The Hoge Spot

Excuse the podcrastination

2010-12-25T10:53:00.000-08:00

LOOK I've been busy alright? It's not like my usual blogging hiatuses which stem from unadulterated sloth and indifference. No, no I've been working on something special for all of you folks, a Christmas present if you will.

As far as I can tell, there are very few Irish-based podcasts. Now, when I say podcasts, I'm not referrring to radio stations putting clips from their shows online for people to download. In the truest sense of the word that ain't a podcast.

For a purist such as myself, a podcast is a show recorded with the main purpose of being published online as opposed to on the radio. Podcasts tend to be a lot looser and less censored than radio shows and, from this enthusiast's point of view, a much more enjoyable listen than most of the fare that takes up the traditional airwaves with the faux-friendliness between presenters, questionable music choices and the increasing presence of advertising.

Whatever about Irish podcasts, I'm almost certain that there aren't any Limerick-based podcasts and with that in mind, myself and an old friend fancy ourselves as a pair of trailblazers.

We're still in our very early days yet (just one episode online and still baffled as to how to get it on to itunes) but we're full of enthusiasm and unfounded opinions so expect many more installments to come.

In the meantime give a listen to the inaugural episode of Hoge 'n' Smith (A podcrastination on all matters nonsensical) at www.hogensmith.com and tell us what you think.

The Homecoming - Part Three

2010-12-09T17:40:00.000-08:00

Apologies and yada yada yada for the delay, I've been working on something exciting (by which I mean I've been twiddling my thumbs while thinking of something exciting that I plan on working on in the future) but more on that in time to come.

As I said, in my eternal ignorance I had almost cycled past the White House without giving it so much as a second glance. Thanks to that second glance however, I realised what it was I was looking at and swung my handlebars in its direction.

Not as big as one would expect on TV, and certainly much more central in Washington DC than I would have expected, the White House is still a must-see when visiting this beautiful city. Standing in front of one of the most easily-recognised buildings in the world is a surreal experience, almost like meeting a famous actor that you've seen a thousand times before on the big and small screen.

Unfortunately I couldn't get right up to the front fence of the White House gardens this particular morning as the road directly in front of the fence was shut off by the local police. I asked the cop standing at one side of the shut-off zone what the reason was for the closure. He informed me that he wasn't allowed to say but at the same time beckoned towards the nearby Washington monument from behind which two magnificent military helicopters had just come into view.

As the pair of helicopters turned and made straight for us, I asked the cop if that was the President, realising only afterwards that I sounded embarrassingly excited. Again he smirked and insisted that he couldn't say. At this point both the helicopters were only a few hundred yards away and one of them started to tail off leaving Marine One alone to fly the last short leg of the journey over my head and in behind the White House to land.

At this point I checked my watch and realised that my diversion to the White House and my stalking of Barack Obama had made me late. So with no helmet, I pegged it back through the streets of Washington as the sidewalks were by now far too full with attendees for the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear.

Out of breath and sweating, I collapsed back in the door of my DC hosts who threw a sandwich into me and then hurried me into their car. On the way to the bus stop, they informed me that it had been the President's helicopter I had seen. Apparently the second one was a decoy that always accompanies the helicopter so as to make potential attackers uncertain as to which one carries the President.

At the bus stop I bid my hosts an farewell and told them that I would love to return but had no idea if or when that would ever happen. I boarded a stuffy bus and hit off for Dulles Airport for the second time in a few days. The constant travelling, changing of time zones, more than one heartbreaking goodbye, lack of sleep and lugging around all my possessions from a year and a half in Canada were starting to get to me.

All I wanted now was to offload my bags at the check-in desk and have two peaceful flights home to my family. Guess what I didn't get.

You know the way in showbusiness they say you should never work with animals or children? Well the same dictat should apply for air travel. Did you know that on internal flights in the USA, people are allowed carry dogs in the luggage compartment? Did you know that it's incredibly hard to get some shut-eye if there's a little rat of a mutt barking just over your head the entire way from Washington to Boston? Well now you know.

If I thought the dog was bad, there was worse waiting for me. It might be a little rough to described the baby a few rows ahead of me on the next flight as a terrorist but she/he/it certainly terrorised me all the way across the Atlantic. Not entirely inconsiderate however, the little yodeller managed to stop wailing just as the wheels touched the tarmac at Shannon. At which point I imagine I must have resembled Jack Nicholson in the latter stages of The Shining in both appearance and mindset.

Despite my various animal and baby issues on the way home and the fact that it was 7am in Ireland and I hadn't slept properly in days, I was overjoyed to be reunited with my parents and one sister remaining in Ireland. Not wanting to displease Mammy so soon after arriving home, I even went to Mass a few hours later before going to sleep for the day. Completely unsurprisingly, there were no seats available when we got there.

The rest of the day is a blur that was mostly taken up with unsuccessful attempts to fight jetlag by staying awake until the evening time. That night brought beautiful, dreamless, deep, deep sleep.

Now I did mention a "foul-mouthed but well-meaning delivery man" a few weeks ago in my introduction to this by-now mammoth description of my journey home and I'm sure none of you at all are wondering how he is going to tie into all of this? Strangely enough, without knowing it this guy actually made me feel like I was at home just as much as my family, my home, my bed and going to mass.

You see, for me one of the defining characteristics of North American culture is the faux-friendliness shown by people in the service industry. Hearing 'Have a nice day' is something visitors to The US and Canada, from these shores at least, are not used to.

Strange as it sounds, this particular phenomenon bothered me just ever so slightly as I never once believed that any of the thousands of salespeople who offered me one of the standard issue pleasantries meant a word of it. A strange complaint I know, but every time I heard someone say it, I knew they were just wishing me a nice day or asking how I was because it was how you were meant to act when you had that kind of job. Sometimes I felt like just shaking one of them and insisting they tell me how they really felt about all of the horrid customers they had to deal with day after day.

That may have seemed like a strange tangent to go on but it was necessary to explain the role played by the aformentioned delivery man. God I really should have made this a four-parter but I've gone too far now.

The next day was Monday, meaning my parents were working and my sister was in college when I woke up to the sound of said delivery man ringing our doorbell. I stumbled down the stairs, still very groggy from over 12 hours sleep and opened the door to greet him with a nod.

"Hogans?" he enquired of me to which I again nodded.

"Nice one," he continued. "Rains a fucking bollocks isn't it?"

If taking in so many destinations over the course of a few days had left my hazy mind in any doubt about where I was that morning, this fella had let me know what was what. I was back home in Limerick.

The Homecoming - Part Two

2010-11-12T12:46:00.000-08:00

I WAS awoken from my slumber in the basement early on the Saturday morning in Washington DC by the most unusual sound of children whose accents were an amalgamation of American and Irish.

It was a little after 7am and I had gone to sleep only four hours later, due to still being on Vancouver time. Nonetheless I was happy to have been woken so early as it would afford me a few hours to take in the American capital before going to the airport. The children in question were the daughter and son of my gracious hosts. Two more charming kids you won't find, already on their way to being trilingual due to their Spanish language school and Gaelgoir mother.

They were kind enough to lend me a bike and a map of all the attractions worth visiting in Washington for someone with an extremely limited amount of time. Their home was only a few minutes cycle from all of the Washington landmarks which are for the most part within close proximity to each other.

First stop was the imposing but beautiful US Capitol which forms the centrepiece of a group of similarly grandiose buildings that included the US Supreme Court, Library of Congress and Congressional Office buildings. Sadly, I could only cycle past lines of visitors waiting to go on a tour of the magnificent building.

From there, I proceeded down along the National Mall towards the Washington monument. Along the way I ran into crowds of tens of thousands, all on their way to the 'Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear' organised by political satirists and faux ideological opponents, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. Part comedy event but also a gathering of those in favour of reasoned discussion, as opposed to the extreme and highly vocal stereotypes so often associated with American politics, this was something for which I wish I could have hung around.

As I cycled past on my bike, Cheryl Crow was singing to the huge crowd - later estimated to be over 200,00 people - and while she wouldn't be my cup of tea, the idea of the event and the fun that was being had was certainly up my alley. Many carried signs indicating whether they were members of 'Team Sanity' or 'Team Fear', some were dressed up in ridiculous outfits. True to the event's ethos, everywhere you turned, calm and reasoned conversations seemed to be taking place regarding how the US was being run and where it was headed. And in keeping with the rushed nature of my morning, I had to move on all too soon.

In contrast to the celebratory feel of the rally, the memorials to America's many wartime efforts were very sombre but beautiful in their own way. Most chilling among the memorials was the one dedicated to those who fought in the Vietnam war which consisted of a long black wall bearing the names of soldiers lost in the conflict.

Even though America has entered and is still partaking in another futile war in much more recent times, for many the memory of Vietnam is still very fresh. Evidence of this could be found in visitors tracing names from the wall on to pieces of paper while others placed newspaper clippings carrying news of their former loved ones underneath their name.

For me, the Lincoln Memorial was the most impressive feature of my bike tour around DC. The walk up to the majestic building along the long, iconic reflecting pool brought back TV memories of Obama's inauguration celebrations, Martin Luther King's 'I have a dream' speech, and of course Forest Gump jumping in the water after recognising Jenny at the peace rally.

I am sure I have seen the Lincoln Memorial many times on the big and small screen but as I stood in front of the statue itself the only previous occasion on which I could recall seeing it was while watching The Simpsons. Unlike Lisa I didn't go up and ask Lincoln for advice on anything (there were too many tourists around) but I was transfixed by the workmanship of the statue and the temple in which it sits. Alongside Lincoln are two of his best known speeches, The Gettysburg Address and his Second Inaugural Address, which are chiseled into the inner walls.

Now for the part where I truly expose myself for the idiot that I am. As I was cycling back past the Washington Monument towards a few of the city's museums, I noticed a bunch of lads around my age playing a game of soccer. I took stock of their ability while rolling slowly past, and conceded to myself that even though they were American they were still probably all better than myself at the game.

Then I pulled on the breaks. While watching the kick-around, I had caught sight of something big and white in the background, a house, a white house, The White House if you want to get into specifics. Shockingly for someone who still loosely describes themselves as a journalist, I had almost cycled past one of the most famous political landmarks in the world.

Well, wouldn't you know it, I've been struck down by laziness again. This two-parter is becoming a three parter folks. Hear my tale of an encounter with Barack in a few days time. So long.

The Homecoming - Part One

2010-11-05T06:55:00.000-07:00

I'VE let too long pass since I last posted and now I don't know where to start when detailing the last month of my life which entailed six North American cities, a painful goodbye, a joyful hello, civil war ammunition, Barack Obama, the most beautiful baby the world has ever seen, the most annoying baby ever to board a plane, full body scans and a foul-mouthed but well-meaning delivery man. I suppose the best place to begin would be the beginning.

As you all know from my last post, a month to the day ago, I had decided to go home. What I didn't realise at that time however was that a letter was winging its way to me with the news that I had been called for an job interview in Dublin with an employer who should probably remain nameless for now. At the last time of writing, my intention had been to come home at some point in the new year or maybe even Christmas at the very earliest but seen as job interviews seem to be as common as a natural tan in Ireland at the moment, I thought it best to expedite my return.

Although I didn't have that many loose ends to tie up in Canada, my girlfriend unfortunately does and we therefore had to make the hard decision to spend a few months apart. It's the last thing we wanted to do but both of us know that it's necessary and will hopefully mean that the first thing she sees of Limerick won't be me in a dole queue. I'm counting the days 'til she arrives here which should hopefully be some time early in the new year. Until then Skype will have to do us.

Seen as I didn't expect the trip home to come this soon, funds for the flight weren't too plentiful so cost-saving layovers along the way home were unavoidable. One layover would be longer and far more welcome than the other two however, as I would break up my journey home with a trip to Virginia to meet my sister and new nephew who just turned five months old and had yet to meet his uncle.

Before I reached Virginia though, we had to drive to Seattle from Vancouver. This entailed a bit of a nerve-wracking visit to American customs who as it turned out didn't give a toss that I had technically overstayed my welcome in Canada by a few months. With heavy hearts, myself and the lady parted ways for a few months at Seattle Tacoma Airport.

From Seattle I flew to San Francisco where I had a four hour layover during which I didn't even venture outside the terminal as I didn't want to face the long security queues again. Dulles Airport near Washington DC was the next destination and along the way we were treated to a stunning view of the snow-capped Rockies as well as the dusty, flat plains of the American interior.

Upon arriving in Dulles I still had an hour and a half long drive to my sisters home in Fredericksburg, Virginia. The town was the site of four major battles in the American Civil War as evidenced by every second store selling what they claim are Civil War bullets or rounds. What really tickled me was that the ammunition was categorised into Confederate and Union and for the most part, the Confederates demanded a higher price.

In stark contrast to the torturous farewell that morning, meeting my nephew for the first time was a delight. At only five months, he's quite strong and long and I don't want to get ahead of myself but I think it's a dead cert that he'll be a ladykiller and an international rugby legend if his uncle has anything to say about it. Not having seen my sister in18 months, I found it strange to see her act so maternal but I was delighted to see what a good mother she had become. Three days with them wasn't close to enough and before I knew it I was boarding a Greyhound to Washington DC and saying my second reluctant goodbye of the week.

My arrival in Washington DC coincided with that of thousands of attendees at the John Stewart/Stephen Colbert- organised "Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear" which seemed to have caught the imagination of the entire city going by the media coverage and the numbers in attendance. I stayed with friends of our family whose home was near the rally site and all of the famous political landmarks on Capitol Hill.

The couple, who moved to the States from Ireland 15 years ago both make documentaries for National Geographic so I stayed up late with them, drinking wine and discussing my recent realisation of the genius of Werner Herzog. Only a few hours after going to sleep I forced myself out of bed in order to take in what I could of DC before making my second trip to Dulles Airport that afternoon.

You'll have to wait a few days (that's all, I promise) to hear about and even see a few pictures from my whirlwind tour of the American capital though. I've decided this is going to be a two-parter. Until then folks....

The Imbecilic Pioneer

2010-10-05T08:27:00.000-07:00

I COULD try to stake a claim for being someone that likes to go against the grain, a pioneer who refuses to conform with the masses and instead blaze his own trail. It would be just as easy though to make the argument that I am an imbecile who decides upon his path by merely going against conventional wisdom.

One year and four months ago I left my decent, safe job as a journalist in order to travel to Canada with a bunch of my buddies. Several people tried to convince me not to do it, one lady actually went so far as to promise me that I would never again have such a good job and I would regret the decision for the rest of my life.

My mother, although not quite so doomsdayish in her predictions, did also warn me of the dangers of leaving a good job with the country in its current state but she knew as well as I did that I couldn't be swayed. I realised the risk involved in being one of the only people in the country to leave a decent-paying job just for the hell of it but I could never have forgiven myself if I hadn't done it.

Had I stayed in Limerick I would have developed a lot more as a writer in the last 16 months and would no doubt have widened my network of contacts which is now mostly defunct. At the same time though, if I had remained at home for safety's sake, my mind would have been eaten away with thoughts of what I could have been doing in Canada with my friends every time I got pissed off with work or the everyday routine. I could not have lived with the "What if?"s.

Also, it's not as if I have nothing to show from my time in Vancouver thus far with the most rewarding prize being my very own Canadian. If I had known that a lady like her was within my grasp over here, I wouldn't have spared a thought on the merits of remaining in my job in Ireland but would have jumped on a plane with my first pay cheque.

Romantic endeavours aside however, I have also learned how to do manly things such as landscape, service machinery and frame a house this year. In varying degrees, I have enjoyed the work I have done and I am certainly glad of the new skills, experiences and friends made. What I am most grateful for from my various careers in Canada though, is the strengthening of my conviction that I want to write for a living.

In all honesty, I was able to keep up with the hardest grafters over here and I impressed all those who took a chance on employing me, but I also learned that labouring is not the life for me and therein lies the benefit of leaving the comfy job at home. Because I stepped right into working as a reporter after University I did not appreciate it, as is the case with all things for which you don't have to fight.

But having experienced some of the alternatives, I now know that I loved the work of meeting and talking with people, of searching for stories and creating something that occasionally might have made others think, chuckle or just pass the time. It took over a year for me to realise it but this is an epiphany I may never have had were it not for the decision to pack my bags and leave in May of 2009.

Unfortunately the kind of work I now realise that I love is hard to come by over here, especially if you are technically an illegal immigrant. Out of all my friends that came over here in 2009 I am the only one remaining and although I'd get a slagging for admitting it, I miss them and all the other friends I've left at home.

Canadians are as nice a people as you could ever find, I've no problem saying that as a nation they are more welcoming and obliging than the Irish. The one thing lacking though at times, is the "craic". It's not at all that they're boring or not fun in any regard, it's just that the mentality and the humour is different.

That Irish element of underlying lunacy and the appreciation of unpolished roguery just doesn't feature here for the most part. Even though both elements can be as much a curse as a blessing, I feel as though I need them around me. It has occurred to me that my homesickness may only have been brought on by viewing home through rose-tinted glasses but just as I had to know if my hopes for Canada would be realised, I now need to know if my recollections of home are accurate.

With that and my predilection for going against conventional wisdom (the wisdom being that Ireland is the last place you should be going right now) in mind, I have decided to come home. It won't be for a while yet but it will be sooner rather than later. And just like I did over a year ago, my girlfriend will be leaving her home to see if Ireland lives up to the most likely unrealistic expectations I have created for her.

All job offers appreciated!

Octogenarians from the Planet Castratus

2010-09-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

QUESTION Time folks. See this lady here? Attractive, right? Dressed like she's about to hit the town, wouldn't you say? None of those are the actual important question here, they were more hypothetical ones just to establish some important points.

The main question for you today is, how do you think a dressing room full of men from any sport of your choosing would react were this lady to walk in looking like this directly after a game?

Would they greet her as though she were just another member of the coaching staff? Or perhaps would they engage in some whooping and maybe even some hollering?

If you're answer is the former then I can only presume that the dressing room full of men you were thinking of is the octogenarian bowls team from the Planet Castratus.

You see this little lady's name is Ines Sainz. She is a sports reporter for a Mexican TV station in the States and she's caused quite a stir on this side of the Atlantic in recent weeks. While awaiting an interview on the sidelines prior to kick-off in a New York Jets football game, Ines grabbed the attention of warming up players who consistently "overthrew" the ball in her direction so they had to run by her in order to retrieve it.

Horrific isn't it? Imagine men in their 20s and 30s - professional athletes no less - acting goofy in order to run past a hot lady in a pair of arse-suffocating pants and a top that provides worse coverage than an umbrella made from nets.

Poor old Ines' nightmare didn't end there however. As is standard practice over here she, along with some other reporters, went into the Jets dressing room after the game and was subjected, nay tortured, to the aforementioned whooping and hollering.

Predictably, a variety of different groups who have self-appointed themselves to the position of spokespersons for all of womankind were up in arms over this. The most vocal amongst these mostly hysterical and radical groups were the Association of Women in Sports Media whose moaning prompted the NFL to conduct sensitivity training with all of its 32 teams. The bill for this training will be footed by the Jets.

Not being accustomed to sports coverage North-American style, the first question that crossed my mind upon hearing this story was, what the hell was she doing in the dressing room afterwards as players got undressed and had showers?

You could argue that TV rights payments have made these players all millionaires but does that mean that they have to lose the right to wash themselves without having the ogling eyes of the press also present? Should they also be allowed follow them home?

I've been informed though that it's standard practice for the media to be allowed a few minutes of coverage inside the dressing room after games. Although I don't understand why they can't just wait until the post-match press conference, as in European sports, if sports fans and players can tolerate it here then so can I.

What I really can't comprehend though, and I'm about to get soap boxy and perhaps a little controversial here, is why they would allow female reporters to carry out this coverage.

Of course it's all in the name of equality and - unlike some people have claimed in arguments regarding this issue - the same standard applies to male reporters going into female locker rooms after major sports events in North America. I can't understand why that is allowed either but in this age of political correctness, common sense is all too often sacrificed in the name of equality.

Again though, if that's how it has been done over here for decades, even though I don't agree with it I can let it slide without getting too rowdy.

What does get my dander up though is how an apparently professional journalist, yes the one in the skintight jeans and boob-friendly shirt, can walk into a room of young adult men dressed as she was and complain when they react like a room of young adult men. If she is a sports reporter then she should know that the dressing room is a place where a lot of farting, belching, cursing and yes, un-PC chatter about girls takes place. If she can't take it then for the sake of all concerned she should stay away because those kind of activities are as essential an element to many sports as the bloody ball.

Many of the aforementioned womens groups have also claimed that Ms Sainz is suffering for her good looks. Once again they are about as on target as a blind drunk wino taking pot shots at cans on a fence 200 yards away. The "suffering" she endured was as a result of the unprofessional way in which she dressed.

I've worked as a journalist and never once did I come to the office wearing a tight pair of crotch-hugging trousers, no matter how badly I wanted to, because it would have been deemed unprofessional. If you wear clothes that show off your arse and considerable cleavage then don't be shocked when people react to them. It's akin to a stripper getting indignant for a customer staring at her rack.

You know the way in the Dail you can't libel yourself regardless of what you say? Well a dressing room - regardless of whether or not it's for professional sports - is a similar kind of haven. For some men, it's the only place where they can actually speak freely without fear of offending the ears of the easily-offended.

If those sensitive souls can't take boys being boys in their last remaining refuge then they shouldn't let the door hit the behind of their skintight jeans on the way out.

Becoming Dad

2010-09-19T11:28:00.000-07:00

I have noticed many signs over the last couple of months that indicate I am slowly but surely morphing into my father.

On three occasions this week alone I have fallen asleep on my couch about five minutes after sitting down to watch some TV. It only took 25 years for me to start working a job somewhere near as hard as himself - who has never once stayed awake for the closing credits on the Late Late show - and the effects on my evening time energy appear to be the same.

