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.