Category: Sport

  • My Team / Your Team

    In the first part of his essay concerning his enduring lifelong fandom of Manchester City FC, and the club’s current owners’ wealth vis-á-vis his left-wing politics, Desmond Traynor recounts his origin story as a supporter of the club, and offers a critique of the Irish soccer commentariat’s biased attitude to City’s success.

    After many years in which the world has afforded me many experiences, what I know most surely in the long run about morality and obligations, I owe to football.
    Albert Camus, article in Racing Universitaire Algerios club’s alumni magazine (1957)

    Looking back, I can see that my attraction in starting to support Manchester City F.C. in 1968, at the age of seven, was perhaps the first indication of a budding contrarianism. Not that I had enough self-consciousness at the time to recognise it as such. What is interesting about certain decisions one makes as a child, adolescent, and even as a young adult, is that they are usually made prior to one having the full story, about oneself or others, or in general about this thing we call Life – if, indeed we ever get the full story. They tend to be instinctual, or even pre-cognitive, and so revealing of particular bedrock character traits in a still-forming personality. However, lest we kick off on the wrong foot, please note that I have not bestowed this questionable epithet on myself; rather, it has been attached to me by others. I do not necessarily think of myself as a contrarian, or even contrary. I just like different things than other people do, or have different reasons for liking the same things that other people also like. Which, obviously, could be said of anyone else’s idiosyncratic likes and dislikes. It’s called Taste, and there is no accounting for it – good or bad.

    The origin story runs like this: 1968 was the year Manchester United won the European Cup, and almost everyone in Ireland who was not already a fan of that club became one. They captured the floating voters. I thought to myself: ‘Screw this for a game of soldiers, I’ll be a Manchester City fan’. This was not merely, or only, evidence of a latent, wilful desire to be atypical or antagonistic, or the product of a childish caprice: we had a good side then, and won the League that same year, the F.A. Cup the following season, and the European Cup Winners’ Cup and the League Cup in the 1969/70 campaign. The team was full of gifted players, heroes whose magical names rolled off the tongue, which still resonate today (among City fans, at any rate): Francis Lee, Mike Summerbee, Neil Young (no, not that one!), Tony Book, Joe Corrigan. Best of all was Colin Bell, one of the greatest midfield playmakers England has ever produced. Shrewd, languid, possessed of incredible stamina (his nickname was Nijinsky – after the racehorse, although ballet dancers require considerable stamina too), he could run box to box, but he didn’t always need to, as he could pick out a defence-shredding pass from forty yards. He was the definition of ‘silky skills’. Such was my infatuation that, as a fledgling player, I modelled myself on his example. I even persuaded my mother to sew a number 8 onto the back of my boyhood City jersey, in his honour. (Speaking of jerseys, another reason for my plumping for City was that I preferred the sky blue they wore to the red sported by the Red Devils.) Bell’s career was cut short in November 1975 when, at the age of 29, his right knee was severely injured in a challenge by Manchester United’s captain Martin Buchan, during a League Cup derby at Maine Road.

    But then, apart from winning the League Cup in 1976 with a victory over Newcastle United at Wembley, we had a bad forty years or so at the office, with mid-table mediocrity gradually giving way to spells in the old Second Division (1983–1985, 1987–1989, 1996–1998, 1999–2000 and 2001–2002), yo-yoing between the top flight and what is now the Championship. We even endured the ignominy of being relegated to Division 3 for a year in 1998–1999 – as chronicled by Mark Hodkinson in a weekly column for The Times, later collected together in his book Blue Moon: Down Among The Dead Men With Manchester City (2011). Thus did the phrase ‘long-suffering’ come to be applied whenever City fans were spoken of by those of other allegiances. Hell, we even bestowed it on ourselves, often adding the equally derisive ‘typical Citeh’. In some unfathomably fatalistic way, it seemed I had been destined to support this club: its ethos suited the wry resignation of my ‘What can you do about it?’ temperament, with early promise curdling in to the predictable compromises of average adult living.

