied in the shifting department and had over indulged in alcohol as a sort of compensation. When mixed with raging testosterone, this became an explosive cocktail. The bouncers kept things in check inside, but once fresh air had tickled the nostrils of the unwanted and unloved, they became like raging bulls and the car-park became their arena. And like a bull-fight, it involved more ritual than uncontrolled rage.

Instead of fighting, guys would do what we used to call “making shapes”. This involved raising fists towards each other while shuffling feet and making threatening statements such as “do you want some” and “does your mother sew, cause I’ll give her something to stitch.” This non-contact dancing would continue for a few minutes until one of the combatants felt brave enough to push the other one in the chest. This aggression would be returned with an equally gentle shrug until friends from both sides would jump in and separate them with soothing words such as “he’s not worth it Frank” and “are you mad Rusty, his mates will kill us”.

This ritual took place (and probably still does) outside discos every Saturday night. Apart from when psychos were involved, nobody ever got really hurt and it acted as a sort of safety valve on the pressurised gas of male aggression.

I thought all those things were behind me, so imagine my surprise when I switched on the telly last week and saw that they’ve turned “making shapes” into an Olympic Sport. The art of Taekwondo is supposed to have originated In Korea in the Middle Ages. I think its origins are much more recent. The Oasis nightclub in Carrickmacross in 1985 for example. The sport requires you to kick your opponent in the chest or head, except nobody ever does. They dance around for about ten minutes, throwing the odd shadow move and grabbing their opponent in a friendly hug. Its martial arts for people who don’t like violence.

Occasionally the referee will step in with a plaintive request, such as “ah jaysus lads, would you not throw the odd slap?” His call is usually unanswered however and they carry on their ritualistic dance until one of them gets bored and gives up. The highlight of the Olympic competition was when the referee got so bored with the proceedings that he invited the contestants to hit him. A large Cuban obliged and Taekwondo got it’s only clean hit of the competition.

But that Korean sport doesn’t even come close to being the most ridiculous of the games. Rhythmic Gymnastics wins that competition hands down (which is actually a high scoring manoeuvre in Rhythmic Gymnastics if you’re interested). For some reason this sport was reserved for the closing days of the games, as though it was some sort of pinnacle to the athletic endeavour that had gone before. The irony of having it so late on the Olympics schedule is that it comes just before the closing ceremony and then you see where it gets it’s inspiration from. The Chinese who flung themselves around the stadium to close out the games performed acts far more impressive than we had seen in competition. Indeed Cirque de Soliel would sweep the medal board in Rhythmic Gymnastics if they chose to take part.

Instead they leave it to a bunch of anorexic Eastern Europeans to twirl ribbons while wearing skimpy swimsuits. The winner is the one who can most resemble a majorette in an American marching band or create the image of a six year old girl playing in a summer garden with her imaginary friend.

The ribbon is not the only obstacles these girls have to overcome. They also have to play with a hulo-hoop, a ball and two juggling clubs that they have to fling in the air and generally contort themselves around. At all times they have to avoid the suggestion of sexuality, despite the clothing and apparatus.

One thing that Rhythmic Gymnastics does do however is to sooth the spirits of the viewer. It is dancing after all and as we demonstrated all those years ago, dancing beats fighting any day. Those car-parks of my youth would have been a lot more peaceful with a few ribbons and the odd girl in a swimsuit.

Whatever happened to Tori Amos

“If music be the food of love....” then that explains why I’m a fat bastard. Because I love music and I’ve been collecting it since I could first afford to. “The Green Fields of France” by the Fureys and Davey Arthur was my first single (and I still sing it in the shower) and my first album was a one third share in “Best Moves” by Chris De Burgh. I got the lyrics, my sister got the instrumental arrangements and my brother got the responsibility of explaining to the world why we spent our Christmas money on something as cringe inducing as Chris De Burgh.

In our defence, I think Chris was a respectable rock star before he lost his interest in music and developed a passion for nannies and minor members of the British Royal family that led him to write the disaster that is “Lady in Red”. That vinyl copy of “Best Moves” is long gone, having been the centre of a messy custody battle between myself and my siblings. I made up for it recently when I bought the CD version of the album and damn the begrudgers, it’s a mighty fine piece of work. Even if “Patricia The Stripper” evokes memories of teenage parties that are best left on the cutting room floor of a therapist’s surgery.