Like my father, my head tends to tilt back at almost 90 degrees when I'm couch sleeping, giving all and sundry a delightful view right up both nostrils. It was sleeping at this angle that gave my lady reason to notice that I'm cultivating a veritable forest of nose hairs that, if allowed a few more weeks of unimpeded growth, will soon be a Hitler-style moustache. Guess who else in my family has a pair of bristly nostrils.

Strike three is a tendency I have developed really only in the last couple of months but one which Dad has had for as long as I've known him. The other day, my aforementioned lady was making us dinner but was short one ingredient so I offered to go to the shop on what should have been a ten minute excursion but one which took over half an hour.

I can't really explain why it took me so long other than there just happened to be a wide variety of worthwhile distractions along the way. You know the sort of thing; interesting newspaper headlines, a new brand of cereal that had to be investigated, a couple arguing that I felt the need to eavesdrop on for just a while. All the usual things.

The reprimand I received upon finally returning home prompted a real sense of nostalgia as memories came flooding back of my father returning from short errands that turned into epic journeys. His distractions tended to be more in the line of car dealerships, which he could rarely pass without going in for a look, and car magazines both of which could render him MIA for lengths of time that would drive my waiting mother cuckoo.

In a way, it's oddly comforting to develop habits that my father probably embedded in my psyche at a very early age, even if some of them drive those around us a little barmy now and again. I don't reckon I'll ever be quite the man he is, but if I do end up adopting most of the quirks and foibles of someone, there's nobody else I'd choose.

Boyfriends, girlfriends, cowboys and lawyers

2010-08-11T19:44:00.001-07:00

PARTNER, in my opinion, is a term that should be reserved for the head honchos at legal firms and the acquaintances of cowboys. It should not be used to describe your significant other.

At what point did it stop being alright to call someone your boyfriend or girlfriend? It seems that once certain people hit a certain age, somewhere around the mid-30s by my reckoning, they think it's childish to use those terms and instead revert to the far more clinical 'partner'.

It's not that I don't understand the reasoning behind the reluctance to use 'boyfriend' or 'girlfriend' once you are a certain number of years or failed marriages into life. I'm sure there is a section of society that thinks 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend' is the reserve of teenagers and 'partner' is for middle-aged divorcees.

What I don't understand is why the latter demographic are so afraid to use youthful terms to describe their 'partner'. Chances are this is the one aspect of their life in which it's still appropriate to use teenager terminology because as one grows older, and every element of their life becomes dominated by reason, a romantic relationship is the one constant that continues to defy logic.

It's my experience that a girlfriend can excite, inspire, frustrate, infuriate and delight in ways that nothing else can once you're out of childhood. I can't speak for having a boyfriend but my lady reliably informs me that I can at the very least frustrate and infuriate to beat the band.

A relationship, by it's very nature, is illogical in that it requires us to go against our most primal urges by being monogamous. But therein lies the beauty of the whole logic-free situation, it doesn't really make sense to shack up with one other individual, especially these days when the chances are greater than ever that it will end in acrimony.

Yet all over the globe people of all ages continue to pursue these wondrously illogical relationships, displaying the kind of abandon normally reserved for teenagers. Surely then when labeling the other participant in this foolhardy arrangement they should stick with the lighter, more youthful names, rather than a term as sanitized and safe as 'partner'.

Antonio

2010-07-31T13:13:00.000-07:00

ON ONE or two occasions in the past, I have been known to lament about the woes of having to sweat a little at work.

Being more inclined towards the leisurely elements of life has meant that the prospect of sustained exertion has always prompted in me some degree of horror. Occasionally though I come across someone like Antonio who rightfully fills me with shame for feeling anything other than grateful for my many privileges, among them the opportunity to work.

Amongst the group of Mexican workers on our site Antonio is the boss and, being the only one fluent in English, he is also the one with whom I converse the most. Only yesterday though did we get round to the story of how we both came to live and work in Vancouver.

In a nutshell (because that's all it's worth) I told Tony the story of how wanderlust had brought me to Canada and regular lust had resulted in my staying after the rest of my initial crew left.

Tony's trip to Canada started much earlier in his life than mine. At 16, with very little English, he left his home in Mexico for the US and settled a few hours south of Vancouver in Seattle. Despite the obvious language problems he managed to get enrolled in a high school where he would go on to master English while also keeping up with the other students in their regular classes.

Not having the support of a family in Seattle meant that once school ended at three, Tony would go straight to a nearby restaurant where he worked as a dishwasher until after midnight.

After proving himself to be a hard worker, and improving his English, he went on to become a busboy at one of the city's most exclusive restaurants. There he would sometimes make up to $250 a night thanks to the tips of the super wealthy clientele, amongst which Bill Gates was occasionally counted.

After he left school, he found daytime work with a framer and although it was lower paid than the busboy gig, Tony had found work for which he had a passion and an aptitude.

The most amazing element of this story, however, is not how Tony went from such humble beginnings to owning a successful framing company. Even more unlikely was the confluence of events that led to him meeting his wife, with whom he now has two children.

In the same month that he turned up in Seattle with almost empty pockets, Tony's wife enrolled in the same high school after her family had moved to the States from their home in Poland. Within a year the two were dating and within three years they were married and on their way to Canada and new opportunities.

"It's amazing the way things can work out to make two people from completely different parts of the world meet like that," he told me after we had finished work on Friday. Listening to him talk, it was obvious that the wonder and fortuitousness of their paths crossing has not been lost on him over the years.

Although he had a happy youth, Tony swears that he does not remember ever owning a single toy and having built a relatively comfortable life for himself in Vancouver, he now takes great pleasure in spoiling his two daughters.

And while he seems more likely to credit his life in Canada to God or good luck, I reckon it's down to his likeable nature and fierce work ethic, both of which I am most jealous.

Either way, I'm glad to have heard his story. Nothing like a dose of perspective to show up seemingly fret-worthy woes for the minor issues they truly are.

John, Jan, Joan or Juan?

2010-07-19T19:23:00.001-07:00

FORGET whatever nonsense I may have spouted in the past - and spouted I have - about doing hard manly work in Canada. It has been made abundantly clear to me in the last week that during my sojourn as a landscaper I was labouring under the misapprehension that I was doing hard labour.

Two weeks into losing my building site virginity and only now have I been able to sum up the energy to do anything other than collapse in a heap and whimper after a day spent on site. The orchestrator of my agony is a framer who inexplicably decided to take a chance on me upon hearing I was unemployed.

For those not in the know - a group that included my good self up until a few weeks ago - there is another kind of framer apart from the one who creates a nice border for your photos.

Unlike all the concrete-built houses at home, builders in British Columbia use wood to make houses in the vast majority of cases. It's an obvious choice for a province with 149 million acres of forestry, most of which has remained unchanged since before Europeans came here.

Unfortunately for this European the lot of the apprentice framer seems to consist almost exclusively of hauling 16-foot two by tens (see how I've learned the lingo already?) from the side of the road on to the first floor of an under-construction house. Before my Canadian reader(s) accuses me of being a pansy, the first floor in Euroland is what you would call the second floor.

My co-workers are an interesting bunch, none moreso than the boss himself, a white amateur rapper who specialises in Christian rhymes. The religious element of his sounds is due to a turnaround in his life two years ago when he decided to shun alcohol and all sorts of other fun and replace it with religion.

There are a handful of characteristically friendly Canadians and also some very amiable Mexicans who could not quite agree between them on the pronunciation of my name.

"Hi, my name is John."

"Hello Jan, I am Antonio."

"Nice to meet you. It's not Jan actually, it's John."

"Joan?"

"John!"

"O, like Juan?"

"Close enough."

The Mexican workers remind me very much of what the Irish were probably like when previous generations came to North America in search of work and a new life. Fond of the occasional drink, they often come into work with more of a stagger than a spring in their step but they are ferocious workers and power through whatever task is assigned to them without a hint of hesitance.

They are in no doubt helped by the fact that they are seemingly unaffected by the scorching sun which from 9am onwards makes me look like I have been swimming in a sweat pool with all my clothes on.

It's back-breaking stuff at times, but the experience and company is good, plus there are rumblings of a potential journalism job, or alternatively a deportation, a few months down the line so I may not be here for too long.

But for now the building site is my new stomping ground, and thankfully it's providing me with plenty of material to potentially write about. Next week; The Honey Bucket.

Not yet a man

2010-07-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

WELL I have further displayed my ignorance of all matters construction by failing to realise that on occasion builders can be unreliable. While this may have been common knowledge to some, it came as something of a shock to this still unemployed goon.

Two weeks after I was meant to start work, my Batman-reminiscent utility built is still hanging unutilised in the closet, I'm still as ignorant as ever about how houses are made, and my hands have become almost as soft and tender as they were during my tenure as a journalist.

The last fortnight has been a series of last-minute postponements by my future employer who says that he can't take me on until he is finished roofing his last house. I can't blame him in fairness, I wouldn't like to starting training some gormless immigrant from atop a roof either.

It's been a glowing, bulbous, throbbing pain in the arse not knowing from one day to the next if I'm going to be working any time soon but thankfully he has promised me that I will start this week. Fittingly, this week sees the start of the two-months-late Canadian summer so once I get on site I'll be addressing my dual problems of being broke as a beggar and pale as a pint of milk.

I'm closing in on two months without regular employment now and it's not at all been the joyride I expected. Apart from having the financial clout of a patch of moss, not having a job has also had the opposite effect on my creative juices than I expected.

For quite a while now, I've been mulling over the idea of trying to write a story, be it in the form of a novel or a script. While I have quite a few ideas committed to a notepad, nothing has developed in the way I'd hoped and I reckon it's to do with my lack of human interaction during the day.

Don't get me wrong, landscaping was about as mentally stimulating as a sleeping pill but at least I was interacting with people a lot more and I think therein lies the problem. Not being that interesting myself, I need to draw on the experiences of others as my source material.

Hopefully, that's all about to change though and by the next post, I'll be generating new ideas, funds and a nice even tan.

About to become a real man

2010-06-27T19:32:00.000-07:00

I'VE always felt like a potential path in life was blocked off to me when, at the age of 12, I failed to get into both the wood work and metal work classes in secondary school.

Instead I got into Technical Drawing and Music, and although my music and architecture careers are going just terrific, I've never been able to shake the feeling that a portion of my manhood was snatched away from me at that young age.

And while my hands have gone from girly keyboard dancers to lawnmower-pushing shovel-paws in the last year, they are still incapable of creating anything that you can hold in...well...in your hands. Hopefully that's all about to change though.

My period of unemployment is about to end this week with my first foray into the world of construction. My new boss has said he will teach me everything there is to know about building houses.

He was left in no doubt that there would much to teach after my saying that I would need to Google all of the tools he told me to buy as I was not familiar with any of them.

After consulting trusty old Google, I got myself a set of tools and a pouch with which to hold them all. The tool belt in particular has gotten me very excited as I can't avoid the feeling of wearing Batman's utility belt when its on. The Batman feel is replaced by a decidedly less cool Bob the Builder image once I don the yellow hard hat though.

My friends who have already worked in construction assure me that the next few weeks of my life will be spent with a shovel and nothing else in my hand but their pessimism can't dull my enthusiasm.

I'm about to become a real man that makes houses out of bricks and wood and whatever other products it is they use to build stuff.

The Hoge Recommends; Big River Man

2010-06-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

I know the idea of a regular feature on this - the blog that can go six months without a posting - may seem a little odd but I'm going to try and keep up a sporadic selection of 'The Hoge Recommends' items, be they movies, books, products or whatever. This week I'm going to start with the documentary Big River Man.

WHEN you think of individuals who have broken world records as a result of pushing their bodies to physical extremes that nobody else has previously managed, who comes to mind?

As the fastest man on the planet, Usain Bolt would probably be one of the first on many people's lists. Michael Phelps also comes to mind as Bolt's equivalent in the water.

But how about a 53-year-old Slovenian who weighs over 200 pounds, drinks two bottles of wine along with liberal helpings of whiskey and beer every day, and is clearly out of his mind? Well as unlikely a member of that record-breaking group as Martin Strel may be, he has arguably done much more to earn his membership than Messrs Bolt and Phelps.

Strel is the central character of Big River Man, the most engrossing and entertaining film (not just documentary) that I have seen so far this year. The slobbish-looking former professional gambler is a celebrity in his native country for breaking his own records many times over by swimming the length of such gargantuan rivers as the Danube, the Mississippi and the Yangtze.

Big River Man joins Strel as he begins preparations for his biggest undertaking yet; to swim the mighty Amazon. At almost 4,000 miles, the river is over 1,000 miles longer than Strel's previous record-breaking conquest of the Yangtze in China.

Narrated entirely by Martin's son, Borut, the documentary first provides a brief summary of Strel's previous feats as well as offering a glimpse of the privileges his popularity has afforded him in his native country, such as driving drunk and parking his car wherever he chooses without fear of punishment. But while popular and famous he is, Strel is not portrayed as wealthy. On a visit to a function at the home of the American ambassador - one of Strel's greatest admirers - he instructs his son to bring home a basket of bread rolls in order to save money on groceries.

Once the father and son team, along with their crew, actually hit the Amazon is where this film really comes into its own however.

Conflict arises between the Martin and Borut when the former refuses to take doctor's advice and cut out his drinking while making his record-breaking attempt. Despite warnings about his heart growing weaker he continues to drink, not only in the evenings when out of the water, but also during the day. At one point he requests a bottle of Jameson whiskey from his accompanying raft from which he takes a liberal swig and then carries on swimming.

The merciless sun also becomes a major hurdle as within days of beginning the swim Strel's scalp and face are almost irreparably burnt. To combat this he wears a cloth over his face for the remainder of his time in the water, with holes in it for his mouth and eyes, adding to the bizarre nature of this procession down the Amazon.

Throughout the movie Strel remains aloof and one can never be certain if it is haughtiness, eccentricity or possibly simplicity that lends to this distance. What could be mistaken for the antics of an eccentric early on, however, clearly become those of a man fast losing his grip on reality as the trip progresses.

He begins to hallucinate and hear voices and on more than one occasion abandons his support team, prompting panicked and dangerous overnight searches on the Amazon. In an effort to drive out the demons in his head - subsequently discovered to be larvae from the river that had made their way into his brain - Martin connects connects jump leads from a battery to his head.

His decline is infectious also, with the lone American crew member Matthew Mohlke - a supermarket employee and amateur navigator - developing an adoration of the swimmer that verges on the hilarious at times. At one point Mohlke stays awake for three days straight, ranting about how the crew is accompanying "the last superhero in the world" and writing poetry comparing Strel to Christ.

At times, the documentary can suffer from overlong shots of characters looking pensive to the accompaniment of guitar distortion. Some elements, while fitting in with story overall, also seem staged such as the dreamy sequences designed to highlight Martin's insanity.

Those minor criticisms are subjective and dependent on personal taste though and they are certainly not reason enough to opt against seeing this amazing documentary. Fans of Werner Herzog should be particularly attracted to Big River Man which is unavoidably reminiscent of the German director's 'Aguirre, the Wrath of God'.

Beautifully shot, with no shortage of amazing scenery and unique characters, it is impossible not to feel tense while watching Big River Man, wondering throughout if Martin will overcome the conditions and his own physical and mental limits to achieve the unachievable.

And while that tension abates after the documentary reaches its conclusion, the memory of this amazing story will stay a lot longer. The Hoge Recommends; Big River Man.

The Squirrel

2010-06-11T09:55:00.000-07:00

I'M being bullied by a squirrel

Every morning as I sit at my laptop checking out the news from home, the little fecker just pops up on to his perch at exactly my eye level, chewing on a nut, judging me.

"No work today Hoge?"

"Buzz off squirrel, I'm legally prevented from working. You know that."

"O that's right. Your girlfriend is able to work though isn't she?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing at all, I'm just conversing. You know us squirrels, we're chatty sorts. So What's it like being a kept man?"

"Listen you little shit, I've told you before that this is a temporary arrangement until I get my new work visa."

"You mean if you get your new work visa."

"Whatever."

"So what's on the schedule today? Think you might become real ambitious and get out of those pajama pants?"

"There's no need for that sort of wise-crackery, I'm keeping myself occupied with my reading and I've been doing some writing. Plus the pants are comfy."

"Sure, sure. How much are you getting paid for your reading and writing these days out of curiosity?"

"We've got a cat in here you know, she could climb up that tree and chow down on you at a second's notice."

"I've seen the cat Hoge. It's questionable if she'd be able to get up this tree and even then I would say she'd need a weeks notice in writing."

"Look just leave me alone, it's early in the morning, I'm in no mood for this."

"Early in the morning? It's 10am, not so long ago you were half way through your work day at this point. How the mighty have fallen."

"You should have seen me in college. This is actually only a minor relapse."

"Well I'm sick and tired of looking at your depressing, lazy ass. Some of us have jobs to go to, those electrical wires aren't going to chew themselves."

"Do you really have to go Squirrel? I'm bored."

"I can see that Hoge, but I'm afraid so. See you tomorrow morning."

"See you Squirrel."

The visa situation

2010-06-06T19:44:00.001-07:00

OKAY, where was I? Oh that's right, I was going to explain my rapid descent from being an up and coming, shit-hot reporter (in my eyes at least) to potential illegal immigrant.

Like many people my age in Ireland at the moment, I decided to sample the weather, wares and ultimately one of the women of a foreign land this time last year. Canada seemed like as good a place as any to try so I got myself a one year working visa.

Although that did involve dealing with the dishonest, incompetent and evil folks at USIT, it was a relatively easy task to get the visa. Getting a second one however, is an entirely different kettle of fish.

You see, Canada is fine with letting you in to enjoy the hockey, the skiing and the poutine for one year. But after that you really have to show your worth or Canada will dump you like the drag-arse boyfriend you truly are.

In short, you have to prove to the Canadian government that you are not robbing another Canadian of a job if you want the country to grant you an extension of your visa. This requires being qualified and quite capable in your field of employment, or at the very least having an employer who is both keen on you and well-versed in the ways of bovine excrement.

Landscaping, as it turns out, is one of the hardest professions in which to get yourself sponsored by an employer for a visa extension. Not surprising really, it would be hard to convince even the most gullible of immigration officers that my lawn-mowing prowess is without equal throughout Canada.

And seen as I had no luck in getting work elsewhere, I thought I was destined to be forced to leave the country, leaving a nice lifestyle and a devastated girlfriend behind. That was until I heard from a fellow Irish immigrant in a pub late on night that apparently the goalposts had moved somewhat in the year that I had spent here.

"You shheee, de goidelines have schanged Howgy," my inebriated Dublin-born informant told me.

He went on to point out that while most recipients of my visa can never again be granted that kind of visa again, there are exceptions. Up until this year, those exceptions were applicants from the UK and Australia, but close examination of the Foreign Worker Guidelines showed that indeed Ireland had been added to the list. The jackeen was right.

So three days before my first one year visa lapsed, I submitted an application for a second one. I was told by a worker in an immigration office that while my application is being processed I have "implied status" meaning I can stay in Canada but can't work. She didn't seem certain though so I won't be going on any more shopping trips to the States until I'm certain that I would be allowed back in when the time came to return to Vancouver.

At this stage, I don't have a clue what to expect. It does state clearly on my visa that I cannot be granted a second one but that was before the change in regulations. Then again, I'm wondering if the new law only applies to applicants who were granted their first visa after this change was made.

Life is a little purgatorial at the moment since I am jobless, on limited funds and have an uncertain status but at almost half way through the 60-day processing time on my application I'm staying positive.

If, however, another big gap in correspondence occurs in about a month's time it may not necessarily be because of another bout of apathy on my part. I may have just gone underground following my rejection by Canada. The descent continues.

I'm an alien. I'm a legal alien. I think

2010-05-30T20:13:00.000-07:00

FIVE months, nearly six really. I can't believe it's been that long since I've posted anything.

It would be characteristically dishonest to claim that anything other than laziness was the predominant cause behind such inactivity on The Hoge Spot thus far in 2010, but there are a handful of other less-influential reasons that I may as well list here. It seems somewhat pointless as the few tortured souls that used regularly check here have surely deserted me at this point but what the hell.

On top of my finely-honed, deeply-ingrained and staunch sense of sloth, my hiatus from posting also has to do with my no longer working in an office environment, particularly the office of a newspaper where posting to your blog could be loosely defined as work. After coming home from a tiring day of doing real man's work, the proposition of putting together a post, peppered with whimsical quips isn't the most enticing in the world.

Adding to my lack of enthusiasm was a new position I took up as the unpaid editor of a website www.2010hockeybetting.com, which offered betting advice for hockey at the Winter Olympics. It was a venture between a small group of my friends which proved interesting and educational but also time-consuming and unprofitable.

As I previously pointed out, I have also found myself a lady friend. It turns out that having a silly accent gets you the attention and even the affection of a much better person than you deserve on this side of the world and she has yet to escape my clutches. This means that a large portion of my time has been spent doing what I would previously have described as 'gay' things, such as watching movies, having dinners and going on trips away with my girlfriend.

Also contributing to my lack of blogging enthusiasm, truth be told, has been a sense of disillusionment with writing. For many months, I sent out resumes to all kinds of publications over here to no avail. I even considered selling my soul by dipping my toes into the world of PR but no career opportunities of consequence presented themselves there either. As a result, I began to question if my reporting and writing was worthy of consideration outside of the small corner of the world in which I'd learned my trade.

Without explicitly saying it or even admitting it to myself, I decided to take a break from writing. To hell with the creative process for a while, I was just going to enjoy the work of others for a bit so I opted to read plenty of books and devour movies at a rate of 6-10 a week. I enjoyed the life of a voiceless voyeur for a few months but in the last week or so, I started to get the itch again.

The return to writing also probably has a lot to do with the fact that I am now officially unemployed and have a world of time on my hands.

My initial work visa for Canada expired last week and now in the words of Sting; 'I'm an alien. I'm a legal alien.' At least I think I am anyway, it's somewhat uncertain.

One thing is for certain though and that is I can't legally work in Canada for the time being and always being more inclined to a life of slobbery than crime I've embraced unemployment.