    Colin Bell b. 1946,

    City of Lost Souls

    All that has changed now, of course. ‘When City are great again…’ wrote Mancunian music critic and lifelong City fan Paul Morley, in a short article titled ‘City of Lost Souls’ (Arena, November 1998), and lo it has come to pass. In August 2008, City were purchased by the Abu Dhabi United Group, and massive investment ensued – not only in transfer spend on players, but on infrastructure, the youth academy, and the regeneration of east Manchester with facilities for the local community. Gradually, results began to match the upturn in player and managerial quality. 2011 saw City secure their first trophy in thirty-five years, with a 1-0 win over Stoke City in the FA Cup final. 2012 brought our first League (by then Premiership) title in forty-four years, with the famous two goals in injury time against relegation threatened Queens Park Rangers to turn a 1-2 deficit into a 3-2 victory in the last minute, thus beating United into second place on goal difference (having already thrown down a marker by thrashing them 6-1 at Old Trafford earlier in the season). Every City fan remembers where they were at 93:20 on that sunny Sunday afternoon in May, otherwise known as the ‘Agüeroooo!’ moment. Me, I kept watching replays of Sergio’s winning goal for a week afterwards, in an effort to make sure that I hadn’t developed mild psychosis and entered an alternative reality. It confirmed for me that football provided the last vestiges of Greek drama in contemporary society, except that this was aleatoric theatre – a pop-up, if you will – for if you wrote it as fiction no one would suspend disbelief at this patently manufactured deus ex machina finale. Just when we thought it was going to be another case of ‘Typical City’, we emerged into a bright new sky blue dawn. The second Golden Era, it seemed, was well underway.

    City won the Premiership again in 2013–14 under Manuel Pellegrini, who had replaced Roberto Mancini, the man who had presided over the beginnings of our historic resurgence. The arrival of tactician extraordinaire Pep Guardiola as coach in 2016 signalled the start of a period of sustained success for the club. City have won five out of a possible six Premiership titles between the 2017–18 and 2022–23 seasons, only finishing second behind Liverpool in 2019–20. 2018–19 saw City complete an unprecedented domestic treble of English men’s titles – the Premiership, F.A. Cup and League Cup. Add in a rake of League Cups over the same period, and the rosy picture is almost complete. But 2022–23 turned out to be the greatest season in our club’s history, as we not only won our third consecutive Premier League title, but also the F.A. Cup final against old foes Manchester United, and the long-awaited supposed Holy Grail, our first European Champions League Cup, in a final versus Inter Milan (incidentally, my favourite Italian team – almost a win-win situation, if there is such a thing), thereby achieving a rare feat – the continental treble.

    Which just goes to show: if you wait long enough, everything comes around.

    Envy and Ire

    Unsurprisingly, the influx of such vast resources, and the on-field dominance it has brought, has aroused the envy and ire of supporters of other clubs. (I hesitate to use the term ‘rivals’, as it suggests that there are teams capable of challenging us on a consistent basis; in this case, can we settle on ‘competitors’ as the designation least offensive to all parties?) This discontent at City’s serial successes is exacerbated by a sense of injustice, as accusations of City’s breaching of both UEFA’s and the English Football Association’s Financial Fair Play rules fuel feelings that the club has bought its way to the top, due to the deep pockets of its owners and their skulduggery in the dark arts of creative accounting. Furthermore, there is the implication that because said proprietors are one of the ruling families of the United Arab Emirates, and the U.A.E.’s human rights record is less than pristine, then City’s wealth is tainted and its fans are hypocrites. Friends and acquaintances have asked me, often goadingly: how I can profess to be any kind of socialist and yet continue to support a team which represents the triumph of monied elitism? What kind of cognitive dissonance is involved in advocating for Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions against apartheid Israel, when migrant workers are routinely treated appallingly in Abu Dhabi, and reports circulate of government critics of the U.A.E.’s repressive regime being imprisoned and tortured? Am I ultra-selective in the causes I choose to espouse? One of the things this essay is, is an attempt to address, and hopefully explain – if not quite reconcile – some of these apparent contradictions.

    This air of grievance is felt especially acutely in Ireland. There is a sketch by comedy trio Foil, Arms and Hog, where an applicant for Irish citizenship is asked a catalogue of questions as a test of knowledge for eligibility. One of the queries goes: ‘What are the two main religions in Ireland?’ Our candidate doesn’t miss a beat, responding with the quip, ‘Manchester United and Liverpool’.

    While there are devout members of other denominations – for example, Chelsea, Arsenal, Spurs, Leeds, Everton, Aston Villa and West Ham all enjoy healthy fanbases on these shores, and I have even met the odd adherent of exquisitely eccentric sects like Ipswich Town and Stoke City – the overwhelming majority of Irish soccer fandom of English clubs is comprised of faithful followers of either United or Liverpool. To be sure, there are often sound reasons for such gargantuan support, such as family tradition or connections with one or other of the clubs, or the presence of many Irish players or players of Irish extraction in current or previous squads. Yet, just as often, Irish people attach themselves to an English club for motives which are almost entirely arbitrary – the colour of a jersey or the first game they ever saw or a favourite player. (This is true of sporting loyalties, including football, everywhere. Although a Mancunian born and bred, qualified lawyer and professional investigative sports journalist David Conn, while hailing from a predominantly United family, became a City fan almost by accident, rather than orneriness: when he was six years old, and asked to choose between the two local clubs, he looked at their respective badges – United’s a red devil with horns, City’s a rose beneath a ship – and opted for light blue. Incidentally, Conn’s Richer Than God: Manchester City, Modern Football and Growing Up (2012) remains one of the best books about football ever written – and not just for City fans – combining as it does a forensic trawl through City’s financial dealings with the changing attitudes and mixed emotions of a lifelong fan witnessing the monetisation of the modern game. In many ways, my own effort here is just a pale imitation of Conn’s achievement, albeit from an Irish fan’s perspective.)