Back filling is something I’ve been doing a lot of recently. Maybe it’s a factor of age or being grumpy but I’m fast reaching the conclusion that nothing good has been produced since 1990 and nothing original has come out since Bob Dylan realised you could plug guitars into amps. So having dabbled in Eninem and Missy Higgins, I’ve recently decided to revert to the Artists I knew and loved in my twenties and teenage years.

This coincided with a significant moment in my musical journey. After three years, I have finally managed to load all 350 of my CDs onto my Ipod. This process turned up a number of oddities. Why exactly did I buy a “Blind Melon” CD? Who are “The Connells”? And why do I have two copies of so many albums? Including ironically, two copies of “Beethoven’s 9th Symphony”. Ironic because it’s the only classical album I own.
It also highlighted the absences in my collection. Where is the Sade that I knew and momentarily loved in the early 80’s (she waved to me once from a tour bus and my gaping mouth didn’t close for two days)? Where is Michelle Shocked, who won me massive cool points when I enquired after her availability in Dundalk’s painfully named record shop “Slipped Disc”?

But the absence that struck me most was Tori Amos. For a while in the late 80’s, before I fell for the charms of female country singers, I thought I’d dip into the pool of melodic pop. Tori’s voice and quirkiness appealed to me and a cassette of hers helped me through the misery of sitting on London’s M25 every day on the way to work. I heard a track of hers recently on the West Wing and as those TV inserts are designed to do, I was prompted to log on and check where she’s been. It turns out that she’s been busy doing that touring and album releasing thing that artists get up to.

So instead of asking “Whatever happened to Tori Amos” she should be asking whatever happened to me.

Luckily, Melbourne is the place to be if you like 80’s music. Madonna was 50 on Saturday, or at least that’s what the Madge tribute band that I went to see in North Melbourne were claiming. I haven’t really been keeping up with Madonna’s birthdays lately, ever since I got no thanks for the large crucifix I bought her for her 21st. I deleted her from my birthday list and have been stalking other 80’s stars since.

The music you get into in your twenties will stick with you for the rest of your life. I’ve dabbled with techno and garage but as I get older I’m drifting back to Abba and the rock anthems on that seminal genius Meat Loaf. 80’s music is a dirty word in Ireland but Australia has no such inhibitions. In fact if you walked into a suburban Melbourne pub on a Saturday night, you’d almost think it was 1985. The fashion doesn’t seem to have changed since then. Mullets are still common and the occasional set of flairs can be seen. And on stage you’ll invariably find a five piece knocking out the music of Gloria Gaynor and Tina Turner.

Live music is popular here in the way that people think it is in Ireland. When in fact in Ireland, you only hear it in the sort of pubs frequented by American tourists and South Armagh Republicans. The Madonna tribute band was typical of what you see here. An all girl band who knocked out 80’s hits like the Berlin wall was still up and the Soviet Union were leading the medals table in the Olympics. Madonna songs were the highlight of their set, but Abba got everyone out of their seats. Dancing Queen will get every woman over the age of thirty swaying their hips and pointing to imaginary objects in the sky.

Abba are massive here and have survived the embarrassment factor that we European fans had to suffer through the 90’s, before they became retro cool again. Movies like Priscilla and Muriel’s Wedding kept the flame burning when the rest of the world thought Abba were the preserve of gays and under tens. There weren’t many members of those social groups in evidence when I recently went to see “Mama Mia” in the picture house. Abba fan and all that I am, I came away thinking that I’d just spent two hours of my life that I’d never get back. It made me think that I need to be pickier about my musical nostalgia. Which makes me think, whatever happened to Suzanne Vega?

Roger Black and the Olympic Spirit

Roger Black is a bit of a hero to me. He helped me win an argument against my old nemesis Snoopy back in 1996. We were watching the Olympics at the time which wasn't easy because they never seem to fall during a convenient time of day for the viewing public. Unless you live in New York of course because that's where they target the TV stuff to.