Speaking of the lazy life, this has taken a lot out of me so I'm not going to bother fully explaining my visa situation right now but once I'm feeling up to the task I'll tell you about that particular fiasco right here. Expect the next posting any time between tomorrow and six months time.

Christmas in Limerick

2010-01-02T17:32:00.000-08:00

WHAT a laugh. What a great roaring, bruising, manic few moments of fun that was.

So fast did those four days go past that I still haven't pieced them fully together now that I have returned to my lair in Vancouver. But here's what I do remember.

It was a slice of pure heaven to get a taste of some of the home comforts which had become a distant memory since flying the coop in May. My personal arse groove had almost gone out of the couch in the living room but while taking in the seasonal movies, I left an imprint on it that should be good for another few months.

While the food-gorging and arse-grooving were wonderful though, the best part of being home was seeing the familiar faces. Thankfully I haven't become too Canadian looking in the last few months so my family had no problem recognising me when I walked in the door. I squeeze-hugged them to the point of causing injury and smothered them with kisses.

On Christmas morning, we exchanged presents. My home in Limerick is now fully stocked with Winter Olympics 2010 slippers and Vancouver Canucks socks. And then we ate and o lord how I ate. Mammy had it all laid out just like I'd imagined in my drooling dreams over the last few weeks.

What I didn't eat I brought back across the Atlantic with me. It was a good thing that wannabe terrorist didn't try to blow up the Detroit-bound plane over Christmas using turkey or ham. Otherwise I'd still be getting interrogated by air marshals now. That evening was spent in our cousins house eating the leftovers from their Christmas dinner and playing scrabble. Heaven.

Of course I was also delighted to see a few non-familial faces, the first of which were McGoo and Coynie who brought me out to the races in Patrickswell on Stephen's Day. I had four winners, an unclear number of hot whiskeys and a hell of a time getting reacquainted with my old partners in crime.

That night I renewed acquaintances with many more of my old crime partners, including Scenery - who I berated for having entered into blogging retirement, Larry the Lynx - who had been prowling the plains of South America when I left, Jay Mckay - who is still getting taller despite being well into his 20s, Calamity Kennedy - who was kind enough to throw the party at which I met all the old heads, and many more. Too many to properly catch up with properly in one night but all of whom I was absolutely overjoyed to see.

The 27th was beautiful if only for its laziness. I returned home in the afternoon, having spent the night at the site of the party, and spent the day lounging. A few of my oldest friends called round in the evening to do a final spot of reminiscing and once they left, the time had come to pack my bags once again.

We had time for two stops on the way to the airport the next morning. The first to say a quick hello and goodbye to a beloved grandaunt and the second to buy a Munster Jersey for my new Canuck lady friend. Never any harm to add another member to the Red Army.

Then it was off to Shannon, on to Heathrow and back to Vancouver where the aforementioned friend greeted my weary frame with a warm, welcoming hug. It was wonderful to have been home but also great to be back on the Canadian adventure.

You know your Christmas holidays have started when....

2009-12-23T09:57:00.000-08:00

......you start watching the new Star Trek movie at 8.30 in the morning.

Flying home for Christmas!

2009-12-20T13:35:00.000-08:00

I WAS going to make this announcement a little earlier but those cantankerous cabin crew clowns over at BA briefly threw a spanner in the works which has since been removed and will now hopefully be used to beat them ferociously.

I'm coming home! Initially I'd hoped to keep this somewhat of a secret until my arrival but seeing as I'm only going to be at home for four days I thought it best to say it now so as to prevent missing out on meeting any old friends during my short stay.

A few weeks back, a gentle anticipatory quivering started inside my chest but it has since expanded into an all-over body tremble of excitement as the day draws closer. The flight home is going to be rough, leaving at 9pm on the 23rd from Vancouver and landing into Shannon at 9pm on Christmas Eve with a 7 hour layover in Heathrow along the way.

But I don't care. I'd travel home on a cart pulled by a three-legged, blind, cranky donkey via Baghdad if it meant getting to spend a few hours at home. I can already taste the turkey, the ham, the prawn cocktail, the pudding, the roast spuds, o Lord the steaming, crunchy, butter-drizzled roast spuds. Just typing about it here has left my keyboard covered in a thick veil of drool.

As well as looking forward to making a pig of myself at the dinner table, I am almost as excited about seeing those who will share the table with me and most likely have to wrestle with me for the food. Without a doubt there have been times when the family have tolerated my presence, as opposed to desired it, but being out of the coop for seven months combined with the shortness of my stay will mean that I will hopefully be granted the status of golden child during my brief return to Ballyneety.

And once my belly is full to the point of necessitating a cesarean (say that 10 times fast) I'm also looking forward to re-acquainting myself with the taste of a proper pint of Guinness in Fennessy's, perhaps after a day at the races in Patrickswell depending on my funds. If I like the taste of that first proper creamy since I left home, I might even have to try a few more, maybe in the White House, or Tom Collins', or Nancy's. I'm an equal opportunities festive drinker and no worthy establishment will be discriminated against.

In between gulps, I will occasionally come up for air and tell anyone that'll listen about life in Vancouver and while the glass is up to my lips they'll hopefully return the favour and recount what scandal I've missed at home since May.

Then, before I know it, the 28th will arrive and I will be gone again with a head full of happy (and in some cases hazy) memories. I don't even want to sleep a wink when I'm home so as to create and store as many of those memories as possible to bring back across the Atlantic with me. Only three days left!

The bitter is back

2009-12-12T14:01:00.000-08:00

UUUUUUGGGHH, I may as well just get this over and done with. I've been putting it off for days now but have finally summoned the will to recall the details of a rough period for The Hoge, starting with our losing the big final and finishing with Yours Truly lying unconscious in a blistering hot shower.

Having always been a competitive sort I've never taken losing well, but last weekend's loss really was a particularly vengeful square kick in the scrotum. In hindsight we probably got a little too anticipatory about the game - the evidence of that can be seen in the previous post - and it led to more than a little stage fright on the day.

This might sound strange coming from someone who bleeds Bruff yellow and only joined the Vancouver Rowers a few months ago but I was as keen as any long standing member of the club to win the game. 15-10 isn't a shameful scoreline by any stretch of the imagination but we should have won, plain and simple.

In fairness though, it was the first final the club had reached in over 10 years, thanks in part to the injection of no less than six Limerick lads to the squad. The above photo of the Shannonside contingent was taken at a club dinner the night of the final at which we were regularly reminded that there was always room for more Limerick players. Obviously they said it would be best if such players had learned their trade with Bruff but they would also kindly accept those who hadn't had such privileges in life.

A few days after the game, I emerged from the cranky dark hole in which I'd been dwelling and decided to go for a run so as to sweat out some of the excess and abuse of the previous weekend. The only problem with trying to sweat anything out in Vancouver in December though is that the temperature rarely ventures above freezing at any point in the day.

Looking back on it, going for a run wearing shorts and a long sleeved shirt with the temperature several degrees under zero displayed about as much intelligence as wearing nothing but sun cream. At no point during that hideous half an hour did my teeth stop chattering and when my feeble brain started to throb with the cold I realised that a lively pelt home was necessary.

I stood in the shower at home for twenty minutes doing my best impression of a violently shaking Kango drill as my bones thawed. Since my whole body had been numbed by the cold, I had opted only to turn on the hot tap in the hope of feeling returning that bit quicker to my frozen body. Bad idea.

Apparently I fainted as a result of hypertension, which occurred because of blood rushing back too quickly to my extremities as the almost boiling water heated them up. All I know is that I woke up on the floor with a bump on my forehead and the jets coming from the shower burning a layer off my now defrosted back.

Naturally I've taken to wearing several layers if I so much as poke my nose outside the door after that delightful episode.

It's a good thing too because the sub-zero temperatures mean there ain't much grass growing round here so my job title has changed from landscaper to ice-salter/snow clearer necessitating a 4am rise. God be with the days when I'd saunter into the Leader half conscious at 9 in the morning.

Like I said, it's been a rough few days but I must say there is some comfort in the familiarity of recovering my bitterness at the same time. Being content in myself was all well and good but what am I really without my whinge?

It's good to be back folks.

Pondering Finals Past

2009-12-01T23:07:00.001-08:00

THIS weekend I will play in a cup final for the first time since I was just emerging from the spotty, cranky throes of puberty.

Unexpectedly, for this final I won't be donning the beautiful and well chosen yellow and wine colours of Bruff (although I won't be the only Bruffian playing) but instead the red, black and white of the Vancouver Rowing Club - which in Canada passes for the name of a rugby club.

And this week, while anticipating the Lower Mainland final, my mind has wandered back to my previous big final days back home in Limerick.

I'm almost sure that my first sporting final was in Croom at an Under 10s hurling tournament with South Liberties. It was memorable for us losing and my accidentally smacking our opponent's captain on the chin with the boss of my hurley during the clash. After the game, I tried to apologise to him for it as he showed his teammates the cup but he told me to get lost. Even at nine years-of-age I had a capacity for sourness that made me wish at the time that I'd cracked his chin into several pieces, thereby preventing his petulant reponse.

After that less than savoury introduction to cup finals, there were a few barren years but a team on which I featured once again climbed to the summit at Under 13s, this time in the oval ball code. For many years, Newport had been the bane of our young lives such was their dominance in our particular grade of underage rugby. That's what made it all the sweeter when we beat them in the North Munster Cup Final in Thomond Park.

I can still see our centre celebrating with his hand in the air even before he crossed the chalk after intercepting a Newport pass on the half way line. Even more clearly can I remember one of our player's parents roaring at him from the sideline to stop such classless carry-on as it was Thomond Park he was playing in and not Old Trafford.

The following year brought with it another final day, this time once again in hurling but unlike the Croom catastrophe, this time Liberties emerged victorious. There were however parental remonstrations again on this occasion however as we celebrated our win in the Klinsmann style that was fashionable with jackass 14-year-olds at the time. It was hugely disrespectful to the jersey, we were told, to cover it in muck by sliding along the ground, especially seen as the celebration had originated from a bloody soccer player.

Our Bruff team returned to Thomond Park again the next year for an Under 15s cup final showdown with Richmond but there was to be no repeat of our Under 13s heroics as we crumbled to the boot of one Wayne Murphy who could have dissected the posts with a kick taken from one of the ground's toilet cubicles that day.

Certainly there have been other finals since then that I have been involved in but on every occasion it has been as a splinter arsed substitute. That won't be the case this Saturday however when I'm hoping I'll be able to bring a bit of that Bruff Under 13s and South Liberties Under 14s luck to proceedings.

A Happy Hoge

2009-11-22T00:36:00.000-08:00

O GOD I really am in quite a lot of pain. We played a bruising, muddy, bloody semi-final today against the University of British Columbia, one of the two teams that had managed to beat us in this season's league stages.

And while it never feels too delightful to have your back look like a crossword that's been filled in with a blood-red biro, it certainly feels all the better right now, knowing that we won the game and can look forward to a league final in a few weeks time. Having a bucketful of liquor in me at this stage also helps with the pain.

In a way, today's result was almost predicable in its sweetness. It's a happy Hoge you find writing to you this evening/morning folks. Don't get me wrong; I derive about as much fun from my current landscaping career as I would from an unanesthetised castration with a rusty scissors but life for me at the moment is undoubtedly good.

For the first time in a few years I'm starting for a rugby team, and while I've managed to hold on to my knack for throwing lineouts with the accuracy of a blind baboon, I'm actually playing well for the most part.

After a fortnight of heavy snowfall, the ski slopes can now be seen snaking their way down the mountains surrounding Vancouver. I've also spent a good share of my wages on a snow board and other gear so it shouldn't be too long before I'm making a complete tit of myself by travelling exclusively on my arse down a few of said slopes. I can't wait.

I have another reason for being happy too but it would be remiss of me to say anything more at this point than I have encountered a member of the fairer sex who can stand more than a few consecutive minutes of my company and who has had me smiling more often than not lately.

Happy people make for boring writers, I reckon, so you'll have to excuse me if this posting comes across as a little dull. Hopefully I'll have something to be bitter about again soon.

Canada, Episode 11; A band of renegade Shannonsiders

2009-11-14T10:33:00.001-08:00

Right. Reason number one that I have been missing from the blogosphere these last few weeks has been that I have joined a renegade band of Shannonsiders that are currently seizing control of a rugby club here in Vancouver.

Between us we have managed to take the club from rank of bottom feeders last year to table-toppers this year.

No less than five of our team's panel of players hail from Limerick and on one occasion all five have started on the same side for the club. Last week we won our last game of the league stages - which encompasses clubs in Vancouver and the surrounding areas - which means we finished in first place. Because we finished first we get a bye this week and the semi finals take place next weekend.

Normally I refrain from using actual names here for fear of retribution, litigation and humiliation but on this occasion I don't think there's any shaming in naming.

So for the record, the famous five who have instilled a bit of Limerick grit into Vancouver rugby are Darren Harris, Ronan Pigott, John-Mark Griffin, Barry Laffan (a fellow Bruffian) and yours Truly.

Vancouver Rowers Club. You're welcome.

Canada, Episode 10; Guess whose back

2009-11-08T01:51:00.000-08:00

ALL-NIGHT candlelit vigils took place. When they weren't enough, pilgrimages to Lourdes were organised. When that had no effect, the diehard fans threatened to stage a dirty protest on the gable end of the Omniplex all in the hope that it would stir The Hoge Spot back into action. But it wasn't until Moesy Joe sent me an email begging for my return that I decided enough was enough and the people had to get what they wanted.

"It has taken me quite a while to complete this email as I regularly must pause to wipe the keyboard free of the flowing mix of anguished snot and tears dripping from my visage as a result of your absence Hoge," wrote Joe in his impassioned email earlier this week.

"As well you know life has not been easy in Limerick for fans of fart jokes or ill-informed observation since your departure. However while your physical absence was testing for your fans, life was made somewhat tolerable thanks to your regular updates on your adventures in Canada via The Hoge Spot.

"But for over a month now there has been nothing. No posts. No updates. Nothing. How am I supposed to live vicariously through you if I don't know what the bloody hell you are doing?"

For much of the rest of the email it seemed like Moesy had merely resorted to bashing the keyboard in anger and frustration until the end when he promised that he would extract a pound of my own flesh using only a rusty spoon if things didn't change fast.

It's beyond two in the morning here so I don't even have the energy to fill you in on the reasons for my extended hiatus but all will be revealed in the coming days. Now for the love of Thor Moesy, put down the spoon.

Lafino makes his first media appearance

2009-09-28T18:58:00.001-07:00

Four months I've been here, hunting out a job in journalism, desperate to feel that familiar ego massage that comes with seeing your name in print. All to no avail.

And then just to add a bag of salt to an already gaping, gangrenous wound, my fellow Bruffian Lafino makes an appearance in the local media before me.

There he is poking his head up from the back of the scrum against Capilanos RFC as seen in last weekend's North Shore news. Meanwhile my head is still stuck inside the sweaty, smelly boiler room that is the front row where no photographer will ever find me.

Life just isn't fair sometimes.

A healthy dose of perspective

2009-09-18T17:03:00.001-07:00

AS I cycled to catch my bus yesterday morning at 6am in the lashing rain, I had already planned out my next blog posting in my head.

It was going to be a sort of 'woe-is-me' piece. A tongue in cheek whinge about how awful it was that I had to endure a bit of precipitation at such an unearthly hour. I even had a few hilarious (in my head at least) quips ready to use.

When I got on the bus, however, I got chatting to this elderly gentleman that I had seen before but never spoken to. As with all new acquaintances here, upon hearing my accent the man enquired as to where I was from. After I gave my reply he informed me that he was German but had been living in Canada since he was 14 after fleeing persecution from the Nazis in his home country.

On account of being Jewish, six of the man's family of eight were murdered but he was spared due to his age and his ability to milk a cow which made him more useful, he explained.

With the help of neighbours and friends of their deceased family, he and his 11-year-old sister managed to find their way into Britain. Despite not having a word of English between them, they then got work on a ship that brought them to Canada. He hasn't returned to Germany since and said he couldn't be made go back for all the money in the world.

Within a few years of arriving in Canada, the man's sister married a soldier from the Canadian army. Because of her age - 15 - and there being no possibility of getting her parents' consent, the couple had to receive a court's permission before the marriage could happen.

My new friend found work on the railroad and made his way to Vancouver where he would spent the next 40 years working in a mill on the docks. It was still very early in the morning so I didn't have enough wits about me to ask what kind of mill it was he had worked in or if he had started a family of his own in Canada.

I did find out though, that during all that time spent in the mill, he had cycled an hour and a half to and from work every morning and evening. He had enjoyed being active and having the chance to work, he explained, adding however that he is barely able to walk now and life had been made no easier by him developing cancer.

"It's a struggle, I might not be here to see you on the bus next week but I'm here now," he said with a smile, adding that it was nice to have met someone to talk to on the bus before disembarking at his stop. I hadn't even found out his name.

On my own again, I felt like the greatest jackass alive for even thinking about complaining about some bloody rain and having to cycle a couple of minutes to my bus in the morning.

Canada, Episode 9; In search of the soft life

2009-09-13T17:18:00.000-07:00

MY FLIRTATION with manual labour, my friends, has soured and as leaves, rain and temperatures start to fall around Vancouver, the quest to weasel my way back into a cushy indoors job has begun.

The Whistler dream died a death earlier this week when I called the hostel manager to enquire if he fancied giving me a job. Perhaps he didn't like the look of me when we met or maybe business isn't panning out the way he'd hoped but either way he couldn't say for certain if he'd have work for me. A vague promise to call if something came up was made but I'm almost certain I"ll never hear from him again.

Cutting lawns and trimming hedges has done me fine for a summer that saw some of the highest temperatures ever recorded in Vancouver but in the last week, Mother Nature has thrown us a few hints of what's in store for the winter and I'm getting concerned.

Behind it all, you see, I'm as soft as a feather-filled cushion. I like my comforts, my lie-ins, my coffee breaks, my lengthy bouts of procrastination. But opportunities to lose myself in these passions are few and far between when you're getting up at six in the morning to go landscaping for the day.

To further add to my concern, I was told during the week that because there isn't much growth during the winter, landscapers spend a lot of their time clearing snow and salting icy roads, often starting as early as four in the morning. Balls. To. That.

I've been trawling through jobs websites looking for something suitably soft and even sent out a few CVs but there's been no bites as of yet. Apparently, there isn't much demand for writers of questionable talent in Vancouver.

Canada, Episode 8; What I've been up to

2009-09-02T17:42:00.000-07:00

REJOICE my people for I have returned. With the Trojan Horse beaten, I am once again free to provide updates on the Canadian adventure thus far.

But before I get back into the business of writing aimlessly on whatever subject happens to have taken my fancy today, I should first give a recap of what's been happening in my corner of Vancouver.

Flaming Fords; Two trucks at my employer's office were burnt to a cinder by a gang of arson enthusiasts the weekend before last. This meant we got work off for a day for the police to examine the scene. Believe it or not, the mounties missed a human-sized hole in the fence right beside the trucks and when one of my co-workers found it the next day, the cops said there was no point investigating all the torn clothes and hairs left on the fence around it, as they couldn't prove it wasn't us who made the hole.

Six became five; With the summer drawing to a close, sadly our house lost one inhabitant, as Bo Bo returned home to resume his studies in Ireland.

Five became six; With the door still swinging from Bo Bo's departure, McGoo arrived on a two and a half week holiday. A week at the Galway races had been sacrificed for his holiday so the pressure was on to show him a good time if I valued our friendship. Thankfully, he wasn't disappointed and our friendship is still intact. My liver and I are no longer on speaking terms after McGoo's stay however.

Celebrity school; I found out the other day that the school only a few hundred yards from our doorstep - where we regularly kick ball in the evenings - was attended by none other than Seth Rogen. It was his experiences there with his buddy, Evan Goldberg, that inspired him to write Superbad. If you scroll up to the photo at the top of the page, you can see the school in the background.

Give a whistle; Probably my biggest piece of news from the last few days has been a trip to Whistler Mountain that myself, McGoo and Grief undertook at the weekend. The place is breathtakingly beautiful and will host the Winter Olympics in 2010. When checking in, I jokingly asked the owner of our lodge if he was looking for any workers and sure enough he said he was. Worryingly, he described the available position as a "lodge slave" and told me the money would be brutal but that food and accommodation would be thrown in. It would mean leaving my travel companions to move to the mountains and seriously cutting back on my expenses. At the same time though, there's a bit of me that thinks I'd regret not taking the job a lot more than I would if I were to stay put.

With that mindset, I sent the owner a CV at the weekend. Updates on how this next adventure (or non-adventure depending on my CV-compiling skills) unfurls will be a lot more regular than what they have been in recent weeks, I promise.

Trojan Invasion

2009-08-24T22:56:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the lack of recent posting, my computer has been invaded by a Trojan Horse or some other class of animal, my IT team reliably informs me.

Normal service will resume soon, once the laptop doctor does his thing.

From the front of this weekend's Globe and Mail in Canada. Hilarious!

2009-08-09T16:04:00.000-07:00

I noticed this hilarious story on the front page of the Globe and Mail newspaper this morning over here. It'd be interesting to see if this prank could work anywhere else in the world besides America.

"Last February, a frantic call came through to a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in Manchester, N.H., at the height of the lunchtime rush. It was from corporate headquarters and it was urgent: A toxic chemical had been released through the restaurant's sprinkler system.
Employees were told to strip down and urinate on each other to neutralize the chemical.
If they did not, everyone would die.

“I need you to be strong, I need you to be brave,” a man named Jeff Anderson told his panicked staff in Manchester.
“You need to do exactly what I say,” he urged, in a faint Southern drawl.
And so they did.

