Came so far for beauty

I awoke on Sunday morning with a start. I'd prefer to have awoken with something else of course, but on this morning a start had to do. It was a cramp in my leg. The sort of cramp that 1970's footballers used to get when FA Cup finals went to extra time. The sort of cramp that marathon runners get when a hill appears unexpectedly after 25 miles. The sort of cramp that young calves get on the boat to Holyhead.

Or the sort of cramp I get when I drink for 48 hours in a hot climate. I guess it's due to dehydration or a lack of salt in the diet, but when it happens you don't really care about the cause. You just want to jump out of bed and race to the nearest solid object with a view to pressing your foot firmly against it. I'm not exactly sure what this does, but when it happens primal instinct kicks in. This has led to some embarrassing episodes in the past. The confluence of climate and alcohol tends to happen when I'm on holiday. I've been known to bed down in a mixed dorm after a heavy nights cultural learning with my fellow back-packers. I've stumbled back to the dorm and crawled into my sleeping bag sans pyjamas. On occasion, I've had to hide sheepishly at the back of the bus the next day after my colleagues were awoken at 5am by a screaming Irishman lying naked on his back with his leg pressed to the wall while shouting obscenities at the Virgin Mary and the collected saints.

Normally I'd take this as an occupational hazard of being a bachelor playboy in the naughties. But on Sunday afternoon, I was due to climb into a large metal box, strap myself into a restrictive piece of furniture and expose myself to the sort of air pressure that encourages deep vein thrombosis in healthy adults. In short, a cramp wasn't the best preparation for a long distance flight. I had just spent three nights in Sydney on a mini family reunion. Eating, drinking, bobbing on the Manly ferry under an unseasonably warm sky and listening to didgeridoo music on circular quay (who would have thought that the aboriginals invented electronic drum and base accompaniment all those years ago). In short, all the things that makes Sydney such a wonderful place.

From there I took the short road to Singapore. Distance here has a different meaning to back home. I grew up in Dundalk (or Fundalk as it will be branded by Tourism Ireland). Our nearest town to the south was Drogheda (or Faluja as it will be branded by Tourism Ireland). It was 20 miles away, but you'd only go there for important events like being born or beating the crap out of their sissy football team. In Australia, they'd travel that distance for a decent cup of coffee or for petrol that's five cents a liter cheaper. People drive from Melbourne to Sydney and back every weekend, they put a brick on the accelerator and head for Perth while catching 40 winks in the back seat and they travel around Asia Pacific like it was a back garden.

You get into this mindset fairly quickly. I used to look forward to long distance flights with a mixture of excitement and dread. Excitement because I'm a big kid at heart and dread because my buttocks were not designed for aircraft seats. But somehow in my mind, I'd convinced myself that this was just a short hop. A 7-hour flight to Singapore was nothing compared to what some Aussies kids have to go through just to get to school. I decided I wasn't going to sleep as it was a day flight and it's amazing the amount of anxiety this releases. Trying to sleep in a narrow seat, surrounded by strangers and listening to the endless drone of the aircraft engines is no fun, so I settled in to watch some movies.

To my disappointment, the Simpsons Movie was not on the menu. When you desperately want to watch a film but are too embarrassed to go and see it in the cinema, in-flight entertainment is the best option. This is how I managed to see Shrek and Sleepless in Seattle for example.

In the end, I plumped for "I'm your Man", a biopic of Leonard Cohen that included highlights from the "Came So Far For Beauty" tribute concert. One of the best plumps I've ever made I reckon. It's difficult to express the genius of the man, but listening to him makes you realise how high the bar is set if you're ever thinking of writing seriously. The music was wonderful and for me it added a new dimension to the debate about what is the greatest version of "Hallelujah". Most of the girls I know lean towards Jeff Buckley. But that's because he was good looking and tragically died young (which is how girls like their men) while the guys lean towards Jack L or Leonard himself. Personally, I've always had a soft spot for kd lang's version, because I like my music in a female, man hating country voice. But haven't watched this movie, I'd like to add another to the list. Rufus Wainright is a man who sings like a woman, so I think he covers all the bases.

I got to Singapore in a thunderstorm. The rain danced in the street like a jazz singer on acid. I made it to the Hotel at midnight and threw myself on my 5th different bed in 10 days. As I drifted off to sleep, I dreamt of a cramp free night and the words of Leonard Cohen whispered in my ear.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.