Once more with ill-tempered feeling, it's Christmas cold turkey

Sunday Tribune 28 December

I'll happily bet that Sir Walter bloody Raleigh never wore nicotine patches. Or made New Year's resolutions. I'll bet he never once sloped off to the fire escape on a busy workday morning for a furtive fag, or smelt like a perambulating ashtray.
He didn't have yellow fingers, bleeding gums or a larynx-loosening cough. I'll wager the swine never even knew how to spell 'Marlboro' when he sailed away from the New World with a hold full of weeds.
So why didn't he stick to inventing the potato or whatever else he did with his weekends? Why did he have to make this time of year such an unbearable pain in the bottom for millions of people?
Next Thursday, hordes of us smokers will wake up and resolve (after a bit of sputum hocking) never to smoke again.
It'll be like this great global cacophony; a bazillion throaty fanfares greeting the arrival of a fresh new day.
Then half of us will go "oh, jaysus" and reach for the ciggies.
I won't be one of them however. I normally last six days.
No, on Thursday I will be relatively clean smelling (relative to a dead skunk at any rate) and partially lung-clear. I will also be fidgety, cranky, depressed, aggressive, jittery, boorish and decidedly unhappy.
Normally I am only three of these things at any one time, so you can imagine my predicament. I will not so much be climbing the walls as doing my best impression of Spiderman on Speed.
The world, as you are no doubt aware, is divided into two camps; those who are addicted to nicotine and those who suffer from nicotine addiction.
I am in the former camp; my family and most of my friends are in the latter. Every January they have to suffer my mood swings as I try to keep myself from falling apart with patches and gum. My popularity – never the most remarkable of my personal attributes – will suffer greatly.
I will also be driven mad by people giving me advice. Non-smokers will tell me to stick with it, that every ciggie takes two minutes off my life. Smokers will, almost inevitably, then contradict this by saying that their granny smoked 500 Woodbines a day, drank a gallon of methylated spirits out of a galvanised bucket and still lived to the age of 104.
Who do you believe? I've done the sums and, if one ciggie equals two minutes, then I've already lost eight months off my life, which isn't too bad if I'm destined to live to 104, but not so great if God has short-term plans for me. So why am I going to bother again this year?
My dad was a smoker. He gave up in his 40s and lived to the age of 72. Cigarettes didn't kill him, but they certainly gave him emphysema which dramatically affected his quality of life.
The sound of dad gulping draughts of air, like a drowning man, clings to the memory like the graveyard mud that clung to my shoes this Christmas.
There were other sights and sounds too, when he was alive. The hum of the nebuliser pumping oxygen to his lungs never got so commonplace that it wouldn't distract you from the Christmas TV.
Then there was the panic in his eyes when the asthma and emphysema would conspire to launch a surprise attack on his weak lungs.
Dad was a gifted journalist, and even in the darkest moments of his decade-long death occasional bursts of tar-black humour would bubble to the surface.
When we were children he would strum the air and (kind of) sing "I brought my catarrh to a parteeeeee, but nobody asked me to play..." This was always rounded off with a disgusting, throaty "kkkkkwwwwwiiiikkkkkkkkk" sound that we kiddies thought was a hoot.
If he was here this Christmas he would be furiously encouraging me to stay off the ciggies, with patches, gum or whatever. And I would probably attempt some lame joke about cold turkey.
To which he would roll his eyes up to heaven and say:
"On your bike, Raleigh."

(Happy New Year)

Fate, the toss of a coin and why we are not just statistics

I wrote about my friend 'Luke' nine years ago and feel it's timely to retell his story this week. Luke isn't his real name: I've changed it for privacy reasons. His friends will know who I'm writing about.