Police pulled in half an hour later to a bizarre scene: Naked women, doused in each other's urine, milling about the parking lot. There was no trace of the chemical. As it turned out, there was no Jeff Anderson. The entire call had been a hoax, orchestrated by “Dex,” a twentysomething Canadian prankster, who now finds himself at the centre of a controversy that highlights how our definitions of humour are evolving in a digital age, where the Internet provides anonymity and encourages an inflated sense of importance and extra distance from the consequences of action.

Increasingly, this is becoming less of a philosophical debate. This week, a Quebec father thought it was amusing to post a video of his seven-year-old son driving on YouTube until police and child services stepped in. Only then did he acknowledge his mistake.

Dex is the founder of Pranknet, an online chat group where members devise hoaxes and broadcast them live. Members can listen in, and rate the prank as it's being pulled, with the most popular attaining the status of “epic.”

In Pennsylvania, Pranknet called a hotel guest and told him there was a gas leak. The man was told to smash the window and television screen with a toilet tank lid to prevent an explosion. Another man in Nebraska was persuaded to drive his truck through the door of a hotel lobby to deactivate a fire alarm. A front-desk clerk at another hotel drank a guest's urine, after a Pranknet caller convinced her it was cider, and that the man who brought it – who thought he was providing a urine sample for the hotel doctor – was the representative of an apple juice company.

Movie Review: Gonzo; The Life and Work of Dr Hunter S Thompson

2009-08-05T20:32:00.000-07:00

A part of me would love to live like Hunter S Thompson.

But having neither the talent, the constitution nor the testicular fortitude to follow a path like the father of Gonzo journalism, I have to settle for the odd glimpse into his life through his articles, books and - most recently - this gem of a movie.

Told by a variety of different voices, including that of Thompson himself and his close friend Johnny Depp (who played the writer in the movie adaptation of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and takes on the role of narrator here), Gonzo details the life of journalism's truest rebel from his humble beginnings in Kentucky up to his suicide in 2005.

Thompson first gained fame and notoriety with his book 'Hell's Angels' which was written after he spent a year living and riding with the motorcycle gang, an experience which culminated in a savage beating for the writer following a disagreement with a member. After experiencing and enjoying that first taste of literary stardom in 1966, he would rarely step out of the limelight for the rest of his life.

Video and audio clips along with both dated and recent interviews are used to recall the Great Doctor's many escapades, from his running for and almost winning an election to be Sheriff of a town in Aspen to his birthing and development of Gonzo journalism. A highlight of the retrieved footage is several of Thompson's many dictated recordings, more than a few of which were made during his legendary but all-too-common benders.

It's more than a little saddening for those working in journalism now to get a glimpse at a time when reporters could run up expense bills without a worry in the world. At one stage Thompson refused a Volkswagen hired for him by Rolling Stone while in Las Vegas. Only a Cadillac would do for a man writing a story on the American Dream, he had reasoned.

Throughout the feature, Thompson's anger (whether it be at injustice, misuse of power or downright incompetence amongst politicians) is a constant and cited by many as the source of his genius. His fondness for drugs of all shapes and sizes is also regularly alluded to in the many testimonies.

The darker side of the man's psyche isn't skimmed over either with both his wives and many friends speaking of his sometimes violent mood swings and infidelities. Nor do the makers shy away from the decline in volume and quality of Thompson's writing from the 1980s onward.

In fact, Thompson's detractors - including former Hell's Angel's tormentors and Nixon aides - feature almost as prominently as those who admired him, such as former American President Jimmy Carter, author Tom Wolfe and Ralph Steadman, the artist whose paintings helped bring Thompson's Gonzo reporting and imaginings to life.

A hellraiser to the end, Hunter S Thompson was also a man of groundbreaking talent. Gonzo is a must-have collector's item for fans of the man, while also providing a handy starting point for those not yet fortunate enough to be acquainted with his undoubted genius.

Hoge Rating 5/5 (Yes I've changed the rating system, marking out of 10 required too much thought)

What I miss about Limerick

2009-07-27T17:29:00.000-07:00

MCGOO rang me the other morning.

Well, it was morning for me.

Well, it was morning for me on a Saturday so we'll say around noon in Vancouver and 8pm in Limerick.

"Well Johnny, what's the craic bull? Is it still roasting out there? I'm packing 12 bottles of baby oil for the beach for when I get there. Two weeks better be long enough to get the tan on kid!"

The two of us chatted for a bit about his upcoming trip to Canada - which I have been made promise will be as good if not better than a week at the Galway Races which McGoo is missing in lieu of the trip across the Atlantic. Before long, he had to go as he was meeting a few of the lads in Fennessy’s for a few “creamies”.

For a few moments, I became quite jealous of McGoo, making the short walk from his house up to the corner house at the junction of South Circular Road and New Street, where he would exchange friendly but nonetheless stern abuse with the bar staff until the wee hours of the morning. Don't get me wrong, I love it here, but even for a few hours it would have been nice to go up and spend one evening with the crew back home.

And that got me thinking of some of the things that I miss about Limerick which I obviously felt the need to list here. So in no particular order;

Fennessy's: One of the nicest pints in the city, not to mention great company, and the Peony Court only across the road for when nothing will sit better on top of a few pints but a Chilli Chicken without the chilli.

Thomond Park: I was still only getting used to our superb new stadium when I left and will definitely be pining for its atmosphere when the Heineken Cup starts again (particularly this season, now that the maul is back and Munster are going to rip the rest of Europe a new one).

Limerick Hurling: It's bloody typical that they've started to do well now that I'm out of the country. In fact, they'll probably win the bloody thing this year and I'll only get to watch the highlights four days later when someone finally uploads the Sunday Game on to Youtube.

Bruff RFC: Thomond Park may have doubled its capacity and become one of the finest rugby stadiums in the world last year, but at the same time a burger stand was introduced in Kilballyowen Park and that just about tips the scales in favour of the latter ground when it comes to deciding which of the two provides the better match day experience. I most likely won't even be able to watch the highlights on Youtube when we get promoted to Division One this year unless they stick a studio beside the burger stand.

The Limerick Leader: The staff there may no longer claim knowledge of me but I'm still very grateful to them all for the two great years of guidance and friendship they gave to the gobshite work experience student who couldn't write a snappy intro to save his life.

That's all for now methinks, if I've left anything out feel free to point it out.

Update: Oh good God I almost forgot. Were I to come back to Limerick for one night only, I would of course also love to fit a few minutes in with my family if I could find time between drinking pints, gorging on Chinese food, going to rugby and hurling matches and reminiscing with my old workmates!

Canada, Episode 7; The dreaded pajamas

2009-07-14T18:28:00.000-07:00

THE LEADER'S entertertainment correspondent, OWENSY, recently complained about having to watch lads jump headfirst into piles of mud, wearing nothing but GAA shorts, at the recent Oxegen festival on which he was reporting (a.k.a. freeloading).

Ignore the fact that my ol' flower Owensy was most likely passing from the Champagne Bar to the Caviar Lounge reserved exclusively for the press when he witnessed the dung divers because, in fairness, his is a legitimate complaint. It can be irritating when your fellow festival-goers make uproarious asses of themselves and paint you and everyone else in the same moronic light.

My complaint, however, has somewhat more substance than my former esteemed colleague (from the time before I decided to mow lawns for a living). You see, my particular bone of contention paints not a few thousand festival fans as a gang of dribbling twits but our whole nation as a society of slobbish class-vacuums.

There I was on the bus home from work the other day, just about to pull up to my stop, when outside the window I saw an abomination that I thought I had left behind in Ireland.

Walking down the road, without a bit of shame, was the most blatantly Irish girl I have ever seen in my life.

I could live with her wearing the Cork goalkeepers jersey, although no girl has ever looked well wearing a GAA jersey in the history of the GAA or girls. Sorry ladies it's just a fact of life that you'll have to live with similar to me dealing with the reality that I will never look attractive in, say, hotpants.

But what really got my temple throbbing was that this little trollop was wearing her pajamas pants outside in the middle of the day, without the slightest hint of shame. Thankfully this vomitous trend hasn't caught on in Canada so I was horrified to see this wench bringing this particularly Irish failing over with her.

Once off the bus, I ran after the wench.

"No," I shouted. "No, you're not bringing this over with you. This bullshit is one of the reasons I left the country. You're outside for the love of god, wear outside clothes! Away home with you, you insufferable tramp!"

Well I wish that's what I did anyway. In reality, I just got off the bus, grinded my teeth a little and exchanged a pleasant smile with the pajamas wearer, dying a little inside in the process.

Canada, episode 6; The Hoge visits Stanley Park

2009-07-12T16:00:00.000-07:00

TO look at the inhabitants of my house this morning, one could be forgiven for thinking there's been a Carbon Monoxide leak and I was the only one lucky enough to grab a gas mask.

Downstairs is Kielers, comatose in the living room, clutching the couch as if he expects to be flung clear at any point.

Afroman, who in fairness made it to his bed before collapsing, is not a picture of health either. Lying over the sheets on his bed, fully clothed with his arms and legs spread out as wide as possible, he looks like a cadaver waiting to be disected by a class of med students. The only sign of life is a just about noticeable tear creeping slowly down his cheek.

The Grief has done one better than the two sleeping beauties by going outside for a walk. However, his hangover has taken the form of liberal helpings of 'What am I doing with my life?' sentiments and the purpose of his stroll is to have an agonising rethink on what it's all about, possibly the worse sentence of the three.

And me? Having stayed in last night, I'm just sitting here enjoying the carnage and my imperviousness to it. Not wanting to crawl into a hole and die also means that I have the energy to put up a few pictures of my trip last weekend to Stanley Park, a 1,000 acre "evergreen oasis" located just outside Vancouver city centre.

It's not quite on the same pegging as People's Park but was fun nonetheless.

Movie review: Public Enemies

2009-07-04T19:53:00.001-07:00

I've decided that I'm going to start posting the odd film review here now and again, starting off this week with Michael Mann's Public Enemies. Let me know what you think.

WHEN Michael Mann hinted a few months back that Public Enemies, his Depression era gangster flick, would be something akin to Heat - the director's best movie in my noble opinion - except it would be set in the 30s, I got more than a little excited.

For me, Heat was one of the great films of the 90s, a super story, featuring one of the last good performances from both Al Pacino and Robert De Niro, shot in Mann's distinctive handheld shaky-cam style that suited the sometimes frantic pace of the movie.

And while I was doubtful that Public Enemies would surpass Heat, I was intrigued to see what Mann could do with a story about one 0f the most notorious gangster's of the early 20th century, John Dillinger.

First off, I was right to be doubtful that Mann's new film could surpass Heat but his latest offering is certainly worth a look.

The kernel of the story involves the cat and mouse chase between Dillinger, played with the right amount of swagger and menace by Johnny Depp, and FBI agent Melvin Purvis, portrayed by a less impressive but nonetheless adequate Christian Bale.

After being imprisoned in 1924 for robbing a store, Dillinger was released nine years later, having learned the necessary criminal skills to become a prolific bank robber. He would also however become a Robin Hood style hero, renowned for his charm and taste for the finer things. Purvis was selected by head of the recently formed FBI, J Edgar Hoover, to tackle the booming crime wave in the 30s, spearheaded by bank robbers such as Dillinger.

Fans of the director will notice his trademark shakycam is again employed throughout Public Enemies and while this approach is overused these days, Mann uses it to great effect, particularly during the many shootout scenes, each of which is better than the last. And while car chases, fist fights and plenty of flying flesh features in the movie, it wouldn't be fair to categorise it as merely an action picture.

Although he isn't heard of half as much as his criminal contemporary, Al Capone, Dillinger was a more interesting character and who better to play him than Mr Depp. While the development of other sideline characters does suffer at times as a result, the vast majority of screentime features Dillinger as he juggles robberies, jailbreaks and a love affair with the beautiful and also perfectly cast Marion Cotillard. At the same time, he has to cope with the realisation that his is a dying trade, due to the development of crime-fighting techniques and the ease with which other criminals were making money at the time by running gambling rackets.

Public Enemies doesn't dwell on the fact that its main character was a cold-blooded killer, a ploy most likely used to make the viewer invest in the Depp Cotillard relationship, but the bias isn't enough to take too much away from the picture.

Christian Bale doesn't give one of his best performances as the under pressure Purvis. Maybe it's just me but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was watching Christian Bale acting, as opposed to one of Hoover's original G-men at work.

Mann recreates the 30s beautifully here. The costumes, cars, weapons and music are all used to great effect to give the piece an authentic feel from start to finish. One nitpicking problem I had, however, were the style of sunglasses that Depp wears at regular intervals in Public Enemies, which certainly didn't look like something that would have been worn in the 30s.

But a glossing over of Dillinger's less than finer points, a below average Bale performance and sunglasses aside, I enjoyed the pants off this one. Mann seemed to be coasting a little with Miami Vice but he's right back on top with Public Enemies and don't be too surprised if it gets a nod in the Best Picture category come Oscar time now that that section has been increased to 10 nominations.

Hoge rating: 8/10

I see dead people

2009-06-26T18:20:00.000-07:00

Nobody will believe my next shocking disclosure so just to prove that I'm not lying, I've elected to pull out the only guaranteed way of proving one's honesty.

"Mother's life."

That's right I said it. The tried and trusted method employed in playgrounds the world over since time began just to ensure the sincerity of the speaker. Now you know I'm telling the truth when I say that I foresaw Michael Jackson's passing.

Now when I say I foresaw it, I don't mean I had a moment of revalation one day and predicted that Wacko would indeed die at some point in this millennium. No no, I had a dream about him dying only three days before the event happened.

I told all my new Canadian workmates that it happened and they all seemed pretty sceptical, even after I said; 'Mother's life lads, mother's life'.

But it's true. I did see this coming and if nobody here is gonna believe me, I may go south of the border and see if I can start up my very own cult in the States. Watch this space.

Canada, episode 5: The Hoge's great discovery

2009-06-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

CAPTAIN James Hook, Christopher Columbus and Ferdinand Magellan can all shove over and welcome a new member to their exclusive clique of great discoverers. In fact they better make way for a new leader because my find is going to make Columbus discovering America seem like one of you finding a jelly tot down the back of the couch.

And what, you may ask, is it that I have discovered? Surely The Hoge hasn't come across a piece of unmapped territory off the coast of Canada? Hogania perhaps?

But mine isn't a discovery in the traditional sense. Where the seafaring explorers gone before me found new nations and cultures, I have had the misfortune to come across the most horrible person ever to set foot on this planet.

So horrible is this twit, with whom I have the ill-fortune of working with, that I think she may not even be of this planet. Either way it's a pretty impressive discovery though, right?

To call this woman a bitch would be an insult to canines everywhere. From day one, this conniving little she-devil - who is only 20 by the way - has for reasons best known to herself taken a disliking to me.

When we were introduced she told me that there was no point telling her my name because she'd forget it anyway. She then proceeded to tell me that the only other Irish person she ever knew had lived with her and not left a good impression and that she hoped I'd be better.

Right, nice to meet you too.

By a cruel twist of faith, myself and this gimp were put on the same lawn-mowing team, meaning spending every minute of the day listening to her moanings, except of course for when the sweet, deafening drone of the machines drown out her whine.

Initially, I thought she may have just been a bit of an annoying dumbass (annoying because of her blatant but unreasoned dislike of moi; a dumbass because she thinks Bolivia is in Spain) but in hindsight that was a very flattering first impression.

When I inevitably became popular amongst the other better judges of character on staff, the witch's feelings towards me seemed to go from passing contempt to vengeful hatred. Each week of work has been marked by several attempts to make a fool out of me in front of my co-workers or downright hang me with the bosses.

Case in point. Last Thursday, I left the truck for a few minutes while we were getting petrol (I'm still refusing to call it gas) at a station. I told my detester that I was going to the adjacent shop to buy a pair of gloves for my tender soft hands before we went weeding for the day. Seeing her chance once I had left the truck, she then proceeded to ring the main office and tell our boss that I had left without saying a word to her and she had no idea where I was. Upon my return to the truck, she told me I had to ring the boss who then proceeded to bollock me down the line for running off - while she sneered beside me.

That's just one example of many.

Today was my second time ever driving the truck and, because I had the temerity to ask her to wait until I was finished before I handed her the map, she refused to help me with one direction on the road all day. Picture that. An Irish eejit navigating a massive truck and trailer throughout Vancouver, clueless of the lay of the hand, while the local sitting beside him refuses to give one bit of advice on which turns we should be taking. And because the newby is driving the truck, of course he gets the blame for us being behind time.

So there you have it. If it continues like this, expect my posts to become a lot more spiteful (hopefully I won't become like that raging misogynist Bock). At least I can attempt to quell my rage with the knowledge that I, The Hoge, have discovered the greatest thundering shithead to ever grow opposable thumbs.

Canada, Episode 4: Norm and Michelle

2009-06-15T17:08:00.001-07:00

THE drug-dealing grandfather emerged from the crack house just after 4am with glazed eyes and an unsteadiness in his step that hadn't been there when he had gone in a few minutes previously.

His wife, who had been looking for Norm, ignited when she saw him walking out the door of the shooting gallery across the road from their home, screaming at him that he would never set foot in the house again.

Lafino turned to me while Norm's wife unleashed her fury and gave me an "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore Toto" look.

Last Friday started out like any other, I went to celebrate the end of another week's work in my new landscaping career with Lafino and a few other pals. The Fraser Arms on West 70th Avenue in Vancouver had the pleasure of hosting us and all in all it was an enjoyable but uneventful night.

Uneventful that is, until myself and Laf accepted an invitation to a party from a group that we had been chatting with on occasion throughout the evening.

"Sure where's the harm in it?" asked I.

"There's none at all Hoge, order a taxi there," replied Lafino.

So, like the pair of 'off the boat' gombeens we truly are, we hopped into a taxi for the home of Norm and Michelle, a couple who from what we could tell were nice and normal. However, after a couple of minutes of chatting with Norm, I realised that nice they may well have been but they were about as regular as a constipated elephant.

For one thing, Norm and Michelle were granparents despite he being only 43 and her a year younger. Not that unusual you might say in this day and age but it was after I asked Norm his profession that the couple started to seem that bit more off the wall.

Myself and Laf politely chuckled when Norm told us he was a drug dealer but the laughter quickly dried up when we notice that he hadn't cracked a smile at all.

As if that wasn't disconcerting enough, Norm insisted that, while we could play games on his brand new pool table, we could only hold the cue in one hand. We didn't find out the reason for this stipulation because in fairness if a hulking potential drug dealer tells you to play with one hand, it's probably best off just to do so.

In between one-handed games, I got ballsy and decided to engage in some conversation with Norm outside on his front porch. I asked him about the dilapidated house across the road that, unusually for that time of the night, had had several scruffy visitors in the short time that we were there.

"That's a crack house man. They go in and out of there all night long. It sucks for us," he replied.

I decided against suggesting to Norm that, given his profession, the location of the house was actually incredibly convenient and just nodded nervously. Seeming to take my silence as his cue to leave, Norm told me he'd be back in a few minutes and to tell his wife that I hadn't seen him.

He walked straight across the road and followed yet another misfortune, this one in a wheel chair, into the house of junkies.

Seeing Norm leave my side, Lafino came over to enquire if I felt as put out by the whole drug-dealing grandparent, crack house, one-handed pool scenario as he did. I told him that the first two I could deal with, but anyone who insists on one-handed pool was a straight-up psycho and we should probably try and get a number for a taxi.

On our way back inside though, we were greeted by a somewhat panicky Michelle who was looking for her husband. For fear that Norm would use his pool cues (one or two handed) on me in a way that wasn't intended by the game's creators, I told her I hadn't a clue where he had gone to.

Then, just as she had started making her way down the road in search of her hubby, a very discombobulated Norm flung open the door of the crack house only to see his less-than-pleased spouse staring right back at him. So loud were Michelle's screeches at her husband that even a few bleary eyed crack heads poked their heads out the paint-peeled windows of the dwelling to see the ensuing argument.

"Norm, I told you, if it happens again you're out."

"O come on baby, it's alright."

"No Norm, it's not. You can sleep on the lawn tonight 'cos you're not coming back into that house."

"Woman if you think I'm sleeping on that grass you got another thing comin' to you."

I didn't really hear the rest of the argument over the sound of myself and Lafino's pounding footsteps away from Chateau de Crack.

In other news, the rest of the crew are settling in fine but they have insisted on a complete blog blackout on all matters rodent. That's all for now folks!

Canada, episode 3: A moose (or rat) aboot the hoose

2009-06-09T16:31:00.000-07:00

Well this has just gone and become a weekly apology folks but I guarantee that posting will become more regular from Thursday when we get the internet into our brand new house. More on that in just a moment.

Now where was I? O yes with the bloody Aussies in the Samesun Hostel.

Well it got a lot harder to put up with their whooping and hollering late at night after about a week at the hostel, as I got myself a job that requires me to get up at 5.30am.

I'm being a little dishonest when I say that I got myself the job as it was actually Chatty Garry that secured it. Chatty arrived over to Vancouver with Lafino and Dave the Scouse two weeks before me. The lads are all from roughly the same area as myself and Dave also works for Beaver Landscaping while Lafino is mowing lawns with one of our bitter rival landscapers.

Undoubtedly those of you who haven't developed their sense of humour since you were 12 will have had a chuckle by now at my employer's unusual company name. My mother reads this blog regularly so you can all make up your own individual filthy jokes and I'll just assure you that the job is with an actual landscaping company and not a beautician.

Anyways, having this job meant that I became all the more keen to get out of Oz-fest as I was only getting a few hours sleep a night and falling asleep at the wheel of the lawnmower worryingly often.

So I consulted Craiglist, a website/bible over here that features everything from house and job listings to a Douche of the Day section where random pictures of unsuspecting members of the public are posted, allowing others to ridicule them for their own enjoyment.

Myself and Nobbly looked at a number of places, including a one bedroom apartment that would have required us to share very close quarters and no doubt have our neighbours think that we were that cute gay couple from down the corridor. No thanks.