So back in 1996 we had to sit up late if we wanted to watch the drug fuelled games from Atlanta. Mind you, that suited us on Saturday nights when we piled in from the pub with our curry chips at 2am. Michelle Smith was the Irish darling of that long summer. But we didn't support her. Innocent as we were then, we knew something fishy was going on in the water (if you'll excuse the pun). So our real attention was on the athletics and the soon to be dashed hopes that Sonia O'Sullivan might get the gold medal she so richly deserved. One Saturday night we gathered in Cathal's front room to cheer Sonia home. The men's 400 meters was an appetiser and while the yanks were hot favourites, Roger Black managed to split Michael Johnson from the rest of the Americans in the field.

Snoopy likes to see himself as an expert on all things Olympian. In fact he likes to see himself as an expert on everything which is probably why we had so many arguments as that's an arrogance I like to reserve for myself. He offered himself to us as a sort of coffee table edition of the Big Book of Olympic Facts. Every now and again, we'd dip in and find out who won the women's trap shooting at the Antwerp games (Antwerp always seemed to be his specialist subject) or who was the white guy on the podium during the black power clenched fist protest in 1968.

Just before the final of the 400 meters, Snoopy drifted away from the safe shores of fact and into the dangerous waters of opinion. He exclaimed that the Americans were hindered by the petty rules of the Olympic committee in that they were restricted to a maximum of three competitors in each race. Snoopy was of the opinion that the yanks would have filled the top eight places in the final if they had been allowed to enter that many.

45 seconds or so later, Britain's Roger Black stormed home in second place. I smugly turned to Snoopy and pointed out the folly of his argument. If Roger Black could beat the second best American, then surely he would have accounted for the 4th, 5th and 6th best as well. Snoopy was a bit like Roger Black however, in that he never gave up. He launched into an existential discussion on infinite universes, in one of which at least, his theory would be proved correct. I think it's the only argument I've ever won with Snoopy.

There is no Sonia to watch in 2008 unfortunately and Irish interest is limited to letting the world know that our engineers built that Bird's Nest contraption in Beijing. So given that I now live in the Land of Oz, I thought I'd throw my lot in with the Green and Gold. But having watched four days of Channel 7's coverage, I'm not so sure. I don't think that German State radio in 1936 could be as jingoistic and one eyed as Channel 7. Not only do they limit their coverage to events that Australians compete in, but they can even contrive their camera positions to show Australians in a swim race and stay oblivious to the fact that Michael Phelps is 20 meters ahead of them.

There is nothing wrong with being proud of your country of course. We Irish make an art form out of it. But Australia struggles for a national identity and looks to sport to provide one. They used to be content with beating England at Cricket, but now that pretty much every one can do that, they've turned their attention to beating the Americans in swimming. It’s a strange sport because you need to be a physical freak to be any good at it. All the top guys have webbed feet and shoulders as wide as Michelle Smith’s drug cabinet. And it’s hard to respect any sport where you have to shave your chest to stand a chance of winning. Although that did help Michelle win those medals back in Atlanta. Personally, I go with Woody Allen on this one and think us humans evolved from water millions of years ago and it seems strange that some people are desperate to get back into it.

But Australia throws millions into swimming, most of which seems to go at finding a replacement for Ian Thorpe. They haven’t managed that yet, but they have turned up some great female swimmers, most of whom seem have names like Libby and Bronte. I don’t want to appear like a reverse snob, but it’s clear what sort of social background swimmers come from. I guess it helps if you grew up with a pool in your back garden. The women don’t look as freakish as the men, although it’s hard to tell now that they wear those all over swim suits. Many a young man got his first thrill looking at Marlene Otto climbing out of the pool. Now those 15 year olds have only the beach volley ball to enjoy. And let’s just say, I hope they are not boob men.

But hope is at hand. We Irish seem to have lost interest in most Olympic sports as the Celtic Tiger made us fat and lazy. The boxers however come from backgrounds untouched by the decadence of the last ten years. The Cubans are expected to win all the medals. But maybe we have a Roger Black in our boxing team and we can surprise everyone, including Snoopy. If we did, it might be the best Olympics since Antwerp.

My Life as David Attenborough

I've never been into animals. Apart from eating them I hear you say. I think its because animals were never really into me. Maybe they picked up things, but cats have always looked at me like I'm the Pol Pot of the feline world (which secretly I am). Dogs bark when I walk into a room just to let me know that they are in charge and even goldfish turn their back on me every 15 seconds when I look at them.

