Christmas Letter to my Mother

Dear Mam,

Sorry I didn't make it home for Christmas. I miss those mince pies you always offered when I arrived home on Christmas Eve (bought in Tesco's but warmed in the microwave to give it that home cooked feel). I miss the presents with the price tag still on and Dad's impatience for Christmas dinner,which meant sucking on half-cooked Brussels sprouts at 8am.

But since your head was burgled by the memory thief, Christmas at home hasn't been the same. We need you there to bring a reality check to the present opening ceremony by telling your grandchild that “she's a spoilt wee bitch” or enjoying a vodka and orange at 11am while regaling the first time visiting in-laws with tales of how many stitches each of your children gave you on the way out.

I'm spending this Christmas in New Zealand Mam, a country you once said was full of English people running from their lives. Maybe that's what I'm doing too Mam, but something keeps calling me back and I'm trying to understand why.

My first connection was in 1989. I was recently qualified and running from the Siberian recession that was 1980's Ireland. When I rocked up in London, I found that kiwi's were escaping from the same economic despair in their country. We met as mirrored peoples. Our lands were the furthest point in the world from each other and we are both dominated by a bigger neighbour who patronises us while offering employment opportunities and women to play with.

I worked with an Aucklander called Ian and over mid-week beers he'd charm me with stories from the land of the long white cloud. Tales of mountain peaks and crashing surf, of volcanoes shaking the earth while people skied, surfed and threw themselves off bridges while generally pushing the envelope of life. I was smitten, even when a South Islander later told me that like most Aucklanders, Ian had never been South of the Bombay Hills that perch majestically on the Auckland skyline. And so Ian had never visited 90% of his own country. But nevertheless the folk memory was ingrained.

Six years later in 1995, I finally worked up the courage to make the long trip South and I found that if anything Ian had underestimated things. In the Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy, the narrator meets the guy who designs planets. He pulls out the sketches for Earth and says that he is particularly proud of Norway. “I spent hours on those fjords” he said, “But the best part was I was able to copy them when I came to designing the South Island in New Zealand”.

But I suspect that God made New Zealand as an original and then threw away the mould. It is so spectacularly beautiful that it becomes almost overwhelming. And the best part is that through a serendipitous combination of distance and inadequate economic opportunity there are not too many people. And yet there are just enough to brew fantastic beer, cook delicious food and drive buses to get you from one jaw-dropping piece of scenery to the next.

I've been back here so many times since that the immigration people have me registered on their computer as a groupie. I'm in the North Island this time in a picture post card sea-side town called Pauanui. You wouldn't like it Mam. There are no pubs and nobody smokes. But you would love the beach. You were always a sun worshippers Mother, which makes it unfortunate that you spent all your life in Ireland. I could picture you lying on the beach here, finishing off a couple of Mills and Boons novels each day while sending Dad up to get you a fresh drink every ten minutes.

But it wasn't to be Mam, You have only the company of the black slanted Cooley Mountains this Christmas and whatever memories the Scrooge of Alzheimer's has indulged you with. I hope at least they fed you well in that home for the bewildered. You'll be pleased to know that I ate well as an Irish Mammy, you are the only person in the world that thinks I'm underweight and need a good feed.

I even helped out with the cooking on Christmas Day Mam, news that will no doubt shock you into disbelief, if your mind was not already programmed now to disbelieve everything. Christmas dinner is very different here because of the climate. Unfortunately the only element they keep from your traditional feast is the piece I never liked. In our house everyone was allowed to turn their nose up at element of the Christmas dinner. My brother couldn't stand Brussels Sprouts, my sister didn't like Turkey and I was adverse to the ham.

Pig was the centre-piece of this New Zealand Christmas but luckily there were many other alternatives to sooth the taste buds of the fussy eater. Being able to eat indoors or outdoors provides for greater scope in menu planning. We had the ham and boiled potatoes but also barbecue cooked prawns and copious salads of intricate design. Most New Zealanders are serious foodies it seems and take the responsibility of living in a land of natural plenty with earnest enthusiasm. Cook books are a favoured Christmas present here in the same way as bottles of Whiskey are in Ireland. Even old farmers with hands like shovels and weather beaten faces, can be found buried in Jamie Oliver's latest publication on Christmas morning.

It's a long way from the boil everything style of cooking that we used to enjoy Mam. But I'm adapting like you always taught me to do.

By the time Christmas evening came around, the Irish and the Kiwis finally found something in common. We had tested and tasted too much and the top buttons of everyone's trousers suddenly became undone. We slumped into the comfort of deep armchairs and surrendered ourselves to sleep.