After a number of non-runners, however, we found a house in Kerrisdale, quite a swanky location which is inhabited almost completely by wealthy Asians. Being neither wealthy nor oriental meant that myself and Nobbly stuck out like a pair of poverty stricken and pale sore thumbs on our first walk around the town.

The place itself is a bit of a fixer-upper but seemed nice and in need of a small bit of work, mostly on the exterior. Most important was that it was a five bedroom, meaning it would be able to accommodate ourselves and the rest of our friends who were winging their way over in the next few days.

On our first night there however, we realised that we wouldn't have to wait for the rest of the gang to arrive to welcome a houseguest. As Nobbly sat on our front porch, a great big dirty rat (he claims) casually strolled up the tree out the front of the house, which leads straight up to the bedroom of poor Nobbly's room.

I attempted to calm down my quivering roommate after his encounter with the rodent. However, my coolness quickly evaporated when I opened a cupboard to find rodent droppings inside. A phone call to the landlord was made demanding that he recruit the most sadistic and thorough exterminator known to rats.

A few days have passed and we're still waiting on a reply from the landlord who we now suspect may be a dodgy character and not in the loveable Artful Dodger way either.

More before long on the arrival of the rest of the house and an update on how our relationship with the rats is developing.

Canada, episode 2. 'Drink-until-we-defecate' Aussies

2009-06-02T17:28:00.000-07:00

ONCE again apologies for my lack of correspondence for a few days. Rest assured I have spent much time telling myself that I am a very naughty boy that needs a good spanking which due to the lack of willing participants I have also been self-administering.

After myself and Nobbly Stylez gave Teresa the slip at Vancouver International, we set about finding ourselves a taxi to the Samesun Hostel in the city which I had booked for our first night's stay. On entering the place, I thought we may have walked through some kind of portal to the surf club in Summer Bay such was the overflow of Aussies both on the staff and in the dorms at the hostel.

I have to say my opinions of Aussies took a bit of a hammering over the next few days. With a few exceptions, they each seemed to feel the need to announce their arrival into a room by hailing some 'bru' (or 'bro'. As in 'brother') and hollering for all to hear about how he drank so much he shat himself the night before.

Apart from the few exceptions, who were very pleasant it has to be said, the lads from Down Under seemed Cliquey, obnoxious and to a passing observer completely brainless.

It's just an observation. Hopefully I'll meet a few more Aussies who will change my perception.

Anyway besides those twits myself and Nobbly met some very interesting characters during our first few days at the Samesun.

Amongst them were Virgile, a stylish and Frencher-than-French Frenchman who claimed that he always wore a shirt and possessed a total of only three T-shirts, none of which he had brought with him. In four days Virgile had seen more of Vancouver than we are likely to see in the whole year. His enthusiasm was inspiring to behold.

Vigile was travelling around North America and had flown to Vancovuer from Toronto on the other side of Canada. He had said that he would have much preferred to have travelled by road where he could take in all the sites but amazingly, the cheapest bus ticket from Toronto to Vancouver was more expensive than the average flight ticket. Crazy stuff.

We also met Alex, a chirpy Kiwi who seeemed to share at least some of my disdain for the drink-until-we-defecate-and-then-tell-the-whole-room-about-it Aussies. Alex was a medic in the New Zealand army and had taken a year out of his service to come and work in oil mines a few hours away from Vancouver.

Then there was Simon, a friendly English chap who was mad for games of pool in the hostel's common area but who would not speak to his opponents until after the game, keeping his ipod on full blast at all times. Simon was big into boxing and told us that he belongs to the same gym as Ricky Hatton back home.

One of the redeeming Aussies that I spoke about was another hostel occupant called Christy who is an actress but hasn't appeared on Home & Away and no longer finds jokes about that funny at all after the first hour in myself and Nobbly's company. Christy showed the two of us where to go to to get out social insurance numbers which allow us to work and has promised to decorate our house.

That's right, I have found myself a house but it's almost 30 degrees outside and I can't be sitting in here writing about that for the next half an hour so you'll just have to wait until the third update which hopefully won't be so late in arriving. So long folks.

Canada, Episode 1: The wrath of Teresa

2009-05-24T13:47:00.000-07:00

Phew, it's been a pretty mental week. I apologise for the lack of posting in recent days, I imagine it must have been a very tough period for all of you. But worry not, your saviour's back and I have the first update on my quest to conquer Canada.

Although there are six of us in total travelling to Canada, myself and Nobbly Stylez were the first two members of the party to depart last Wednesday. Being kind sorts, we've agreed to take on the responsibility of finding a house for all the other goons.

The flight over from Shannon to Heathrow on Wednesday morning was pretty uneventful but we'd great excitement upon arriving in London when Nobbly threw a wobbly after realising he'd forgotten his Visa forms and may not be allowed board the plane.

Thankfully, however, Nobbly had photocopied the forms and although the originals were on his kitchen table in Limerick, he had brought the copies. A burly prick of a security guard told us that there was no way we'd be allowed on to the plane with a copy but a much more shapely BA receptionist told us we should be alright.

So with no small amount of trepidation we approached the check-in desk but sure enough my travelling companion was allowed on. Although I had been looking forward to that extra little bit of leg room, I was glad that he got on as it would mean a bit of company for the nine hour flight.

After two minutes in our seats, I was even more grateful for Nobbly's company as a shockingly rude and miniscule old lady made it clear from the moment our arses landed next to hers that she was not happy with the seating arrangements.

Having no grasp of English whatsoever and only able to converse in Hindi, it was hard for the air hostesses to understand what request she was making when we sat down but after a few hand singles and eyes thrown up to heaven, it was clear she wanted to be moved.

Now we hadn't said a word to the lady, I hadn't boxed her in the ear as I slipped into my seat, Nobbly didn't knee her in the teeth while putting his bags into the overhead compartments so we were shocked that she had already decided we weren't worthy of sitting in the same row as her.

Despite her remonstrations, there wasn't a space left to be had on the plane and she was told that she would just have to put up with us and us with her. She made one more request to be moved before take off and another straight away after, at which point the air hostesses seemed to venture down our aisle far less often.

Safe in the knowledge that the lady wouldn't be able to tell her us her name and wouldn't even want to if she could, we decided to call her Teresa because of her uncanny similarity to the far less rude Mother Teresa.

Thankfully, Teresa stayed asleep for most of the flight with the only drawback being that she was in the aisle seat and I"ve a bladder the size of an undergrown peanut. Inevitably I would need to go to the toilet, which would undoubtedly provoke the wrath of the sleeping beauty beside me when I asked her to get up.

After about two and a half hours - a new record for me - I decided that the floodgates would have to open and Teresa would have to hop it unless she wanted this journey to become considerably more uncomfortable for all of us.

But then Nobbly pointed out to me that, being a healthy young fella with feline-like agility, I could try and vault over Teresa without waking her. Using the back of the seat in front of her and the back of her own seat to support my body I could swing over her.

After sizing up the situation, I reckoned that this was a challenge I was up for. And it very nearly wasn't an absolute catastrophe.

The first stage of the vault was fine, I steadied myself on the two seats and lifted my legs safely over Teresa without making any contact. Unfortuantely, however, when I landed on the far side I lifted my hand from the back of her seat far too quickly, making the seat and its occupant shoot forward violently like a catapult.

Teresa woke up to find me standing on one side of her and Nobbly on the other with one leg on top of the seat in readiness to attempt the same ridiculous stunt that had woken her. Unsurprisingly this time, she made yet another request to be moved and was once again told that she had no option left to her.

We decided not to try the Teresa-vault again, instead opting to just put up with the snorts of disgust she made every time we asked her to move so we could use the facilities.

I considered asking her if we could swap numbers in case she wanted to meet up another time when we landed but decided that she probably wouldn't get the joke.

Another update to come in a few days folks, talk to you all again soon.

The Hoge

Normal service will resume soon

2009-05-22T21:19:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, my plane didn't crash. I've just been awful busy setting up a bank account, getting a social insurance number and a house in Vancouver.

Don't even talk to me about getting a job, pickings seem to be slimmer here than I thought so I've been practising my street-walker routine in the mirror at night.

All the sordid details about my adventures in Vancouver thus far will be revealed before long though. Until then, chat amongst yourselves.

One hour left at work

2009-05-15T07:51:00.000-07:00

Only one hour left to go and the only task I really have left to do is pack up all the clutter I've amassed in my two years at the Leader.

I'm a little sad, more than I thought I would be in fact, at the prospect of leaving my first ever full time job.

I've made more than a few good friends here and - no disrespect to my alma mater - I learned more in a month of work experience here than I did in a whole year of studying for a Masters in Journalism.

Being honest about it, I was completely terrified coming into the Leader. More than a small amount of bluffing had gotten me through college but this was the real world and people would, hopefully, be reading what I was writing for once.

From the very start I was made feel welcome by the other editorial staff who tolerated my numerous, repeated, dumb-ass questions with admirable patience.

Where do I file stories for the city edition?

How do I go about booking a photographer?

What's a vowel?

Just an example of the inquiries that spilled from my naive, gormless mouth in my fledgling weeks with the Leader. Within minutes of my arrival, they must have known I was a chancer extraordinaire.

But within a few weeks, I came to realise that being a chancer in editorial wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I mean chancer in the best sense of the word by the way, in the sense that many of them had come into the same office as wide-eyed and green as my good self and were still feeling their way in some regards.

My fellow chancers welcomed me to their collective bosom and I was introduced to our second home in the White House - for coffee at 11am and the creamy stuff after 5pm. Two years flew and, just like everyone else, I felt my way through my chosen career and grew to love it, thanks in no small part to the great gang of friends I made in 54 O'Connell Street.

Like I said I'll be sad to leave them but I suppose nobody has died and I'll be able to keep track of them from Vancouver as long as there's internet access in the homeless shelter where I will inevitably end up.

Well the desk is still a mess, this has taken up all my time. I suppose I better get clearing. Then over to the White House for some more creamies before it's time to go.

The Hoge on Twitter

2009-05-14T04:18:00.000-07:00

Not the most interesting of posts but I'll bet the pic of the Bikini-clad lady will mean my hits for the day will go flying up.

I've decided to conform with the masses by setting up a Twitter account so my particularly obsessed followers can keep track of my every cough, splutter and fart in real time as opposed to just checking the blog every so often.

Those wishing to sign up for updates should click here.

Some Galway nostalgia

2009-05-12T07:35:00.000-07:00

SEEN as I'm in nostalgic form, it would be impossible for this soon-to-be unemployed immigrant to venture far down memory lane without making one of my regular stops in Galway.

Four years of my life were spent in the City of the Tribes and while I'm still only at the ripe age of 24 (and I'm pretty sure the best is yet to come) the most fun I've experienced so far was without doubt during that period spent out West.

Right from the start of my time in Galway, starting with the wild liberation of Hoge in Corrib Village, I was learning.

Among the things I discovered were how to have a well-oiled night out for less than a tenner, how to procrastinate like it's an Olympic sport and how to identify the one person in a class of several hundred most likely to give you notes a week before an exam.

Courtesy of a stint playing with Corinthians on the Tuam Road, I discovered that they had heard of rugby up in Connacht and, to my amazement, some of them could even play the game fairly well too.

Being honest about it, little of what I learned could be described as having much academic value - after all, how many colleges test their students' ability to watch movies and play board games until 7 in the morning - but my education sure was one big barrel of belly laughs.

Plus I made some great new friends and became much closer to those friends I'd already known who also came to Galway from Limerick - three of whom are joining me on the Canadian adventure.

It's hard to single some of the highlights from my time in Galway - not just because of the volume of memories but also because of their haziness - but here are just a small few which I can recall.

Setting off a rape alarm in Mondo McFlurry's room which we had hidden in his cupboard without telling him before he went to bed. This was early on in the Corrib Village era and was almost the first time I vomited due to laughter as I listened to him search his room in panic for the source of the unbearable noise.

Watching in disbelief as two of my pals, Larry Longshanks and Jay McKay, completely bound and gagged their smallest roommate Micheal, kidnapper style, before leaving him outside their neighbour's front door. The neighbour did not find it quite as hilarious as the gaggle of giggling idiots that watched his reaction from behind a nearby ditch as he opened the door.

Learning how to play Poker, Risk, 45, 21, Cup, King's Cup, Fuzzy Duck, the Name Game, Articulate, Mario Kart and Time Splitters but still not having much of a notion about Sociology despite studying it for three years and managing to get an honours degree.

Watching Bryan Adams performing in Pearse Stadium from the roof of a friend's house while sipping on Buckfast on the sunniest day I ever experienced in Galway before tipping into Roisin Dubh to see Republic of Loose.

There's plenty more memories I could recall but I'd be here all day and some of my antics may offend the sensibilities of the thin skinned.

Great place though. Hopefully Vancouver is its Canadian equivalent.

A bit of elephantine nostalgia

2009-05-07T08:38:00.001-07:00

With my departure only a week away now, I'm starting to grow a little nostalgic about my time with the Leader.

I've been spending more and more time casting my mind back two years ago to the day I came in here as a naive, wide-eyed college graduate, eager as a beaver on speed, and a sponge for knowledge.

And then think about myself today, a naive wide-eyed worker, lackadaisical as a tranquilized hippo and an utter repellant for new information seen as the knowledge tank filled up within a week of my arrival in 2007.

It was during one such nostalgia dawdle that I came across these pictures which were taken on the day that I achieved my very first front page story.

The gist of it was that this circus out in Castletroy was keeping two elephants in a field in the middle of a housing estate. I had suggested it as a potential story, more for the fact that an elephant next to a house in Limerick would make for a great photo than it would a Pullitzer-winning article.

After arriving out there though, it did become a story as the elephants escaped from the field within minutes of our getting there.

Now I know what you're thinking and the answer is a resounding no. No. No. No. A thousand times no. I did not release the elephants on to the road for the sake of my first front page. We were just lucky enough to be there to get the pictures when they did make their break.

And just to prove that I didn't risk the lives of Castletroy's children in the name of a good scoop, I've included a pic of one of them actually stepping out over the fence while the wide-eyed naive reporter stands gawping!

Shame on us

2009-05-05T07:54:00.000-07:00

Jody has a bit of a rant today about 'plastic fans' which I don't agree with 100% but is still worth a look.

Much worse than the plastic fans that Jody is bemoaning however are these buffoons who have decided they are going to do all they can to spite Leinster by selling their match tickets and accommodation bookings to Leicester fans for the Heineken Cup final. Seriously, grow up.

This story appeared in the Leader today as well as a few others and it really gets on my tits to see this (hopefully) minority of Munster fans giving the rest of us a bad name.

Surely, Munster supporters can appreciate better than anyone else how much winning on Saturday must have meant to Leinster. Having said that, even those of us who empathise most with our Blue-blooded Eastern cousins' joy on Saturday probably still can't really imagine how good it must have felt.

Because, you see, even during our darkest days on the roller coaster ride that has been following Munster, we could almost always console ourselves with the fact that what we had achieved, Leinster could only dream of.

And it was as comforting as a hug from your mammy to know that even though we may have crashed out of the H-Cup in heartbreaking fashion, Leinster's exit always seemed that bit more shameful.

Munster lose the final? Don't worry Leinster didn't get out of their group.

Munster lost the semi final? Sure at least we're not Leinster getting hammered in the quarters.

Remember when we lost to Toulouse in a tightly fought semi-final in France in 2003? Well I can still recall the soothing feeling I got the next day when Leinster completely and utterly flopped against an unfancied Perpignan side that had brought a mini bus-load of supporters to Lansdowne Road. It just didn't seem so bad when we were knocked out in a gallant fashion at least.

Well, just as I drew consolation from Leinster collapsing in such spectacular annual fashion, for my Leinster counterparts, it must have been a regular source of temple-busting fury.

Which must have made the weekend all the more satisfying for them. Yes because it was us they were finally getting a Heineken Cup victory over after so many years of bridesmaiding but also because, they're much maligned but undoubtedly talented team finally delivered when every variable, pundit and odd seemed so stacked against them.

Leinster have suffered enough for the love of Buddha and besides, the Heineken Cup needs a variety of winners to stay attractive. If anything they've done us a favour because if I know Munster there should be a mother-in-law of a backlash come the start of next season.

The boys in blue deserve their European final and I bloody hope they win it because players as good as Brian O'Driscoll, Luke Fitzgerald and Gordon Darcy deserve to have Heineken Cup medals to their name when their career ends.

Most of all, they deserve our support because we, more than anyone else, should know how they will feel if they do emerge victorious in the final. Shame on us if we can't grant them that much.

Sir Lancelot, the Chariot of Liberation

2009-04-30T06:50:00.000-07:00

Without a shadow of a doubt, the saddest event of 2009 (for The Hoge at least) occurred last week. I've only summoned up the resolve to write about it now and even still, I can't promise that I won't be wailing like a banshee by the end.

This is Lance. On the surface he may seem like a pretty average nine-year-old Mitsubishi Lancer with undersized, paint-chipped alloys.

But to me, my first car was a chariot of liberation.

After saving for the whole summer of 2006 and still not having enough money to buy a car, I begged my father to accompany me to an auction in Newbridge and provide the necessary financial clout to get a half decent motor.

Only after I assured him that Christmas and birthdays would no longer apply to me did Mr Hoge agree to the trip and stump up for half the price.

Upon arriving at the auction, we surveyed the array of Garda cars, reclaimed vehicles and 'quick sells' from dealerships around the country that would go under the hammer that day. A few possible purchases were identified but Lance wasn't one of them. We hadn't spotted him among the crowd due to his understated, classic beauty.

As the auction unfolded, each one of the cars we had earmarked climbed up to prices out of the range we had agreed upon on the way up from Limerick. My heart crumbled when the last one we had noted was swept out of my hands. I would be going home in the passenger seat of my father's car, the same way I arrived.

And then; my first ever car came into the auction showroom. Lance didn't turn too many heads at first but mine did a positive 360 around the top of my spine.

"We're getting that one dad."
"I don't know, we didn't even look at that, it could fall apart on the way home."
"NO! It's perfect, we'll get that one."

After a bidding war with a young couple who had also spotted the potential in the dirty Lancer, we took it home for €2,300. There was no radio in the car when we bought it, but who the bloody hell needs one when you're singing triumphantly all the way home?

Having Lance meant no more asking my parents for lifts or paying to get on a smelly bus, not to mention the end of kissing the arse of passing acquaintances in exchange for a lift. Now mine was the squeaky clean arse as a result of all the kisses it was enjoying on a daily basis.

Over the next three years, not a peep, not so much as an unwelcome puff of smoke eminated from under Lance's bonnet. And this despite my initially less than diligent approach to caring for the car.

On more than one (on more than ten being honest about it) occasions, Lance also served as a bed to me and several of my pals - when laziness or being broke meant that more traditional accommodation arrangements weren't an option.

I still remember waking up in the passenger seat in a car park in Lahinch one morning, looking out at the beautiful sea and thinking; 'You can shove your hostel up your arse'.

And now he's gone. Plane tickets to Canada don't come cheap so I sold Lance to a young fella from Kerry who also spotted the Lancer's potential only a day after I put it up for sale on Carzone.

It was his first car too and he had the same look of delirious excitement in his eyes when I handed him the keys.

Of course when I sold Lance to the young fella, a radio had by now been installed. But I'm almost certain I could hear the new owner singing triumphantly to himself as he pulled my beloved first car out of my driveway for the very last time.

Some housekeeping

2009-04-27T04:10:00.001-07:00

A FEW matters have arisen over the last few days, that need tending to before I go any further.

As I've said before, I'm leaving and there's nothing you can do about it. I announced my departure to Canada a while back right here on The Spot and within minutes of the posting, a gent calling himself 'chaoloughlin' left a comment, offering to answer any questions I may have prior to my departure for Vancouver.

He turned out to be a fellow Bruff-ite (although one whose acquaintance I hadn't yet made) and an absolute gentleman to boot who has already been a great help. He may well regret having offered his expertise, however, after I spend the next three weeks besieging him with wave after wave of the same banal, mind-numbing questions.

Anyway, I just thought it warranted mentioning. It's soul-warming to get the odd reminder that not everyone is a clueless, self-server with their cranium permanently situated in their rectum.

Speaking of which.

At the start of the month I posted my Lions XV and while it may not have been everybody's cup of Bovril, it was reasonably well received by the diverse barstool-pundit brigade in Limerick. Looking back on it there's definitely a few changes I'd have to make (Wally in, Martyn Williams out) but one decision I certainly wouldn't change is my selection of Stephen Ferris at six.

After a Six Nations that put him on to several Teams of the Season, nobody found it surprising that I would pick the barstorming Ulsterman on the flank. Nobody, that is, until scottishpride voiced his displeasure in the comments section on the post this week.

"you dont know what you are on about, stephen ferris shouldnt be in the squad let alone the starting line up, cwatson, s.burger, j.smith, k.kankowski and peirre spies would absolutly nail him, he wouldnt stand a chance out there."

Even without the ridiculous name (apparently you can take pride in being a poor man's Ireland), scottishpride would still seem to be from the loony strain of toons.

How anyone watching Ferris in action in the Six Nations could possibly think he is anything other than a Lions frontrunner is beyond even my simple mind.

Even those viewing with absolutely no knowledge of the game would have told you he was clearly one of the best backrowers in Europe.

Even a monk from the Gelug school of Tibetan Buddhism who has spent the last 50 years massaging the Dalai Lama's corns and emerged to see his first ever game of rugby this February would say;

"Hory Shit! He's got the Rions jersey in the bag!"

Perhaps scottishpride would have preferred if one of the Scottish backrow made the tour, bringing the nation's entire Lions representation up to three. Not even your fellow Scotsman (and Lions head coach) Ian McGeechan would agree with you though.

Friends, Romans, countrymen; Lend me your guitars

2009-04-21T13:18:00.000-07:00

Cool idea here pointed out to be my Bock.

David Irwin is looking for all you generous guitarists out there to lend the tools of your trade to the Hunt Museum for a month.