Fate has a habit of arriving when you least expect it.
It leaped out at me 19 years ago on the way home from a workmate's wedding. It stole up on Luke with the toss of a coin two years later.
Luke spent a disproportionate amount of his early 20s playing draughts with Fate whenever he turned up for work. The
city centre branch of the financial institution that employed him held the record for most armed robberies back in the '80s.
Fortunately, the robbers who preyed on his workplace were not always top notch and sometimes succeeded only in terrifying the staff before legging it empty-handed.
Legend has it that at the end of one abortive raid Luke's shocked colleagues discovered he had gone missing in action. Fearing for his safety, a search party was assembled.
Cool Hand Luke was eventually found safe (literally) locked in the strongroom. He was, understandably, handled with gloves of the finest kid leather after his terrible ordeal.
Later, the video footage of him with his feet up, eating a packet of crisps, happily unaware of the commotion outside, did a lot to kill the initial sympathy.
Local lore also has it that on a notable Thursday, Luke and a colleague decided they'd start the weekend early. Luke came up with the idea of setting the clock forward by 10 minutes.
After the last customer had been shunted out the door the boys locked up and got ready to leave. At exactly (what should have been) 5.30pm there was a loud banging at the shutters and a gang of thwarted villains cursed their misfortune at arriving late (by Luke Time) to rob the place. Luke, typically, took it in his stride.
Two decades on, it's hard to recall if I told Luke about the night when Fate set in motion its plan for us.
As I said earlier, it leaped out on the way home from a colleague's wedding. Some of the other revellers in the minibus, who were singing merrily, didn't notice the fireball on the other side of the Naas dual carriageway. I did, and to my shame, was too jarred to question it. It looked like the work of vandals. The taximan kept driving.
The next day I read that a couple had stopped their car to eat chips in the lay-by when a drunk ploughed into them. They must still have been trapped inside when we passed by. Disgusted with myself, I swore to always stop and investigate in future.
Luke's moment with Fate came on a Friday night when he tossed a coin to decide which nightclub to go to: in quiet Killiney or busy Dun Laoghaire. So as not to hurt the feelings of one group of friends he 'cheated' and came to join us in Dun Laoghaire. We had a brilliant night.
But that was to be expected. Luke was the kind of man you had to have a good time with. His roguishness, his humour, his kindness, his spontaneity, frequently charmed the birds out of the trees.
Later my taxi passed by a road accident. Remembering Naas two years previously I insisted the driver pull over.
An injured man was lying face down by the side of the road. He had been hit by a speeding car.
Luke was dying. He had left the nightclub early and met Fate while walking home. He was gone a few hours later.
Nineteen years on his friends still swap stories about him. He's still vivid.
Last Monday Betty Cawley, who was the TV face of
families bereaved by road deaths, finally succumbed to injuries she suffered in a crash which claimed her daughter Errin in 2004.
To those who remember them, Luke, Betty and Errin aren't just statistics, like those which will be released shortly to tally up 2008's fatalities.
Please take care on the road this Christmas and have a happy and peaceful break.

dkenny@tribune.ie



December 21, 2008

And this little piggy had roast beef ... but I'm still going for the ham

14 December 2008

Extract from
'The Bacon Diaries'