I hope you might be doing the same Mam. Happy Christmas and difficult as it may be, I hope you're thinking of me as much as I am thinking of you.

Waking up is hard to do

It’s a sleepy early morning in Melbourne as I stumble out of bed and try to summon the energy to face the day. Summer has stuttered a few times this year but seems to be stubbornly resisting the call to clear its throat and roar. But cool mornings are no bad thing when you struggle to wake up as I do.

Morning radio here comes in two formats. All the commercial channels go down the same route with three presenters, two male and one female. One of the male presenters has to be as camp as a scout’s jamboree while the lady has to be blokish and go along with all the mindless gags the guys play. Alternatively, you can listen to the state radio which has a serious news hour in the morning. Unfortunately, Australia is an insular country and news here consists of drought, severe weather and corrupt local politicians that I’ve never heard of.

So I tend to bypass this medium and head straight for the TV. As I munch my cornflakes and try to crank my brain into second gear, I tend to channel surf. BBC world news is the opposite of insular. It tells me about cholera in Zimbabwe and election fraud in Venezuela. However, I find that at this hour of the morning, I’m not a good global citizen so I drift over to the Sports channels to catch up on European football and the masochistic pleasure of being an Arsenal supporter.

That wasn’t much fun this morning, so I flicked on the weather channel and hoped the boundless enthusiasm of the presenters would stir me out of my stupor. Australia is a big country but its weather doesn’t change that regularly. Nevertheless, these cheerful meteorologists will tell you the current temperature in Wagga Wagga every 15 minutes as though it were the most breath taking event since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Meanwhile a rolling bar at the bottom of the screen brings dramatic breaking news, such as hailstones falling in Darwin. It’s the perfect breakfast TV for when your body is munching cornflakes in the living room while your brain is still happily tucked up in bed.

At 8.15am I gather all the possessions a modern man needs and load them into my “man bag”. Woman discovered the advantages of an over the shoulder number centuries ago. But it took the invention of the laptop computer before men saw the light. Now we have our own range of trendy satchels in which to carry the necessities of daily life. God be with the days when I’d head for work with just a wallet and a set of keys. Now I pack Blackberry, mobile phone, Ipod, book, keys, wallet and a raincoat for when the drought finally finishes. I also have my company ID card and all the post I pick up as I leave my apartment.

The tram stop is 50 meters away on Acland Street. It’s the first stop so there is usually a tram waiting there and it teases me as I approach. Will it wait until I get there or will he spy me in his mirrors and slam the doors shut just as I’m about to board? This latter procedure happens with suspicious regularity.

This morning he waits however and I drag my weary body on board and search out the best seat. There is a pecking order on trams. Don’t sit in the seats nearest the doors because old or pregnant ladies will get on and test your social responsibilities. Don’t sit near the bendy bit because somebody will get on and force you to move in, thus wedging your knees into a space built for midgets. And most importantly don’t sit facing backwards. I’m not sure why but this seems the most important factor for passengers. Maybe it’s an inner ear thing.

I nabbed a good seat near the front and settled in for the ride. Tram drivers are an eclectic lot. Most of them sit sullenly in their cabin, aloof from the commuting chaos going on behind their shoulders. They take no part in the ticketing function and hate to see themselves as tour guides. I’ve seen many tourists laden down with backpacks asking questions of the driver in their best broken English, only to be met with stoic indifference. This morning’s driver was different though. He announced each stop in a thick accent that suggested he had learned English from a talking clock. I watched him through the glass as he leaned ceremoniously towards the microphone at each stop. Speaking seemed to give him no pleasure at all, yet he soldiered on, adding some local information as he went. “Next stop Crown Casino and Melbourne Exhibition Centre……and the Polly Woodside restored sailing ship and maritime museum”.

No other tram driver on my route to work does this and it seemed that we were party to a practical joke that the guys at the depot play on all new drivers. No doubt he will soon be as sullen as the rest of them and spend his day scaring cyclists and closing the doors just before passengers get on.

We crossed over the Yarra River and the crush on the tram lightened. The girl beside me nudged me to let her out. No words were spoken, because public transport is a strangely silent place. Even couples traveling together will whisper conspiratorially and talk behind their hands. The only exceptions are those inconsiderate noise polluters who insist on shouting into mobile phones while sleepy heads like me are trying to steal an extra 20 minutes shut-eye.