I'd lend mine but I fear that after a few days in Canada, I may have to start busking for food. Either that or prostituting myself out and I don't even know if I still fit into the heels and hotpants anymore.

Here's a word from David

Players and others:An urgent call to guitarists in the Mid-West of Ireland.You may not be aware of the huge number of classic, vintage, rare, and beautiful axes lying unappreciated in private collections.

Everybody knows someone who has squirrelled away a tasty Martin parlour guitar, or a Cherry 335 dot, or a genuine pre-CBS Strat, or a peculiar lute thing from Eastern Europe. Isn't it a shame that these works of art are rarely seen or appreciated?

What if we had a chance to display them?A special exhibition of guitars will take place in the Hunt Museum very soon for which we are actively seeking exhibits.

We are interested in all types of guitar (acoustic, electric, pedal-steel, bass, resonator, nylon, 12-string) as well as other interesting fretted string instruments (lute, mandola, bouzouki, cittern, etc).

Do you have an interesting piece in your collection?

Can you spare it for a month or so?

Do you know someone else who might?

If you wish to help and would like your guitar to be considered for inclusion, please send me details of your guitar (make, model, year) and a photograph if possible.

Each exhibit will be accompanied by descriptive text, acknowledging the lender and explaining the more interesting features of the design.

David Irwin

0863702376

www.davidirwin.com/guitars/

In association with The Hunt Museumand supported by RTÉ lyric fm

PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO OTHER MUSICIANS

Kiwi Golf

2009-04-19T07:24:00.000-07:00

WHAT with the weather being so nice and my departure from these shores growing ever closer, myself, Coynie, McGoo and The Kiwi decided we'd try something new and take on a round of golf.

Being under the age of 40 and still somewhat able-bodied, it's rare enough that our crew would go on such an excursion. However, through a bit of dumb luck the Kiwi had gotten us a free round at a beautiful course just about three quarters of an hour away from Limerick.

While walking through the city in his flip flops, shorts and T-Shirt (as is a New Zealander's wont on a freezing cold Irish afternoon) The Kiwi was stopped by another native of the Land of the Long White Cloud.

"You know you'd pass for a New Zealander," said the lady.
"That's because I am a New Zealander," replied our Kiwi.
"O well, if you're looking for work or just a free round of golf then you should come out to XXXXXXX golf course, my boyfriend's the green keeper there," said she.
"Alright then I will." said he.

So just like that - in an economic climate where the average Irish person would accept 10 cent an hour for a job taste-testing septic tanks - The Kiwi had managed to get a free round of golf and a feckin' job to boot. As if taking (although sampling is probably a better word) our women wasn't bad enough, now the foreigner had started robbing our jobs and free golf rounds also.

But all was forgiven on Saturday morning when The Kiwi told us he'd booked us all in for a 3.15 tee-off time at the course. Coynie agreed to drive and just as we left our lair, The Kiwi said that we'd to stop at the shop for provisions.

A bottle of water, a few bananas, maybe even some sun cream given the weather. These were the things we expected our resident New Zealander had meant by "provisions". What we didn't realise is that what he actually required was 18 cans of Budweiser which he intended on us drinking as we played.

"Well how do you play it here then?" he asked upon hearing the gasps and seeing our expressions, as he struggled to fit all that canned fun into our golf bags.

But being the sorts that are open to new experiences however, we said we'd give The Kiwi's different, more rock star-ish approach to golf a go. Being the disgruntled designated driver, Coynie didn't speak much on the way out while the three of us got the party started.

Now before you go thinking we made an absolute disgrace of ourselves on the course, hollering abuse at other (paying) golfers, climbing the trees and defecating in the holes, don't worry.

While we may have gotten a few funny looks, adorned as we were in flip-flops, bruff rfc warm up t-shirts and occasionally putting with just one hand because the other was holdin a can of Bud, the feathers at the course remained relatively unruffled.

I'd recommend Kiwi Golf though. It mightn't make you the most accurate or well-mannered player in the world but it certainly livens up the sodding game.

Broke and Regretful in Vancouver

2009-04-15T07:04:00.000-07:00

I finally did it. After several self-administered pep talks and more than one false start, I managed to bite the bullet and join the tiny minority of people who have left their job by choice in 2009.

Not happy with the job Hoge? Not the case. Actually I don't think I've ever enjoyed it more.

Well have you been offered a better job? No, I am officially unemployed come May 15.

Generous redundancy package? Hahahahahaha (pause for breath) Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.......

Right so if your happy with the job, you don't have a better one lined up and there's no financial incentive to quit, what the bloody hell are you doing?

My close friends have called it a number of things; temporary insanity, youthful short-sightedness, the actions of an oblivious simpleton (thanks Mam) but, despite their warnings, I have decided to up and leave life in Limerick, for now at least.

And where - I hear you ask - am I headed for this new adventure as an unemployed, travelling former journalist? Well - I reply - it's the land of ice hockey, French people who aren't actually French, and Celine Dione. It's Canada!

A number of months ago, I applied for a 12-month visa to Canada without giving it much thought. Kind of a 'Sure I'll have it just in case' sort of thing. It's good for 12 months on from when you land in the country so I had all of 2009 to decide if I wanted to leave my loving family and indifferent friends to start a new life on the other side of the Atlantic.

Despite having no job, very little money saved, no accommodation sorted and not even a flight booked yet, I handed in my notice to the boss on Friday.

After doing a couple of victory laps around his desk while singing the version of 'Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio' normally reserved for sin-binned opposition players in Thomond Park, he told me I'd be missed.

But don't threaten to set yourselves alight unless I retract my notice of retirement from the Leader just yet.

You will still be able to get your fix of Hoge as I will continue to post my musings right here, letting you know of the trials and tribulations of trying and quite possibly failing to enter gainful employment in Canada.

Orwell had 'Down and Out in Paris and London', prepare for 'Broke and Regretful in Vancouver'.

Clueless old farts

2009-04-09T03:49:00.000-07:00

These are construction workers in Dubai.

On average they earn about £120 a month, despite working 12-hours a day, six days a week.

During the day, they work on sites where health & safety and workers rights are unheard of. At night they live in specially-built, cramped-to-the-point-of-being-dangerous labour camps.

They are being exploited.

THIS is Pete Waterman.

He is the pop impressario ( a fancy name for a manager with notions above his station) responsible for the hits of such greats as Jason Donovan and Rick Astley.

Not content with polluting the airwaves with such gunge for profit, Waterman also ripped the heart right out of music by creating Pop Idol, meaning there are legions of youngsters who have never heard a song being sung by anyone other than a fame-craving, insecure reality TV 'star'.

And he's dishonest. When managing the group, One True Voice, during 'Popstars: The Rivals' in 2002, Waterman said he'd kill himself if his charges didn't make the Christmas number one.

They didn't and he didn't.

In certain societies, Waterman would be hung by his testiclay for crimes against common decency, but while gestating in our overly-liberal corner of the planet, he has instead ammassed a personal estimated fortune of £42m.

And yet, he puts himself in the same boat as the exploited workers in Dubai because Youtube won't pay him every single time one of his haemorrhage-inducing tunes is played on the site.

The clueless old fart was whinging this week that despite the popularity of 'Never gonna give you up' - which he co-wrote for Rick Astley - on Youtube, he has only received £11 to add to his mountain of cash.

Why, you may ask, has such a cringey song become so popular on the site? Well, for the only reason such a ridiculous ditty could become popular again really; comedic value.

The 'Rickrolling' phenomenon involved web users sending each other web links that appeared to be relevant to something they were discussing, but were in fact disguised links to the Astley song on YouTube.

According to RTE.ie, while discussing this gross injustice, Waterman said; "Panorama did a documentary on the exploitation of foreign workers in Dubai. I feel like one of those workers, because I earned less for a year's work off Google or YouTube than they did off the Bahrain government."'

Next week; Louis Walsh compares his plight with that of millions of starving Rwandans as he waits a full 40 minutes for a pizza delivery.

Read the whole gut-wrenching story of Waterman's exploitation here

Bo Bo's Mystery Photos 4

2009-04-08T04:50:00.000-07:00

APOLOGIES for how long it took me to get round to another installment of Bo Bo's Mystery Photos but I'd a huge amount of procrastination to get through.

Limerickites shouldn't have too much trouble identifying the first two pics but I've thrown a real stinker in at the end.

72 Virgins on roller skates in heaven for the first correct answer.

Keith Earls arrested

2009-04-07T08:31:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, our boy wonder hasn't resorted to a career of crime just yet. This is pretty hilarious and realistic looking though. Make sure to maximise the page when it opens so it can be read.

Click here for the funniness.

Update: For some reason, the text and link on this post wasn't showing up when you came on to the site. I've had a word in Mr Blogspot's ear this morning though and I think the problem has been remedied.

Skip-dwelling Toilet Duck-drinker

2009-04-06T04:57:00.000-07:00

I bought an album by The Pogues over the weekend.

I used to have their greatest hits in college and would often listen to it when we were drinking in Corrib Village or trying to impress exchange students with how incredibly Oirish we were.

Foolishly, I lent it to a friend who lost the CD and, being a student, he couldn't afford to buy me a new one. If you're reading this now Jack, I hear the pay is decent for teachers (especially if you consider what their hourly rate adds up to) so feel free to pay your dues whenever the mood takes you.

Unpaid debts aside, it was a joy to renew my relationship with Shane and the lads over the weekend. For someone who looks like he has spent most of his life in a skip, drinking Toilet Duck, McGowan has (had?) an amazing talent for putting together some genuinely touching lyrics.

This line from A rainy night in Soho one is one of my favourites;

'I'm not singing for the future
I'm not dreaming of the past
I'm not talking of the first time
I never think about the last'

The Hoge's Lions XV

2009-04-01T02:21:00.001-07:00

Right, I've been thinking on this one for a while.

Seeing as I eat, sleep, breathe, write and occasionally even play rugby with the best yellow and wine-jersey'd club in the country, I feel a weight of expectation on my shoulders when it comes to predicting my Lions XV.

Obviously no such expectation lies with Mr Chalkboard, however, who sees rugby as a town in Warwickshire first, and a sport second.

Viewing his Lions selection gives a whole new meaning to fantasy rugby (as in "You're on the kind of hallucinogens that induce intense fantasies if you think Rory Best is going to travel let alone start for the Lions. May I have some please?").

Judging by his team, Chalkey used a blindfold, darts and a dartboard covered in the names of every rugby player in Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales to make his selection.

I however have applied more stringent criteria. Some decisions have been agonised over for days, made me irritable, caused rashes, seen me wake up on the bedroom floor weeping my eyes out as I splutter snot-drenched apologies to all those players who have landed on the wrong side of a close call.

But after many sleepless nights, some consultation with friends (leading to the cessation of some friendships) and a liberal helping of medication, I have come up with my fifteen.

Before I name them though, I feel honour-bound to make apologies to John Hayes (the paddocks are too hard in South Africa for the Bull I feel), Luke Fitzgerald (it would be too much or a risk to have two slight wingers so Williams just about shades it) and David Wallace (Not a traditional 7 which we will need this summer, a genuine chance at 8 but Heaslip just about gets the nod).

I should also point out that I reckon the upcoming Heineken Cup games will have almost as much of an influence on the final tour contingent as the Six Nations tournament. But since I lost my powers of premonition many moons ago, I can only base it on what we have seen so far.

Feel free to comment or draw up your own competing selections.

1. Gethin Jenkins (Wales)

2. Jerry Flannery (Ireland)

3. Euan Murray (Scotland)

4.Paul O'Connell (Ireland)

5. Donncha O'Callaghan(Ireland)

6. Stephen Ferris (Ireland)

7. Martyn Williams (Wales)

8. Jamie Heaslip (Ireland)

9. Mike Blair (Scotland)

10. Ronan O'Gara (Ireland)

11. Shane Williams (Wales)

12. Tom Shanklin (Wales)

13. Brian O'Driscoll (Ireland)

14. Delon Armitage (England)

15. Lee Byrne (Wales)

The failed vegetarian

2009-03-30T02:19:00.000-07:00

Sorry I didn't warn you all but I was in Spain for the last week on my first ever press junket. For the uninitiated, a junket is a free holiday for members of the media provided by a tour operator or tourism board seeking publicity for that particular holiday destination. If you think it sounds like a bribe, you're not far off.

Anyways, I left on Tuesday morning with only one day left to go in my week-long vegetarian crusade. I was planning on having a big dirty beef burger with a side of pork chops drizzled in bacon fat for breakfast the next morning but until that time, I would be sticking steadfastly to my vegetarian guns.

But those bloody Spaniards had other plans and within a few hours of landing, I had blood on my hands. Beautiful, juicy, blood that had been squeezed from the inside of the tastiest steak ever known to my belly.

I know, I know, I'm a failure with as much self control as a puppy humping a letterbox but you should have seen the temptations I was faced with. The first meal served up to us had twelve courses. Twelve!

Not one of them were meat or fish free and they were all the kind of delicious that can make a man do strange and unreasonable things. Once I'd broken the seal, I figured I may as well be in for a penny as a pound and proceeded to eat a petting zoo-worth of meat.

I avoided my veg sponsor, Miriam, for a couple of days after my premature return to the carnivore pack but eventually had to tell her of my capitulation. She now says I'm going to have to take on the veg challenge again but this time for two weeks instead of one. I told her not to hold her breath.

Veggie watch. Day 6

2009-03-23T02:46:00.000-07:00

Only one day to go and although I've been genuinely surprised by how tasty some of the veg dishes were over the last week, I can't wait to sink my teeth into a big juicy burger, sending all the blood-tainted juices dripping down along my chin.

While at home on the farm the other day, I unsettled a cow by staring at her for a little too long, allowing just a hint of drool to creep out of the corner of my mouth.

Jaysus Moocow I could have a lump taken off your arse and fried up in a pan with onions before you'd even know what had happened.

The last few days have been consumed with such temptations but in fairness has also consisted of a few pleasant culinary surprises.

Miriam and Caitlin, my two dedicated veggie friends, made me up a delicious vegetable curry over the weekend, consisting of samosas, cocunuts, broccoli and a wide variety of ingredients I had never even heard of. I mean what use could I ever have made of lentils in the past?

The greatest temptation of Hoge came on Saturday evening however. After celebrating the greatest day in Irish sport with wreckless abandon, I found myself in front of that lovely new kebab shop in Baker Place, conveniently located next to the Wicked Chicken.

Like I had done with the cow a few days previously, I made the kebab shop workers feel very uncomfortable indeed as I stood, as if in a trance, staring at that sexy rotating lump of greasy lamb, thinking about all the things I'd like to do to it.

Thankfully though, I renewed my devotion to temperance and decided on five bags of garlic mushrooms instead, but not before promising the lump of lamb I'd be back next week to make its acquaintance.

First blood drawn: Ireland 1 - Wales 0

2009-03-20T04:54:00.000-07:00

A quick diversion from my adventures in vegetable-land if you don't mind.

On Wednesday of this week, I picked up a call to our newsroom from a Welsh chap named Dafydd. He is organising a mass piss-up in Wales called Celtfest and was hoping to attract Irish rugby supporters by getting some publicity for it through the Leader.

He said that he had already contacted two PR companies in Ireland but that they hadn't followed through on promises made and were no longer answering his calls. I took pity on him and explained that our County Edition was already finished but that I could try and get an article into the city edition while stressing that I couldn't guarantee anything.

Dafydd didn't bother saying thank you but did say that if I got an article in, he could guarantee one of my mates a ticket for the match itself. He was quite pushy and impolite but I put that down to his being messed about by the aforementioned PR companies. I would subsequently find out that this was just Dafydd's way.

Unfortunately, due to space constrictions, we were unable to put anything in the paper (although I did write and file an article) and yesterday evening I explained the situation to Dafydd in an e-mail. This morning I got a response from him that infuriated me into putting manners on the insufferable gimp.

I let the sequence of emails do the rest of the talking, starting with my explaining the situation to Dafydd yesterday evening and finishing with my final email back.

On 19 Mar 2009, at 15:57, John Hogan wrote:
Dafydd, unfortunately I was unable to get anything into this evening's paper. Apologies for that, I did write an article but because it's St PAtrick's weekend there wasn't enough space in the paper to put it in, due to the volume of photos from parades around the county. Apologies for that, hope the day is a success and that we're left with more reason to cheer at the end of the game than our Welsh counterparts!

Regards,

John.

From: Dafydd Evans Sent: 20 March 2009 01:14

To: John HoganSubject: Re:

forget it your the third irish person to let me down

On 20 Mar 2009, at 08:25, John Hogan wrote:

You've got some cheek. You contact me the day before we go to print asking for prominence in a regional paper for an article that has no regional significance whatsoever.
I went to the effort of writing you an article and due to extraordinary circumstances it doesn't get in. I was actually going to ask you if you wanted the article to be prominently placed on our website today but rest assured instead, I will delete the article and waste no time in telling the considerable number of people I know going about your petulance.
Don't dare contact this paper looking for publicity for any of your mass piss ups again you ungrateful little twit.

Too far? What do you think folks?

Veggie watch. Day 2

2009-03-19T05:08:00.000-07:00

THIRTY seven hours without meat and counting.

Took another brave new step last night by making and eating my first ever vegetarian meal in the form of spinach lasagne.

I have to admit that as I went about making the dish using the recipe provided to be by Miriam, I felt a little intimidated.

Not just because I hadn't tasted half of the ingredients before but because my housemates - as keen a troop of carnivores as you could find - had copped to what I was doing and were asking if I was going to get a bikini wax and manicure after I'd finished my vegetarian dinner.

With no small amount of trepidation, I shoved the lasagne into the oven with the full belief that from there it would be going straight to the bin after I risked one taste.

Surprisingly though, it wasn't too bad. Obviously anyone who tries to convince you that spinach lasagne isn't the ugly sister to the meaty option needs locking up, but at the same time it wasn't the vomit-fest I had expected.

On a side note, Mapstew warned me a few days back that switching to a veg-only diet would result in my becoming even more gaseous than usual. You were on the money my friend. Expect scientists to find another hole in the ozone layer by the time this week is out.

Which brings me to another point. Vegetarians tend to be hug-the-earth, recycle-your-toiletpaper, environMENTALly-minded sorts but surely they realise that by maintaining such a diet, they are doing more harm than good to the atmosphere around them?

Not only are they letting off an above average level of gases from their own tank, but by not eating all those farting cows they are allowing even more toxic emissions to be released. Silly hippies.

Veggie watch. Day 1

2009-03-18T07:11:00.000-07:00

Just had the first ever salad roll of my life. Not quite the emasculating experience I thought it would be. No female genitalia growth just yet.

At the same time, there was an undeniable sense of dissatisfaction and unfulfilment. A 'Godfather; Part 3' of a lunch if you will.

Where was the core, the heart, the kernel of the meal? It was the Stones without Jagger, the Beatles without Lennon, Take That without Robbie (you know they've never been the same since).

I've printed off an email full of recipes featuring such delights as Spinach and Rice Pie and Organic Lentil Stew, both of which I'm pretty sure were used to extort confessions from terror suspects in Guantanamo Bay.

If I survive the night, I'll let you know how at least one of these dishes go down. In the meantime here's some vegetable humour, courtesy of Al.

Vegetarians, lend me your ears

2009-03-15T09:47:00.000-07:00

I've made a most unlikely decision to join the ranks of a group that count Michael Bolton, Pauly Shore, Chris Martin and that ol' hound, Adolf Hitler, amongst their members. That's right, I'm going to give vegetarianism a lash.

This isn't a decision I've come to lightly and it's not something I'll be jumping into straight away as I intend on gettting some of your advice beforehand.

From the outset, I should say that each and every one of my wits had deserted me when I agreed to this particular challenge, but a committment was apparently given and if I can't keep a drunken promise, then what do I really stand for?

Long time meat-hater Miriam is the one to blame for me deciding to learn the way of the vegetable but thankfully she only managed to convince me to try it out for a week. In return for my taking this on, she has agreed to provide me with a few apparently delicious veggie meals and snacks so as to ensure I don't die of malnutrition during the week.

I reckon I'll start off this particular challenge around Wednesday or so. The desire for a kebab will be too great tomorrow night after I finish celebrating the birthday of St Patrick.

In the meantime though, I'm open to suggestions from vegetarians, vegans and all the palatally-challenged out there on how to get through my weekus horribilis.

Change the bloody record!

2009-03-12T04:42:00.000-07:00

Right. This isn't the first time I've made this particular observation and it shouldn't at all be seen as an attack on my friends in Live 95fm.

It should, however, be seen as an all-out Jihad on whatever chap or chapette draws up the station's daytime playlist.

Like most offices around the city, we have 95fm on in the background all day long and I'd doubt I'm the only one regularly left in a ball-bursting rage by their song choices.

Over the last couple of weeks, I have conducted a little survey and took note of some of the more questionable songs (now that's being kind) played on the station.

In the interest of fairness, those listed below are only the ones which have been played at a rate of at least twice a week during working hours.

At best, the songs contained in the list are mediocre and completely forgettable tunes that may have peaked at number seven in the Irish charts in the early to mid-90s.

At worst, they are offences against music that makes one want to cut their own ears off using a rusty hedge clippers.

In all cases, their being played with such frequency is nothing short of mindboggling and if the record isn't changed soon, I may be tempted to douse myself in petrol and light a match outside the radio station's offices in protest.

Here's the list. Am I the only one this bothers immensely? Remember, at the very least, twice a week, but quite a few have been played twice within a few hours of each other on several occasions.

'Nobody knows' by The Tony Rich Project. Reached number 2 in 1995.

'To the moon and back' by Savage Garden. Peaked at number 3 in 1998.

'Save tonight' by Eagle Eye Cherry. Top position of number 6 in 1997.

'Message in a box' by Brian Kennedy. 1997. Wikipedia doesn't know where it peaked but the album went to number one. For shame Ireland, for shame.

'Anthing at all by Paddy Casey'. Why is this hobbit famous? I'm serious, what kind of pact did he make with the devil?