Monday: 1pm. I am in my local, reading the menu. Despite a weekend of Christmas parties I still feel festive. I order the stuffed turkey.
A far from paltry pile of poultry arrives. I am drooling as I lift a flap of meat with my fork ... but wait, there's something miss- ing. Where's the ham?
I look at the menu again. There's '_ and cabbage', 'toasted _ and cheese', '_ and mash' and 'baked honeyglazed _'.
Switching my brain on I remember: pork is off. I push my plate away and contemplate Christmas – no, LIFE – without lovely pork. It's horrible. I realise that I am rocking back and forth, moaning quietly, the early stages of cold turkey. Soon, I notice the sound of manic crunching coming from the gloomier recesses of the pub. It is then that I make a startling discovery, which I'll tell you about later.
Tuesday: 11am. Air of gloom as lay-offs increase. Country waits for safety verdict from EU. A German friend of mine, Jason, is getting calls begging him not to eat Irish pork. The schweinhund! My own swine hunt continues as I beg for a rasher sandwich.
2pm. Wondering if Cowen has done the right thing by doing a Schwarzenegger (Total Recall). Is he the man to save our bacon now our goose is cooked? Medi- cal cards, Lisbon and now this?
3pm. I contemplate the thorough Irishness of the pig. No Victorian Punch cartoon of a Paddy was complete without a pig in his parlour.
Pigs feature in our mythology, bedtime stories and rhymes: from 'Mac do Tho's Pig' to the 'Three Little Piggies' to 'This Little Piggy Went to Market'. Actually, doesn't the last line of that go: "and this little piggy had roast beef."? Change that to: "this little piggy had rendered animal waste tainted by dioxin-rich fuel fumes.…"
The pig has given us phrases for when we're celebrating: "we're on the pig's back." Cocking up: "you made a pig's ear of that." Earning: "bringing home the bacon." In trouble: "Sketch! It's the Pigs!!"
I resolve to forego Lidl and wait for Irish ham to return. I will then buy lorryloads of it. I will ask you to do the same.
Wednesday: 4pm. The Danes are saying nasty things about our pork. It's obvious they just want payback for Clontarf. It's nothing to do with selling their products here.
While they're mouthing off, the EU says our rashers are safe. SAFE?? Haven't they seen the gick that comes off them when they're frying? You're more likely to die of a coronary eating one than dioxin poisoning. It's 'Rasher Roulette' – but we love it.
5pm. I decide to appeal to any butcher reading this to make me a quiet offer on a dioxin ham. Part of the deal is you have to cook it for me. I'm serious. Email me.
Thursday: 9.30am. See some workmen forlornly eating ciabatta rolls filled with falafal and rocket leaves. Even their 'builder's crack' isn't smiling. They don't know Superquinn is back selling Irish pork.
10.45am. Again wondering if the government overreacted. I conclude that, in fairness, it may be the first thing that Cowen's lot has got right. It seems a case of "damned if you do, etc."
11.30pm. Dream of Cowen posing for the cameras stuffing his face with bacon to show the world everything is okay. He looks like a man who likes his rashers. Maybe by the time this is printed he will have done so.
Friday: 8am. Wake up worried that I'm having dreams about Brian Cowen.Then I remember to explain Monday's crunching sound.
As I was suffering pork withdrawals, the bar was doing a brisk trade on piggy methadone – aka, Bacon Fries. I ordered three packs and wondered how they would go with sprouts. Then I read the ingredients. I was startled. Did you know that Bacon Fries have zero pork in them?
Despite looking the part, they are a sham. Then, when it comes to the crunch, they disintegrate.
And no, Mr Cowen, we're not drawing any comparisons ... this time.

At least the price of drowning our sorrows is staying the same

Question: What's the difference between a pint of Guinness and a Dublin city councillor? (The answer's at the end, now please read on…)
Last week, the nation's publicans announced their new initiative to battle the economic crisis.
The price of a pint (cue drumroll) will be… FROZEN for 12 months. Ta-dah!
This announcement was greeted with derision by most tipplers who saw it as a cynical PR ploy by the vintners' associations.
People don't have sympathy for publicans. Drink is too expensive in pubs, the mark-up on soft drinks is outrageous and don't get me started about crisps.
Publicans blame the smoking ban, drink-driving laws, energy costs and Diageo (Guinness) for hiking up prices. Everybody, except themselves.
Since 2001, 10% of Ireland's pubs (1,500) have closed. The Thomas Read group last week became the latest casualty. In isolated rural areas these closures are causing serious hardship.
In 2001, pubs held 68% of the drinks market. Last year, this figure dropped to 48% as off-licences benefited from more people drinking at home.
Why is this? Price is obviously a factor. Dublin's city-centre drinkers are well used to being fleeced. One pub near the Dáil actually hikes up its prices after 11pm.
Then there's the drink driving. And the new work practices; earlier starts, later arrivals home from work.
There's the cheaper off-licences too: if you can buy a bottle of wine for the price of two pints why go to the pub?
In September, the ESRI pointed out one good reason for not doing your drinking at home. It revealed that the number of cases of women in their mid-30s presenting with liver disease more than doubled from 18 in 2002 to 39 in 2006. The figure for men in this age category had risen from 45 to 47. The HSE's Dr Joe Barry blamed the rise on increased consumption of wine at home.
The temptation to open that second bottle is definitely greater at home where we can let our hair down in private.
And there'll be a lot more drinking done at home this Christmas due to the bargains in Newry. Sainsbury's up there, by the way, sells more alcohol than any other branch in the UK.
This is not good for the nation's livers – or locals.
The pub isn't just about getting jarred. It's the nation's parlour. It's the home of debate, banter, people-watching. We romance there, we cheer our teams there, we wake our loved ones there: as Charlie Chawke was being interviewed by RTÉ outside The Goat pub on Monday, there were three funeral lunches taking place inside.
The Consumer Agency last week correctly said prices must come down if pubs are to survive. In October, the Evening Herald reported that many Dublin publicans were doing the opposite and raising prices before the budget. They did the same in August prior to a rise by Diageo.
That hike by Diageo had been criticised by the Irish Farmers Association, who said that while the company was blaming high raw material costs, its main supplier of barley was cutting the price paid to growers by more than 20%. Was this barley saving ultimately passed on to customers? No.
Despite their transgressions, the vintners deserve credit for their price freeze. Diageo should follow their lead and not raise prices next March as it have said it will.
The publicans effectively took a price cut last Monday when they absorbed the VAT hike and will do so again if Diageo doesn't play ball. It's small change, but it's a start. Instead of being accused of cynicism, they should be encouraged to continue along this road.
Save your derision, instead, for Dublin City Council. Unlike the publicans, these clowns are still raising their prices. Last week, they hiked parking charges up 20 cents an hour, claiming it would free up space for Christmas shoppers.
If that's so, will they lower the charges after Christmas? Don't hold your breath.
And so, finally: what's the difference between a pint of Guinness and a city councillor?
One's famous for its big, thick head… and the other's a pint of stout.