I moved to let her out and noticed that a thin layer of drool had fallen from my mouth and had made landfall on the collar of my shirt. As I wiped it away, I noticed the two girls opposite were doing their best to pretend they hadn’t noticed. As I closed my gaping mouth I thought that I must start going to bed early. Sleep is a delicious pleasure but it really should be done in bed.

The Jimmy Bell Fan Club

“Have you got $20?” he said. “I’m trying to get a room.” I was momentarily taken back. He didn’t look the begging type and his request was so ridiculously over the top for that industry that I assumed he was a recently retrenched banker. “Jeez mate” I replied. “Don’t you know that there is a recession on?”

Begging and homelessness is on the up it seems, just as the economy is heading in the other direction. But even before the downturn, Australia had a massive problem. Drugs and alcohol are too easily available here as is an outdoor culture that goes back to the original squatters and the jolly swagman of Waltzing Matilda fame. There are an estimated 100,000 homeless people in Australia and while most survive on State handouts and the angelic hand of Mission work, there are some who resort to old fashioned requests to the public for cash. Being an inventive country however, Australian swagmen are clever and cunning in this department.

In my first month here I was staying in a hotel in the City Centre that was uncomfortably close to the Central train station. I don’t know what it is about these places, but if you pitch up in any strange City in the world and you find yourself in dire need of drugs or pornography, then all you have to do is head down to the Central station. The dodgy stuff will normally be out the back nestled between kebab shops and laundrettes that double as internet cafes. Within the space of four days I was stopped by three different people with exactly the same story. All of them were well dressed and spoke with educated Australian accents. Their story involved a trip to the big city and a car that ran out of petrol. They had spent their last few shillings on a hypoallergenic blanket for their lonely grandmother’s arthritic cat and so were in desperate need for $20 to buy petrol and to get home to the 25 orphans waiting in the care centre they ran. What blew their story (apart from its repetition) was that each claimed that they had called into the local Police Station and the good constables of Victoria suggested that they stop random strangers in the street like me and hustle them for money.

I’ve been scandalously neglectful of the plight of those who are habitably challenged. But my conscience has been pricked this week by the presence of the Homeless World Cup in Melbourne. Federation Square is a civic space in the centre of the City that the council built to rival the Sydney Opera House. They failed miserably in that respect but it’s still a nice place to meet people and as this week proved, just the right size for a little four a side football pitch.

Fifty six teams took part and as Melbourne is an immigrant City, most of them had some local support. The Poles were probably the best, bringing colour and noise to the arena as well as some alcohol. This was unfortunate as most of the players have taken up football to try and stay off the booze. The Afghans were also well represented despite John Howard’s best efforts to keep them out over the last twelve years.

Interest in the competition was low early in the week. This is a town that treats football with a little suspicion and its homeless population with even more. I turned up each day to follow the progress of the Irish team and in the early days of the week I reckon that if I’d brought my trainers I would have gotten a game. As the week went on, the crowds grew and so did the standard of the football. Ireland won their group and qualified for the top group in the second round. I watched a lot of games and one thing that stood out is that national teams play the same style no matter what the level is. The Poles were big and physical. The Germans strolled around with arrogance and an assumption of superiority even when four goals down. The Portuguese were full of useless step overs and the English of course went out on penalties.

As for the Irish, well they leaned towards the Jack Charlton’s years in the early rounds by hoofing the ball up to the forwards with indecent haste. As the week went on their play improved, helped by the excellent skills of Captain James Bell. Jimmy became a bit of a local hero during the week, developing a fan club that seemed to include people of all nationalities with the possible exception of the Irish.

But even Jimmy’s skills weren’t enough to get past perfidious Albion (or the feckin Brits as they are known where I come from) and the Irish unfortunately fell at the last 16 stage. Thankfully the organisers kept everyone involved until the end and we got to play for the Dignitary Cup and after a triumphant march past minnows like Holland and Germany, Jimmy and his mates lined up on Sunday in the final against Nigeria. This was the preview match before the overall final and Federation Square was packed to the rafters of its gaudy facades. I seemed to be the only Irish person watching the team during the week but by the final on Sunday every backpacker in Melbourne had made their way there. I felt a little bitter at these bang wagon jumpers as it reminded me of my youth when I used to put in the effort to go to all the friendlies and then couldn’t get a ticket for the big match because some Johnny come lately did.

But when Jimmy stuck away the winner to seal the win and ensure that Ireland got a shiny cup and 9th place in the competition, all that was forgotten. The smiles on the face of the team were enough to make anyone proud. We find our hero’s in the strangest places.