'Perfect day' by the music 'greats' of 1997. Wouldn't mind the Lou Reed version now and again but why play the track featuring Boyzone and Bono?

'Love supreme' by Robbie Williams. Number 4 in 2000.

Mad ol' Madeley

2009-03-09T08:46:00.001-07:00

For fear of being accused of plagiarism, this hilarious list of quotes from Richard Madeley (of Dick and Judy fame) has been provided to me by Jody O'S.

Give him the Late Late I say.

To JK Rowling: "You are unbelievably wealthy. Beyond the dreams of avarice, really."

To Rebecca Loos: "Will you end up with a bloke or a woman

To Sophie Ellis Bextor: "Where did you get your face?"

To transvestite artist Grayson Perry: "You're just humming with sexual energy! Is it the fabric? Is it wearing tights?"

To Jade Goody: "You're quite sharp. It's just that in the pure sense of the word, you're ignorant."

Interviewing a man with a stutter: After watching a clip of the guy struggling with his stutter: "You looked as if your head was going to come off!"

To George Martin: "Your short-term memory really is shot! It must drive you nuts!"

To Lewis Pugh: "You've previously made waves by breaking long-distance swimming records in the Arctic and Antarctic. Tell me, when you swim in the Antarctic, do your nuts go really, really tiny?"

To Nancy Sinatra: "Now obviously you loved your father, but do you think you were actually in love with him?"

To a woman with an obsession: She had had a crush on a celebrity and had even stalked the star in question. It was all handled sensitively and then Richard said - "So, when did you first realise that you were quite clearly mad?"

Interviewing actress Claire Goose: "Weren't you once a story-telling raccoon in a theme park? What sort of stories did you have to tell as a raccoon? Did you have a special raccoon voice?"

To a teenage anorexic: "Five Stone? Wow! That's concentration camp thin, that is."

He's a lumberjack and he's okay

2009-03-05T06:56:00.000-08:00

ANYONE with the good fortune to stumble across this site will have noticed this rather fetching picture of Yours Truly doing his best impression of a coconut up at the top.

But have you ever wondered what the beard looked like during its various stages of growth? Of course you have.

Well aren't you the lucky ones because I came across this little picture diary that I made whilst growing the beard last summer and have decided to show it off right here for your viewing pleasure.

Growing a face rug had been an ambition of mine for many years but concerns about what parents/girfriends/bouncers/employers might say always prevented me from giving it a lash.

However, having found myself in the delightful position of being apartment-bound (due to a broken ankle) and single (due to women not knowing a good thing when they see it) I was given the opportunity last summer. Here are the results.

Eager beaver at the start

Starting to get a little itchy but not letting it get to me

Now I'm letting it get to me. It feels like I'm wearing a long-dead cat that's been steamrolled on to my face.

If mother Theresa had a beard

Finally. The Lumberjack Look is complete

To continue living, insert coin here

2009-03-05T04:49:00.000-08:00

Ha ha ha, emails are funny. You may have to squint, but it's worth it.

Back soon!

2009-03-04T07:56:00.000-08:00

Much of this week has been spent in County Hall at a long-winded An Bord Pleanala hearing between the city and county councils, a whole gang of objectors and the developers who hope to build a huge extension to the Crescent Shopping Centre.

It's less exciting than it sounds guys.

It's been painful enough trying to decipher hour after hour of each presentation on road capacities, retails strategies, town planning and local area plans.

Some IT head sits beside me all day in the press box but his role baffles me because from what I can tell all the b*****s does is play internet poker all day. And to make matters worse, he won't even let me see what hand he has during the odd interval in proceedings.

But I've struggled on through the hardship just to bring the truth to my followers - much in the same way as Our Lord really when you think about it - and hopefully it will be over in the next day and I'll be allowed back into the office. 'Til then my people.

Bike Africa flags

2009-02-27T09:16:00.000-08:00

So as you're watching Ireland provide the Engerlish with a much-increased-capacity rectum this weekend, keep an eye out for my friends if you would.

They're the ones who are cycling the length of Africa for charity not Drico, Paulo, Rono, Luko, Bullo and all my other pals on the Irish team. You see the former group have bought a bunch of huge flags to highlight their 'Bike Africa' campaign to raise money for several deserving charities.

My groupies (Hogesters?) will know that I've written about this touching (and frankly mental) gesture before but there's also link to their site on the right hand side of the page where you can read more and, much more importantly, donate some money.

Every little bit helps but you more than likely will spend eternity in hell if you don't give at least a tenner, as the bible says.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!

2009-02-25T03:44:00.000-08:00

O LORD if there's one thing that gets the old rage-twitches going it's this modern-day obsession with the boring-as-hell, everyday minutiae of celebrities lives.

What kind of pathetic, voyeuristic proles are we becoming that every blink, sniff and fart of even the most undeserving celebrities is gobbled up with such increasing voracity. Are our own lives so hopelessly dull?

Take this excerpt from the RTE website for example regarding an "awkward run-in" between well-known mentalist Tom Cruise and his old flame, goddess Penelope Cruz.

Why, oh why, oh why is a perceived awkward moment between two unimportant people on the other side of the world considered news? Why do we care?

People are starving, suffering, fighting and dying the world over and yet, in all likelihood, the awkward hug was probably one of the most clicked-on stories on the RTE site.

For the love of Thatcher, an awkward hug between two bloody actors. I could barely bring myself to care if a dozen of my best friends announced that they were going to shack up under one roof to form a bizarre polygamous sect and I wasn't invited.

Bo Bo's Mystery Photos 3

2009-02-24T01:53:00.001-08:00

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've been busy. I had a few days off work and spent most of the last week in the company of degenerates, skullduggerers and scoundrels who dwell in the kind of cesspits that have no purpose for an internet connection. It was heavenly.

But all good things must come to a crashing, Hindenburg-style end and sure enough, I am back in the land of the office-dwellers this morning. The good news for you, however, is that my return also means the return of Bo Bo's Mystery Photos!

Guesses in the comments section, first to get them all correct won't have to sacrifice their eldest son when the day of reckoning comes.

A moral victory

2009-02-17T09:20:00.000-08:00

"A JAAAYSUS there's mildew on these shorts Johnny, I can't wear them," said McGoo, as he peered into a bag of rugby gear that had last seen daylight during a game against Cobh in early January.

After a night of what one could fairly describe as less-than-appropriate preparations, an early morning seconds match was about as welcome to myself and my housemate as a very thorough colonic irrigation.

But guarantees had been made and promises had to be kept so the two of us tripped and stumbled around the house, picking up items of gear - some with mildew, others without - and cursed the Irish team for having an afternoon match with the Italians meaning our game would have to be played at 12 noon.

Twelve noon? For a rugby match? Only a few hours after you've finished up drinking, dancing, sleazing and sweating the night away at a ball in the Clarion which - in fairness - was in aid of charity and therefore could justify any amount of porter consumption?

You heard me right. This wasn't going to be pretty for anyone involved, particularly the unfortunate second rows packing down behind me for the next hour and a half.

McGoo and I left our bunker on Ballinacurra for what should have been the short walk to Greenfields where we were scheduled to play Young Munsters. Unfortunately our bearings seemed to have been still a little discombobulated when we set off and we ended up getting quite lost in Ballinacurra, looking for a rugby pitch that we've each played on maybe 20 times over the years.

Thankfully, before long we recognised the backside of the Catholic Institute on our travels which we then circumnavigated to get back on track. Coynie had rang us by this point to say that he was on his way and was feeling as fresh as a daisy because he'd spent the previous night at home, taking it easy. The degenerate.

Any hope myself and the equally red-eyed, dry-throated McGoo had of taking it easy on the bench vanished when we walked in the door to see that - including our good selves - there were only 13 players. One more was coming, we were told, and chances are we would have to play the whole game with just 14 men.

"The ref won't allow this, it's madness. Isn't there some rule about having to have a full team?" I thought.

Not so, as it turns out. The referee came over to us just before kick off to ask if we had any more players coming and, upon hearing our answer, let out a very audible snigger and a "fair play to ye lads" but did not call off the game.

Off he trotted to get things underway while I stood there just sneering at him, like he was the Governer who could have saved me from the chair but said he'd watch me sizzle instead because it'd be better craic. The monster.

So, like a heavily wounded and outnumbered army, we took to war with about as much chance of winning as Maggie Thatcher in a 12-rounder with Floyd Mayweather.

But, like a team of highly-motivated hobos, we hassled them like a persistent wife, hit rucks as if there was chocolate in the middle, and despite our numerical disadvantage stayed in touch - and for a while, ahead of - Munsters.

Now wouldn't it be lovely if this story finished with us achieving an impossible victory? Well, unfortunately it was not to be but a final scoreline of 33-26 wasn't too shabby at all considering the various numerical, organisational and sobriety issues on our side.

And if Munster's close loss to the All Blacks in November is anything to go by, moral victories are still hugely appreciated in these parts so we can hold our heads high. I just can't help thinking what we could have done with 15.

Christian Bale rant remix

2009-02-13T06:17:00.000-08:00

For the handful of you who haven't heard the Christian Bale rant at a director of photography on the set of the new Terminator movie for walking in his eyeline while doing a scene, give it a listen here. Pretty crazy stuff but not for the easily offended.

Now that you've done that, give this a listen. Absolutely hilarious (not to mention flawless) dance remix done using excerpts from his rant. Priceless and surpringly catchy.

I downloaded it to my ipod yesterday and gave more than one person a shock on the way into work this morning as I sang along to the chorus.

"What don't you f***ing understand!!!?"

Bike Africa 2009

2009-02-12T04:08:00.000-08:00

Do me the courtesy of ignoring the fact that this picture looks a little like a bizarrely inappropriate funeral cortege.

On the left are three old classmates of mine, Maghnus Collins-Smyth, Orla Duggan and Brian O'Shea.

In a few months the two lads, and another pal of their's from college, are heading off to cycle the length of Africa in aid of charity (much to the distress of their mothers).

As far as I know, Orla hasn't taken them up on the offer of joining them just yet.

"Madness," I hear you say. "What ever happened to holding a good old fashioned table quiz?"

But, in fairness to the lads, it's an incredibly noble act that will cost them a fair bit of their own money (seen as they're financing all their own expenses).

They've worked themselves to the bone organising fundraisers, such as a Valentine's ball/hooley/piss-up/lunatic convention in the Clarion this weekend, and I was glad to give them a bit of publicity in this week's Leader.

The full article is below and a link to their site, where you can read about their charities and make a donation, is on the right hand side of this page. Anything you can give is greatly appreciated.

Piece that featured in the Leader this week:

WITH a rock-hard cast stretching from his ankle to upper thigh, Maghnus Collins-Smyth does not appear like a man who, in a matter of months, will embark on a 95-day, 8,000-kilometre charity cycle along the length of Africa.

Admittedly, his scraggly beard, ruffled hair and casual dress all give off the impression of a young aspiring explorer, keen to satisfy his wanderlust before joining everyone else in the real world. The admission, however, that he doesn’t actually own a bike doesn’t do any favours for that particular image.

“O’Shea has two bikes at home so I’ll be able to do all my road practice using one of them once I’ve got the cast off,” he explains, while attempting - without any great degree of success - to get comfortable on a stool too low for someone in his predicament.

“We’re getting touring bikes for the actual trip then, they’re a hybrid between a mountain bike and racer to cope with all the different terrains.”

The cast was put in place five weeks ago, following an operation to stabilise the 24-year-old Parteen native’s knee, and is due to be removed this weekend. Although scheduled to take place several months later, Maghnus explains that the procedure was kindly brought forward by Professor Masterson in Croom Hospital, after he outlined his ambitious plans for the summer.

“O’Shea” is Maghnus’s former Crescent College classmate, current Old Crescent clubmate - and luckily the owner of two bikes - Brian O’Shea, from Monaleen. Along with Coleraine-based David Burns - whom they met through college friends - Maghnus and Brian will spend this summer pedalling from Cairo in Egypt to Cape Town in South Africa, taking in Sudan, Kenya, Ethiopia, Uganda, Tanzania, Mozambique and Swaziland along the way.

After making inquiries about working for a charity in Africa several months ago, Maghnus found his options limited by a combination of an old injury and the worldwide recession. Thus Bike Africa 2009 was born.

“I fractured three vertebrae in my back on a building site a few years ago and because of that, I wouldn’t be able for the kind of consecutive days of labour and lifting that would be expected of you with some charities,” he explains.

“I looked into working with a few AIDS Education organisations but they said that because of the times, it would be more beneficial to raise funds. This seemed like a way of getting to see Africa while also doing our bit and contributing money to those who need it so badly.”

While Maghnus had already identified this summer as the period when he would fulfil his dream of travelling to Africa, Brian received the push he needed when he, along with 200 other Kostal workers in Abbeyfeale, was asked to take voluntary redundancy.

“I knew Maghnus was doing it and it sounded like an incredible experience but it wasn’t until the redundancies were announced that it became a possibility for me too,” he says.

“I have four weeks to spare in between our departure date and when I finish up in Abbeyfeale. It actually suits me perfectly because I can really crank up the training for that final month.”

Before departing for Africa, Maghnus, Brian and David have planned a number of fundraising events, the first of which is a Valentine’s Ball at the Clarion Hotel this weekend which sold out several weeks ago. A quiz night, an evening of fine dining, an auction and a golf classic have also been planned for the coming weeks.

For now, Friends in Ireland, Out of Africa Mission Sports Academy and St Gabriel’s school in Limerick have been selected as beneficiaries of the fundraising efforts. However, the cycling trio have been in contact with - and plan to visit - a number of different charities en route and add them to that list.

Each of the three are keen to emphasise that all the proceeds from their fundraising will go towards their selected charities, not travel expenses.

“We reckon it will cost us about €3,500 each to do the cycle and we’re raising that ourselves,” says Brian. “We think we’ll be spending about €10 a day there but you have to factor in flights, visas, spare parts, medication, tents and our immunisation injections. We’re hoping to get the bikes sponsored so anyone that’s interested can get in touch with us through the website.”

With Maghnus soon to be released from his plaster of Paris prison, conditioning work will dominate his, Brian’s and David’s lives until they leave in June. The latter’s father is a doctor - which has come in useful for their immunisation jabs - but he has also given dietary and exercise advice, recommending that each of them gain a stone so as to combat inevitable weight loss in the summer.

As well as preparing their bodies for the strain of cycling 600 kilometres a week from one side of the equator to the other, the three have also been stocking up on equipment necessary for three months spent on the road.

“We’re getting a high-frequency transmitter to keep rabid dogs from out tents at night. Obviously we’ll have to get a strong tent as well and make sure to pitch it carefully so there won’t be any unexpected visitors,” Maghnus says.

“We’ve been getting tips and advice from a Dutch couple who are cycling our route at the moment but they’re doing it from South Africa to Egypt. They’ve told us that lions and most other wild animals tend to stay away from the roads we’ll be camping near so hopefully that won’t be an issue either.”

Most young males won’t be surprised to find that one of the toughest obstacles Maghnus and Brian have encountered in their preparations thus far has been convincing their mothers to give their approval.

“Well they didn’t believe us at first,” says Brian. “But when they started seeing roadmaps arriving in the post and saw us doing proper research, they knew it was happening. It took a bit of convincing but we’ve assured them we’ll be fine. I have my sister’s wedding to be back for in September so I’ll be taking every precaution.”

Maghnus, Brian and David have set up a website, www.bikeafrica2009.com, featuring their charities of choice and updates on their fundraising events. The site also features a service allowing visitors to make an unspecified donation using a credit of laser card. Donations can also be made by texting KEY AFRICA to 53341, deducting €2.60 from your credit. They also expressed their thanks to Tony Connolly Menswear, Snap Printing and the Clarion Hotel for their support.

Bo Bo's mystery photos 2

2009-02-11T03:51:00.000-08:00

Time for another selection of Bo Bo's mystery photos chaps and chapettes.

As with last week, the first person to correctly guess where the pictures were taken in Limerick will win eternal life.

Second place gets a toaster.

RIP S+N

2009-02-09T08:04:00.000-08:00

Some of you may have noticed that the widely-read, much-beloved, ever-revered Stuff and Nonsense column did not feature in last week's Leader.

Unfortunately because of spatial constrictions and a declining interest in toilet humour, S+N had to be pushed out and now my uninformed rants will be restricted to the world-wide-inter-highway.

I know this must be a hard time for both of my loyal followers but I have reassured my parents that we will get through this.

Family flowers only please. Donations can be made if desired in cash to John Hogan, 54 O'Connell Street, Limerick.

Bo Bo's mystery photos

2009-02-04T02:12:00.000-08:00

I have a friend named Bo Bo. He's quite the accomplished amateur photographer.

Can you tell where in Limerick these photos were taken?

Hangovers and the Delusionally Positive Brigade

2009-01-30T07:38:00.000-08:00

MOUTH like the sole of a Saharan nomad’s sandal. Throat that sounds like I spent the weekend munching on sandpaper. Eyes so heavy that every blink could end in an instant coma.

The unfortunate thing about rowdy weekends is that they are almost always followed by a torturous Monday and - depending on the severity of the previous few days’ lunacy - sometimes a pretty rough Tuesday and Wednesday.

Feeling like you spent the whole weekend fighting off a family of seriously pissed-off grizzly bears does little for one’s creativity on a Monday morning. Last Monday, however, the suffering could be almost justified as the previous few days had thrown up several reasons to celebrate.

It all began on Saturday afternoon with a nail-biting victory for Bruff over Old Crescent out in Kilballyowen.

Two previous meetings this year had thrown up one victory for each side and Saturday’s fixture would decide who could claim bragging rights for the rest of the season.

My many friends affiliated with Old Crescent should be warned that I will be exerting that particular right at regular intervals over the next few months. When in a particularly boastful mood, you will find me intolerable.

Saturday evening brought another victory as Yours Truly took home a gong at the Mid-West Arts, Media and Culture Awards. Being neither arty nor cultured, the award was clearly in recognition of my work here in this paper.

If you think you hear a horn being tooted by its owner, you’re not mistaken.

Then on Sunday, Munster’s comprehensive victory over Montauban gave more reason for revelry. That evening, however, the realization dawned that - bar a major disturbance in the spacetime continuum - Monday morning was speeding our way like an out-of-control freight train, packed with headaches and cottonmouth.]

“Can’t anybody stop it?”

“Afraid not Mister, you better get home for a wash and some sleep before it’s time to suit and boot up for another week of work.”

Yet even on mornings such as last Monday - when my mood is somewhere between unsociable and murderous - it never occurs to me that I’d like to be doing any other kind of work.

I’d just love if attendance was optional on Mondays and Fridays, lunch was three hours long and comfy beds were provided in-house for those times when you feel like a snooze. Hell, I’m an award-winner now, they might just listen to a suggestion like that.

No you can’t

THE “You can do anything if you put your mind to it” mantra has always bothered me immensely, for no reason other than it’s obviously the talk of a blathering half-wit.

A motto for the Delusionally Positive Brigade the world over, this particular phrase has the potential to do far more harm than good.

What if, for instance, I had announced to my family at an early age that the only thing I desired in life was a career in the NBA?

Even at that stage in life, it would have been quite obvious to my parents that I wasn’t going to be the first Hogan in generations to reach the six foot mark. Therefore, they would have sensibly advised me to set out goals that were a little more realistic.

An average seconds rugby player? Perhaps. A world-class basketball player? Come on sonny boy, get real.

If either mammy or daddy had been so reckless as to say “You can do anything if you put your mind to it”, I may have spent years of wasted toil, trying to achieve the blatantly unachievable.

Irish Entrepreneur Magazine did nothing for realistic ambitions last week with the launch of its campaign titled ‘You can do anything’ which, in fairness, has the noble aim of encouraging entrepreneurism in Ireland.

But why make your slogan so all-encompassing? What’s wrong with ‘You can do anything as long as it’s within reason and your physical and mental limitations’?

Some friendly advice

Continuing with the negativity this week, I’d like to have an ever so slight, friendly, barely-noticeable dig at Live 95 FM.

Not so long ago, I provoked the ire of another local radio station with a less than complimentary comment on its news broadcasts so I shall try my best to tread very carefully as I have no desire to make any more enemies in the broadcasting world.

That said, something really has to be done about 95 FM’s daytime playlist. Remember the Tony Rich Project? Someone on the Dock Road certainly does because ‘Nobody Knows’, his one and only big hit from 1995, is played at least three times a week on Live 95 FM.

And how about Eagle Eye Cherry? His song, ‘Save Tonight’, reached about number six in the charts back in 1997 but that doesn’t stop it from getting as much airplay as good old Tony Rich.

And then there’s also Green Day’s ‘Time of Your Life’, now most commonly heard being murdered by pimply teenagers who have just learned how to play a few guitar chords, but still getting banged out a few times weekly on 95 FM also.

Please don’t take this as heartfelt criticism, more of an impassioned plea in the name of all that is tasteful to change the playlist just a little.

Rugby matches, tiddlywinks and gay pride parades all set for Croke Park in 2009.

2009-01-28T07:29:00.000-08:00

Two years ago - when I was still just a wide-eyed student of journalism dreaming of one day getting to report on Limerick city council meetings - I wrote a letter to a national newspaper, arguing that Croke Park should be opened up for the Heineken Cup semi-final if Munster and Leinster were to clash at that stage.

At the time, Lansdowne Road was not available and both teams had qualified for the quarter-finals. As it turned out, neither went any farther so my argument was moot.

However, that didn't stop a barrage of abusive letters - one of them 12 typed pages long - being sent to my address which, in my naivety, I had allowed to be printed in its entirety. I treasured each and every one of these hate-spewing letters as proof that I was capable of getting a reaction out of people with just a few words by firmly laying out my position on something.

That the reaction I provoked was - for the most part - one of temple-bursting rage made it all the better. One letter started off 'Dear Idiot'. Several of my abusers called me a 'West Brit'. If memory serves me correctly, only one provided me with a return address.