Fair play to Pat The Ripper for reminding us of our manners

30 November 2008

The Toy Show has been put back in the attic for another year. The audience are back home, showing off their free gifts – and photos with Pat – to the neighbours.
One woman who isn't sharing their memories is the raffle winner from Cork who told Pat she wasn't interested in attending, prompting him to rip up her tickets.
His behaviour has his detractors quoting his wages, perceived woodenness etc. His fans, and others, think what he did was understandable, considering the woman's attitude towards the nation's favourite Christmas show.
Whatever way you look at it, Pat The Ripper's reaction was a statement on the death of good manners in this country.
A fortnight ago the president of DCU, Professor Ferdinand von Prondzynski, said "we now treat the concept of manners as outdated, and maybe even vaguely embarrassing."
This wasn't a new observation. In 1998, the Small Firms Association began organising seminars on etiquette. It said that life here had become so fast that "people do not have the time to be polite" adding, "20 years ago good manners were expected, now they are noticed."
As prosperity increased, we changed from the 'Can-do' race to the 'Can-do-what-we-want' race.
I encountered an example of this in the cinema last Tuesday. A couple arrived late, pushed their way down our row and then rustled, texted, spoke loudly and drummed the back of the seats in front of them. When they were shushed from across the cinema they laughed.
I didn't say anything. I'm not going to get thumped over a film.
They are not unique. They have soulmates, for example, in the people who use their mobile phones as weapons of mass distraction by shouting into them in public places like the bus or dentist's waiting room.
Or in private: a survey by the firm 'easyMobile' found that 75% of people answer calls during dinner with friends. Sixty per cent of those same people thought this practice was rude – when others did it.
Then there are the commuters who turn their iPods up full volume. And the shop assistants who ignore you while they chat on the phone. And the people who don't say "thank you" when you hold the door open for them. And the neighbour who leaves their dog out barking all night.
What about the inconsiderate people who park in front of gates? Or in disabled parking spaces? (Rosanna Davison got clamped in one last month.)
Or land their helicopters on the roofs of shopping centres?
Or let their children run wild around restaurants?
And how about the youngsters who hang around the streets being obnoxious?
What do we do about all this selfish behaviour? We let it go because we're too scared to confront it. That's not without reason: you just don't know how violent the response will be.
Lynne Truss, the author of Talk to the Hand: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, maintains that many rude people live in their own little 'bubbles', cut off by headphones or the overriding importance of their own desires.
In philosophy this is known as 'solipsism': "I close my eyes and the world ceases to exist."
Too many Irish people are guilty of this blind disregard for others. There is also an increasing number of aggressive types who know what they're doing is rude but just don't care.
Even our politicians, whose manners used to be so well-greased – and irritating – have let standards slip. Brian Cowen's preternatural rudeness suggests, "I got your votes, now p**s off."
I was never a big fan of Pat Kenny on TV – until 'Ticketgate'. Some saw him being petulant, I saw him saying that he wasn't going to tolerate rudeness on his show.
That lady from Cork did little to promote common courtesy. Still, I feel a bit sorry for her. If only she had told a white lie: "I haven't decided who to bring", when asked, she wouldn't have made the headlines.
Come to think of it, then neither would the announcement that the raffling of her tickets had raised €1,500 for Our Lady's Hospital for Sick Children in Crumlin, Dublin.
Good man, Pat. Keep fighting the good fight.
Any chance you could rip up Cowen's Finance Bill?


November 30, 2008