But when I came to Australia I thought I'd take a bit more interest.
After all, this is a country that boasts animals so weird that you would
have to assume that God took no part in their creation. Instead they
were designed by a committee and a drunk one at that. The duck
billed platypus comes to mind. When you're stuck with a ridiculous
beak, it doesn't help that the committee decided that you should be
nearly blind as well. I guess their reasoning was that this way, the
poor old platypus wouldn't get to see how ugly he is.

I've spent the last year overcoming my fears, donning my khaki shorts
and taking to the bush like David Attenborough. And what is the sum
total of my wildlife investigations? A couple of possums and a single
kangaroo. And I nearly ran him over in my enthusiasm to see him.
Twelve months of searching and I've yet to see a koala, snake,
wombat, shark or even the poor ugly platypus. Before I came here a
friend warned that I should check under the toilet seat every time I
heard the call of nature because he was convinced that the dreaded
red backed spider dwelled there just waiting to bite the bum of
unsuspecting immigrants. But I haven't even seen one of these,
despite spending an inordinate amount of time in the dunny.

So it came as no surprise to me when I read an article recently that
said that the animals here aren't nearly as scary as the tourist
industry would have you believe. I have this theory that Australia
plays on it's reputation of having the most dangerous animals in the
world. If the snakes or spiders don't get you on land, you can always
head for a dip, where the sharks and poisonous jellyfish will be
waiting for you. The truth is less exciting. I've met many Australians
who have neverseen an animal more dangerous than a cat in a bad
mood.

The article was about which animals are most likely to kill you in
Australia. I imagined it might be crocodiles, because I seem to
remember lots of stories about tourists taking a dip in the rivers of
the Northern Territory and finding themselves transformed into the
interior lining of a crocodile skin handbag. Or maybe kangaroos
because they seem to have a predilection for hopping out in front of
cars and causing their drivers to swerve and hit things they weren't
planning to.

But it turns out that horses are the creatures most likely to kill you
here.

Now before you think that the equine population here are equipped
with flick-knives and sub machine guns, I have to report that the
evidence is more prosaic. Most deaths caused by horses are due to
people falling off them, a fact that surprises me not in the least. My
friend Sinead might disagree but why would you climb up on
something two metres tall that likes jumping over hedges? I have
a small confession to make here. I've eaten more horse than I've
ridden, a fact that applies to all animals now that I think of it. So I
think I'm fairly safe from being killed by one of these beasts, unless
I'm answering the call of nature behind a hedge and am too busy
checking for red backed spiders to notice the thundering hooves
approach.

Cows come second in the killer list. A little unfortunate I feel
because bovine animals are a tad docile. Twenty people have
died in the last six years after hitting cows. Before you conjure up
images of an Australian pastime of cow slapping, I should point out
that the unfortunate deceased were driving cars and motorbikes
at the time of their unplanned meeting with the animal. Reports of
the cow's health in these incidents are sketchy.

It reminds me of the time I was sitting in a friend's front room
when word arrived that his brother had been involved in a
traffic accident. His father was dispatched to the hospital and
returned an hour later with his patched up son. We waited
anxiously for news but were all afraid to ask. Eventually, the
mother piped up and enquired, "what happened"? With a
mixture of shame and shock, the injured son looked up and
said, "I came around a corner hit a cow going at 70mph".
There was an embarrassing silence before I said "Jeez, that
was a fast cow". I wasn't invited back.

Dogs are the next most terrifying creatures, although you are
as likely to die from tripping over one as you are from being
attacked by rabid fangs. You have to get down to number four
before getting into the traditionally dangerous animals. On
average, two people are killed each year in Australia by
sharks. About the same number who die from hyperthermia
after swimming in the seas off Ireland.

Back on land, snakes and spiders account for only marginally
more fatalities than Emus', cats and fish. This confirms everything
I've suspected about cats. They are the hand tool of the devil and
should be dealt with accordingly.

So if you are reading this from abroad and are contemplating a
trip here but are nervous about the environment, then fear not.
The wildlife is hard enough to find never mind trying to get close
enough for them to do any damage. You are much more likely to
be hit by a tram in Melbourne, get sunstroke in Queensland or
pick up a dodgy itch in Sydney's Kings Cross. It's a pretty safe
place and my only advice would be to slow down when going round
corners. You never know, but there might be a speeding cow
coming towards you!