It was glorious. I could almost hear them lashing their hurleys in fury against every solid surface in their cave after reading my letter to the editor.

One particularly warped individual from the North even predicted that opening up Croke Park was just another ploy by the Brits to get their grubby mits back on the republic and I was just too darned stupid to see it.

Of course my letter also prompted a number of well laid-out, reasonable reponses. But they were mostly sent to and printed in the newspaper that had printed the original letter. Two subsequent letters from Your Truly were also printed as the argument grew legs over the next fortnight.

Anyway the point of this is that once again the scenario has arisen whereby Munster and Leinster could well face off in a European semi-final and there may be no choice but for the game to be played outside of Ireland.

I'm aware that there is every possibility the GAA could open up Croke Park for such a fixture. But I'm also certain that there are still those whose eyes will water, toes curl and rectums tighten at the very idea of the ground opening up not only for internationals but also for provincial rugby games. I'd like to hear your reactions again guys.

With that in mind, I will once again lay out my position that Croke Park was built with the money of taxpayers (many of whom have never even watched a GAA game) and - if not quite a national stadium - then the ground should at least strive to serve the interests of all Irish citizens, GAA supporters or not.

If demand is sufficient amongst the Irish public to make an event commercially viable and it doesn't conflict with an existing GAA fixture or present a serious threat to the stadium and its surface, then it should take place in Croker whether its a Heineken Cup game, the Tiddlywinks Championships or a gay pride parade.

No home address this time I'm afraid, so abuse will have to be restricted to the comments section.

Thomond Park may be invaded by legions of Fiachras, Fintans and Fachtnas

2009-01-23T02:11:00.000-08:00

This week's column from the paper.

IN A few months time, there’s more than a small chance that the rugby world will truly enter the Twilight Zone, with Munster calling the RDS home and Leinster setting up temporary residence in Thomond Park.

I excrement you not. This could actually happen if both sides were to reach the European Cup semi-finals and - by the luck of the draw - each were to get a home fixture.

ERC rules stipulate that teams who receive home advantage for a European semi cannot play the game in their home ground and must nominate a neutral venue in their home country.

That rules Thomond Park out and the regulations of the GAA mean that Croke Park would also not be an option (heaven forbid an Irish side were to play a game in a stadium which was built with Irish tax-payers’ money.)

Unfortunately, construction work in Lansdowne Road won’t be completed on time either and that leaves one undesirable remaining option.

While particularly delusional Leinster fans will tell you that the Royal Dublin Society has become something of a fortress since Drico and pals started plying their trade there, in reality it is the ugly cousin to Thomond Park’s homecoming queen.

For one thing, the ground can only hold 18,500 (although this would have to be increased to 20,000 for a European semi-final). On top of that, my reliable rugby sources inform me that well over half of these tickets would go to sponsors and visiting fans if the match were to be played there.

Also, playing our home match in our arch rival’s ground would necessitate having to navigate the labyrinthine streets of the capital. Half of us probably wouldn’t make it past the Red Cow Roundabout.

And as if that isn’t bad enough, on the same weekend that we’re all out of town, legions of Leinster supporters will invade our brand new stadium when no one’s looking.

Limerick will become part of the Pale for 24 hours as blue, harp-emblazoned flags are draped around Thomond Park, ‘Alive Alive-O’ is sung from the terraces and barmen in the stadium try to figure out what the hell Courvoisier Cognac is.

It’s just not right. Richard Harris would do a few pirouettes in his grave, stray dogs would howl outside the stadium gates and - worst of all - instead of respectful silence, kicks at goal would be marked by cheers and jeers from legions of Fiachras, Fintans and Fachtnas.

I know it may be jumping the gun a little to speak of this possibility before Munster even play their last group game but if we don’t address the matter now, it may be too late. You have been warned.

Lucky gal

NOTHING says ‘I love you’ quite like phoning in a few bomb threats to your girlfriend’s school just so she can get out of class early, as the old saying goes.

That was the course of action taken by lovesick puppy (and complete looney tune) Christopher Wiley in Pennsylvania, USA, who caused his lucky girlfriend’s school to be evacuated 13 times over the space of eight days.

“What’s the problem there?” says you.

“None at all, just a bit of craic.” says I.

But those right-wing nuts in America don’t take kindly to the odd love-inspired bomb threat, it seems, as they threw poor old Chris into the slammer for his antics.

What an over-reaction. I mean he didn’t even blow up the school. Not once.

Thank the gods the authorities on this side of the Atlantic are a little more understanding when it comes to the crazy hijinks of a man in love. I’ll tell you, if I was flung behind bars every time I rang in a bomb threat, kidnapped a beloved pet or wrote a love letter in my own blood just to impress the object of my affections, I’d have my own suite in Limerick Prison.

Sweet nothings

SPEAKING of sacrifices made in the name of love, one unlucky Chinese lady will be hearing sweet feck all - as opposed to sweet nothings - for a while after a supposedly inoocent smooch caused her to lose her hearing in one hear.

Such a powerful kisser was her boyfriend that he caused the pressure in her mouth to reduce, pulling her eardrum out and causing the breakdown of her ear.

Thankfully, her hearing should be back to normal in three months time, the lady’s doctor pointed out between guffaws of laughter.

To Russia for love

2009-01-21T02:31:00.000-08:00

On an almost daily basis, I receive an email from a different misfortunate Eastern European sexpot begging for financial aid to help her and her poor, misfortunate family in these tough economic times. In exchange for my largess, they also extend an invitation to join them in their freezing little village where they will express their gratitude. I think it's time to take them up on the offer.

This is Elena, she lives with her mother and 7-year-old daughter in Russia, she found my email address on the internet apparently. My beloved Elena is currently suffering through one of the coldest ever Russian winters and all she wants is a portable stove heater to heat her daughter and old mother.

She says I can send her one if I want but that it would actually be cheaper just to send her the €192 and she'll buy it herself. Already she's looking to save me a little money, what a darling!

She lives 200km from moscow and it's meant to be very cold but I'll send the money for the heater on ahead, so by the time I arrive to take my place as the patriarch of my new Russian family, herself and the mother should have the thing installed and on full blast.

Anyway it may be a while before you see any more updates here as Elena says there's no electricity in her village. That has left me a little confused about how she got my email address and had access to the internet but I suppose only a true fool searches for reason in the ways of love.

Blog awards announced. Vote fixing undeniable

2009-01-20T08:42:00.000-08:00

My fellow Leaderite Alan Owens has been nominated for the Irish blog awards while still only in his blogging infancy.

Leaving aside the highly contentious issue of my non-inclusion on the shortlist, let me offer my hearty congratulations to Alan and of course to the elders of the local blogging community, most notably Bock and Squid but most, most notably Dick.

The full list of nominees is available here.

Death Metal Baby

2009-01-18T08:08:00.000-08:00

Death metal has traditionally been the preserve of white, middle class, Cookie Monster-voiced dweebs who are still angry at their dad, such as this delightful chappy.

However, the genre got an shot in the arm last week with the emergence of this little legend. Already he's better than 99.99999% of his peers. His debut album, "Satan's soother" is due out in the first quarter of 2009. Enjoy!

Why does drunken old Gazza still get more attention than the Gaza Strip?

2009-01-15T06:14:00.000-08:00

“‘SURVIVING Gaza’. That must be a programme about the Palestinians getting bombed,” said one of my housemates, as he caught the very end of a TV ad for a Channel 4 programme.

Having caught the full ad, however, I regretfully informed Leo that the programme was in fact called ‘Surviving Gazza’, a programme about the bloodsucking Gascoigne family who decided the best way to tackle their father’s horrid alcohol and mental problems was to make a warts-and-all documentary about putting up with him.

Paul Gascoigne’s every fall from the horse has been plastered across the tabloids for the last number of years. However, if he still experiences rare moments of lucidity, it must have really hurt to see his ex-wife and kids pile on a little more shame by allowing the media even greater access to his car crash of a life.

Now those familiar with his glamour model daughter, Bianca (not his real daughter by the way but hey, the lads mags are far more likely to give a call if you hold onto that surname) won’t be too surprised that she will do almost anything to keep the media spotlight on herself and her inflated chest.

But it seems Bianca didn’t lick her attention-craving ways from the rocks, as proven by her mother and brothers’ complete willingness to describe Gascoigne’s fall from grace in intimate detail to the cameras.

Even the youngest of the family had no problem saying for the cameras that he hoped he never saw his father again, a statement gobbled up by the red-tops and emblazoned across front pages days in advance of the programme’s screening.

And it’s this aforementioned gobbling and emblazoning that has me put out more than anything else. The fact that tabloids are more than willing to convey every tragic detail of a tragic loser’s life as he hurtles towards its premature end, all in the name of increasing circulation.

Not for a second am I suggesting that Gazza is a victim - that he is a spoilt, abusive alcoholic is undeniable - but he has seemed fully capable of making his life miserable enough in recent years without needing any additional help.

If Leo hadn’t been mistaken and the documentary had been a look at what it’s like to live under the constant threat of lethal bombardment in Gaza, I wonder would it have been as well-watched? Would the papers have mentioned any of the programme’s details anywhere other than the TV listings?

Of course not. The embarrassing and private details about how a once talented footballer has drank himself insane and will soon drink himself into the grave, as told by his family, is far more entertaining than the slaughter of hundreds of innocents.

And this is just one example of sensational nonsense trumping actual news.

For two days this week on Sky News, the top story was that Prince Harry had said something ignorant and insensitive - but in no way malicious - three years ago, by calling a close colleague of his in the army his “Paki friend”.

Another video showed him saying to a friend that he looked like a “raghead”. Again, his words were insensitive but by all accounts, the term is one commonly used by many soldiers to describe the enemy in war zones such as Afghanistan and Iraq and not assigned to each and every citizen of the country which they are - in theory - protecting.

A third video showed him making a mock phone call to his grandmother in which he signed off saying; “God save you” which - in fairness to Harry - is just funny.

But the reaction to the release of these videos has had self-righteous commentators and even the Prime Minister lecturing from atop their high horses as if a 21-year-old man saying something stupid was completely unheard of before now.

If it’s dumbass observations from young males that make headlines these days, then my friends and I could give the tabloids enough material for months in one evening if they’d like to call around.

Life ain't fair (RIP Jeremy)

2009-01-14T07:11:00.000-08:00

Robert Mugabe, Osama Bin Laden, Michael Bolton. Three truly evil men, all of whom almighty Xenu hasn't yet seen fit to take from this earth and yet a few days ago, the fecker sent my fish Jeremy to the great fishbowl in the sky without a thought.

My friend Steve and I were joint custodians of Jeremy for many joyful months. Never once did he complain about having to be kept in a frying pan when we washed his bowl. Nor did he mind when we accidentally dropped the odd household item into his home.

Not one sign of jealousy did he show when we introduced him to his new brother, Superhans. In fact, he almost jumped out on to the floor such was his excitement at greeting his new bowlmate.

And now he's gone and Bolton's still banging out the hits.

I swear, it's times like these I start to doubt whether Xenu really did bring billions of people to Earth in spacecraft resembling Douglas DC-8 airliners, stacked them around volcanoes and detonated hydrogen bombs in the volcanoes.

Here's a picture of Jez from back in the good ol' days (with Steve in the background).

And here's a classy silhouette pic I took of Jeremy while he watched TV, oh how he loved the soaps.

Sigur Ros makes everything alright

2009-01-12T06:40:00.001-08:00

THERE I was in Penney’s, queuing up like all the other decent human beings, socks and jocks in hand (I’ve yet to find a brand that can match Primark for comfort while also allowing full range of motion to my sizeable thighs).

At least 20 shoppers - each of them bearing their own haul of cheap undies - separated myself and the counter but thankfully I was prepared for the inevitable wait.

Planning ahead, I had packed the ipod which meant I would’t have to listen to the horrid 14-year-old in front of me tell her gaggle of nodding dominions what an intolerable wench her mother was for ringing to see when she’d be home.

“So she was like ‘When you will be home for your dinner?’ and I was like, ‘God mom would you just relax, I’ll be home later, don’t you have anything else to do besides annoy me? Just leave me alone.’”

Honestly, if one of my future offspring ever responded like that to an offer of free food, the locks at home would be changed and the door slammed in their face faster than they could say “Daddy I’m sorry”.

Before I had to listen to anymore of the poisonous rant, I slipped in the earphones, closed my eyes and the Hulk was kept at bay for another while.

Sigur Ros makes everything alright.

I released a long, loud exhalation of relief which caused everyone within earshot to get more than a little alarmed, but they all calmed down upon realising that my hands were in full view and inactive.

The queue moved along nicely, while Vicky Pollard resumed her bitchfest which was now thankfully drowned out by the far more pleasant sounds being played in my ear.

And then, just as I had relaxed into the rhythm of the queue, out of nowhere comes this line-jumping old tart, taking her place at least five spaces above me. I briefly considered strangling her with the socks but abandoned my plans after remembering that Penney’s frown on that kind of thing, especially if you haven’t paid for the socks.

Then I hoped that the little teenage horror in front of me may have had some bark to go with her bite but she was still so consumed by what an absolute gimp her mother was that she hadn’t even noticed the infringement.

Now before I proceed any further, I should point out that I’m actually quite a chivalrous sort, holding doors for ladies, giving up seats on the bus and all that. But this one was taking liberties, presuming that because she was an elder of the female tribe, she could just land herself anywhere in the queue, regardless of how long the others had been waiting.

After establishing that all the other cowards in the line had no intention of pulling the invader up on her offence, I hit her with the normally effective tactic of making several loud, indignant snorts while attempting to fix her with a beady stare.

Unfortunately she’d obviously done this before though, as she gave off the impression of being completely oblivious to the beady-eyed snorter a few spaces behind her.

Okay Skippy, you want to dance, I can dance.

If the snorts weren’t going to work, I had no option but to pull out the big guns. I started barking out some of the angriest coughs Penney’s has heard it quite some time. It’s a genuine mystery how someone didn’t call security such was the anger conveyed in my throat-clearing.

But still no reaction. This conniving little old lady may have been a pensioner but she had a poker face that would put Doyle Brunson to shame.

It was clear to me now that full-blown confrontation was the only answer. She’d skipped her last queue. Time to pay the piper Granny, and for the record, the piper is going to buy six pairs of socks and two pairs of large boxers before you get to that counter.

“Excuse me? Sorry, excuse me? Sorry, m’am? Sorry,it’s just that there’s a..”

As reprimands go, this wasn’t up there with the best of them. So sheepish were my attempts to get Skippy’s attention that she hadn’t even heard me, even though I’d apologised to her three times already.

“Sorry miss, there’s a queue behind you miss.”

That’s more like it, now you’ve got your gander up. Give her hell Hogan!

“Excuse me m’am but you have skipped a queue. Just because you tick the Old and Female boxes doesn’t entitle you to free passage at every turn you know.”

But it was too late, she’d already made it to the till and had paid for her goods leaving me standing there, now fuming, and looking to those around me like someone who goes around shops abusing pensioners for sport.

Back in go the earphones.

Sigur Ros makes everything alright.

O, to be a wandering mongrel

2009-01-06T08:19:00.000-08:00

O Lord, isn’t it just wonderful to be back at work? I can’t think of anywhere in the world I’d rather be than at my desk on this Monday morning as the rest of the world continues to nurse its festive hangover.

My walk to work this morning was along a deserted O’Connell Street. Gone were the usual cast and crew of screaming school children, friendly lollipop ladies, depressed office workers and stroppy-looking college students.

Along the way, I met only a wandering mangy mongrel, whose frothy jaw dropped in shock at the sight of a lone worker walking into the office at 7.30 in the morning on December 29.

“What are you looking at dog? I got Christmas and St Stephen’s day off, some of us have to actually work for our wages, we can’t all be bloody teachers you know,” I snapped.

The scraggly mongrel looked a little hurt at my outburst so I apologised and offered him the remainder of my toast but kept the last bit of cheese to myself. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

“I’m fine thanks,” he declined. “I’ve got three turkeys buried in People’s Park and I’m off to collect a fourth now from an old woman down on Ballinacurra Road.”

I momentarily considered joining the dog on his travels for turkey. How bizarre would that have looked? A man in a shirt and tie, turning up at your front door on all fours with a manky, soaking dog.

“We’re here for the turkey m’am.”

Wouldn’t it be grand though? Flouncing around the place with all the other carefree canines, collecting castaway turkeys at every open bin, not to mention being able to scratch wherever and whenever the mood struck you.

Have you ever noticed how satisfied a dog looks while having a good scratch? I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever felt that level of satisfaction.

The more I thought about it, the more attractive an option a dog’s life seemed. A return to nature, no more 9 to bloody 5, no more deadlines, getting up when you wanted, going to sleep when you felt like it, roaming the streets, chasing cars, barking at children, biting the particularly annoying children.

What part of that doesn’t sound like fun?

I dropped my bag and spun around to call the dog back but he had already bounded 100 yards down the road, head held high, his tail wagging vigorously at the thought of the half-eaten turkey in Ballinacurra with his name on it.

Puppy-strangling, toenail-eating, anything but shopping!

2008-12-30T06:41:00.000-08:00

EAT a bowl of Jade Goody’s toenails. Sit through every series of Sex and the City. Snog Brian Cowen (with lots of tongue). Strangle a puppy dog. Eat my own pancreas. Just a selection of tasks that I would gladly choose over doing one more minute of Christmas shopping this festive feckin’ season.

This really has to be one of the most tortorous tasks known to man. And when I say man, I don’t mean mankind, I speak of my fellow males because as far as I can make out gents, the women really seem to have taken to this shopping lark.

They don’t seem to mind piling into stuffy shops with hordes of other bloodthirsty shoppers and useless assistants where ‘Driving home for Christmas’, ‘All I want for Christmas is you’ and ‘The fairytale of New York’ are played ad nauseum. On the contrary, the ladies seem to enjoy this sickening environment.

I, on the other hand, start to sweat profusely and become short of breath the instant I set foot inside these cesspits shopping centres.

Being the only brother to two younger girls means I have not only had to endure a lifetime of “Your sister’s a bird” taunts from friends, but I also have to do my Christmas shopping in the horrific confines of the ladies’ shops.

Looking for all the world like a bunny rabbit that’s wandered into a Home for Demented and Rabid Rottweilers, I wander around the clothes shops, exchanging a knowing grunt or nod with the other male shoppers who are also on their annual trip to this particular corner of hell.

With no small amount of difficulty, I try to catch a glimpse of what other girls are buying while at the same time trying (sometimes unsuccessfully) not to look like at any minute I’m going to run off with them in a sack over my shoulder.

When the clothes shops fail, there’s always the perfume option. But of course this proves to be just as difficult an excursion seen as all of the available fragrances just smell like plain old woman to me.

At first, I presumed I’d be fairly safe buying one of those new celebrity perfumes that are so popular now. If they look pretty they must spell nice, right?

Wrong. An acquaintance of the female variety subsequently informed me that while a few of the celeb smells are nice, you may as well be buying bottled fart with some of the others. Apparently Beyonce has a pleasant odour but Britney stinks to high heaven, an example of fragrance imitating life if ever one was needed.

The Christmas shopping cannot be done in one trip but in several half hour, “in-and-out” bursts instead. Too long spent in those hellish environs would undoubtedly result in a complete breakdown of my mental - and possibly physical - functions.

Despite a few close calls, however, I have yet to collapse into the foetal position and wail for my mother while in the middle of trying to choose what kind of shoes 18-year-old girls are wearing these days.

Then once the shopping is finally complete, I can get down to the lovely business of looking forward to Christmas. But while most cite the anniversary of the birth of Santa as their reason for celebrating at this time of year, I’ll drink to the fact that it’s another whole year before I have to go shopping for bloody presents.

To my dear friends

AS THE year draws to a close, there are some housekeeping matters that need attending before I disappear into 2009.

While I do attempt to peeve the overly-sensitive members of each and every group, creed, gender, county, province, profession and persuasion equally, inevitably I will always miss out one or two. For this I apologise.

In a perfect world, I’d have the time, talent and round-the-clock security team to toy with the sensibilities of each and every one of the easily-offended but alas in a perfect world we are not.

The best I can offer the hilariously indignant for now is the promise that I will try and get round to making the blood boil in the veins underneath your impossibly thin skin as soon as possible in the new year.

Shite-spouting Peaches

2008-12-23T06:37:00.000-08:00

PEACHES Geldof is a twit, a shite-spouter extraordinaire, a trollop with notions so high above her station that the station has long disappeared in the distance. You get the picture.
Now in fairness to Peaches - and her sisters, Turnip and Avocado - she didn’t have much of a chance from the off, seen as she is the spawn of that paragon of poop-talk, Bob Geldof.
But despite the Hairy One’s tendency of scolding the entire planet at once from atop his high horse, Sir Bob’s heart does seem to be in the right place. His daughter is another kettle of (spoilt-rotten, self-important) fish entirely however.
Hailed as a fashion icon and the new It girl - the only requirement of which seems to be getting photographed wankered drunk, walking into nightclubs with apparent “musicians” - Peaches really took the biscuit this week by claiming that daddy was the product of a poverty-stricken upbringing.
Trying to explain why she would be spending Christmas with her father instead of her husband of four months, the 19-year-old said it was tradition to spend the festive season with Bob.
"My dad takes Christmas very seriously because he had a very deprived Irish childhood, so he loves to go all-out to compensate. I think it's more for him, but it's very sweet,” Peaches told Hello magazine during a rare window of sober lucidity.
For those not in the know, Bob’s “deprived Irish childhood” was spent in Dun Laoghaire, not exactly the ghetto by any stretch of the imagination. A community association that includes the likes of Bono, Van Morrison, Eddie Irvine and Neil Jordan would further suggest that Geldof’s old neighbourhood isn’t quite a hub of deprivation.
Geldof also received his secondary education in Blackrock College, one of the most exclusive and expensive private schools in the country.
Not many impoverished boys have dragged their hungry broke asses along those corridors I’m afraid Your Peachness.