The Great Bank Job

Monty Python were the masters of surreal comedy. Yet, in the crazy world we now live, they could easily be judged as acute social commentators. The dead parrot sketch comes to mind as it represents the best metaphor we have for the current financial crisis. We got to where we are now because banks were able to sell dead parrots and unlike the Monty Python customer, we were too stupid to see this.

Its fun working for a large American bank at the moment, as you can imagine. Two weeks ago the Christmas Party was cancelled, causing anxiety among those who had spent the last twelve months cultivating a relationship with the cute girl from accounts. Unfortunately back office bankers are merely meek people in suits. If we had any bravado at all, we’d be using our mathematical knowledge in the front office, designing obscure credit default swaps. But instead, we spend twelve months staring at our shoes, kept alive only by the hope that alcohol at the Christmas Party will oil the cogs of our rusty ardour.

Now that all seems faintly irrelevant as having a job by Christmas is more pressing.

The bosses are doing their best to rally the troops. “Too big to fail” is the latest mantra, which unfortunately reminds me of White Star Line’s advertising campaign before the launch of the Titanic. Being a Manager in the Australian branch of a US bank this week feels a little like being the conductor of the Titanic’s Dance Band. Except they had a slim chance of making it to the lifeboats. We’ll be lucky if we can grab some flotsam as we jump over the side.

But in these challenging times, it always helps to find somebody in a worse situation than you. Luckily, a pigeon came along last week and offered to be our fall guy. We work on the fifth floor with a large ledge outside our window. No doubt our banking forefathers used such ledges in the last great banking crisis to relieve themselves of their worries. The windows are now hermetically sealed to stop us from doing likewise.

On Monday we came to work and found that a pigeon had reversed the banking suicide routine. He had flown up from the ground and killed himself on the ledge, having no doubt become depressed after losing his portfolio in the great bird stock market crash, when he went long on grain futures. His body lay there on the other side of the glass and it dawned on us that we would have to sit here and watch him rot each day as we also watched our company decay.

At first we wondered if the pigeon was dead at all or merely critically ill. Strangely enough, that’s also how we felt about the company last Monday. By Tuesday it was clear that both were beyond repair and as the week went on the poor old bird disintegrated into a pathetic skeleton and some ragbag feathers. And the pigeon didn’t do too well either.

I guess we’re too high up for the rats to feast on his corpse, so it was left to decompose in the sun. Unfortunately, Melbourne is experiencing a cold snap at the moment with temperatures dropping to the levels of an Irish summer’s day. So the bird’s decay has been slow and torturous, with bone and feathers stubbornly defying the call of nature. We come in each morning hoping for final resolution but find the process lingering. A bit like our jobs you might say if you weren’t getting as tired of the similes as I am.

The ironic thing is that a job in the bank used to be the safest position available. In the Siberian winter that was 1980’s Ireland, the banks and the Civil Service were the only people recruiting school leavers. I applied for both and got as far as sitting the exam for the Civil Service. I still have the letter at home telling me that I came 52nd in the country (out of 4,500 who sat the exam) and that I would be called for interview in due course. I was tremendously excited and placed the letter in my special folder, alongside my bronze under 10 sprint medal and the first Valentine’s card I received (which I subsequently found out came from my Mother and I’m paying a fortune in therapy fees as a result. Thanks Mam!).

I can only assume that the interviews of the people who finished 1st to 51st are dragging on, because 25 years later, I’m still waiting to be called.

The banks didn’t even reply to my applications when I left school, but through various maneuvers and takeovers, I have found myself working for them for the last twelve years. And the past few weeks have proved beyond doubt that this is no longer a safe job. Banks are at the mercy of the market to a greater extent than other companies (for reasons I won’t begin to bore you with it) and work recentlyhas been an exercise of watching the share price collapse with one eye while watching emails arrive from senior management with the other eye. These messages are designed to reassure us as to the company’s strength, as though none of us were capable of reading newspapers or watching TV.

These are “unprecedented” times apparently, although it looks pretty similar to 1929 to me (not that I was around then I hasten to add). I think if you look down through history you’ll see lots of examples of the greed of the few being paid for by the many. As the good book says “there is nothing new under the sun”. Although I’m not sure Ecclesiastes foresaw a meltdown in the Credit Default Options market.

Yesterday, the dead pigeon was finally cleaned up and taken away. The bank is still here but the confidence of having a safe job has been swept away too.