    But the most common explanation for the popularity of Liverpool and Manchester United in Ireland is, I submit, because both clubs were, in the past, serial winners, just as City have become today. Many of these could be termed ‘legacy fans’ (the same is true of Arsenal, Chelsea and Leeds) – relics of when their clubs were much more successful, which was when they started supporting them. It’s easy to back a winner, and there is safety – and solidarity – in numbers. The herd instinct kicks in. This is why one notices a more than average quota of fair-weather fans among their number. When their team of choice hit a bad run of form, or their trophy haul is depleted, you will hear all kinds of excuses for slackening of interest, and the declaration ‘The game is gone for me’ because of the deleterious influence of floods of cash, or the introduction of VAR, or the corruption of governing bodies, or whatever.

    Yet, if I had a penny for every ardent United or Liverpool fan I’ve ever met, and inquired of ‘Have you ever been to Old Trafford / Anfield?’, and drawn a blank – well, I would have a lot more pennies than I do today. For, as Paul Morley put it in his piece mentioned above: ‘To support United is too easy. It’s convenience supporting. It makes life too easy. There is no challenge. It is a cowardly form of escapism, a sell-out to the forces of evil…to support them is heroism in a can.’ Since the wheel of fortune has spun kindly in the direction of what legendary former United manager Sir Alex Fergusson once called their ‘noisy neighbours’, doubtless many United fans now feel exactly the same way about City. In United’s glory days, there used to be a loose coalition of fans of many other clubs congealed around the banner of ‘ABU’: Anyone But United. Nowadays, it has been supplanted by the amended acronym, ‘ABC’: Anyone But City. Fans of every club are inclined to partisan paranoia when they feel things are not going their way. But here’s the twist: there are far more Liverpool and Manchester United fans in Ireland than City fans. Is it any wonder that we City fans sometimes feel like a persecuted minority? And all for the crime of playing exciting, entertaining football – at a level rarely, if ever, seen before.

    Etihad Stadium, Manchester.

    Anti-City Bias

    This anti-City bias is not confined to the foot soldiers of the red hordes (as I tend to think of the innumerable fans of these two clubs found in evidence hereabouts – rather than envisioning groups of radical revolutionaries huddled under beds around the country), but is also noticeably visible and voluble among the many high priests of their persuasion present in the Irish soccer media – hardly surprising when one realises that the majority of sports reporters and analysts here are drawn from the ranks of one or the other red menace. Clearly, fans of other clubs, and their public representatives, frequently hate on us too. But the gross preponderance of Reds’ affiliates in the make-up of the national football commentariat is not difficult to account for: if Ireland as a nation has large contingents of Liverpool and United fans, then print and broadcast media – dependent as they are on advertising revenue – will broadly pander to and reflect the views of that massive target audience which, in a classic case of vicious circle marketing, comprises a large section of its readership and viewership.

    It is difficult to delineate this prejudice without mentioning some names. Certainly, the old guard were dead against us, with Eamon Dunphy publicly venting his dislike of ‘the City project’ when he was a freelance contributor on RTE television. Presenters such as Joanne Cantwell regularly goaded him on. But then, he used to play for Manchester United.

    Of the current crop, Ken Early’s latent loyalties are easily identifiable from his Irish Times article headlined ‘Manchester City’s dominance a reminder the rich always get their way’ (20/01/22). Among many contentious statements contained therein, a pair of standouts were, ‘Most of us don’t watch football for technical quality or tactical intrigue. We’re watching because we want to feel something – and the risk of defeat adds savour to the joy of victory’, which he then linked to the ludicrous claim, ‘Look at the joy Manchester United have given the world these last several years. Lurching from crisis to crisis, they continue to be more watchable than City’s vastly superior team.’ The first is an appalling admission from a paid pundit, whose job it is to keep abreast of the strategic evolution of the game. Besides which, Manchester City still and always will be beatable – just like any other team – and watching them gives rise to a great variety of emotions in me, and other City fans. Plus, discerning neutrals can and do admire the precision of a well-executed game plan which City provide. As for the second, even diehard but cleareyed United fans know it is not true. They would acknowledge that United have for some time – since the retirement of Sir Alex – been a mismanaged laughing stock, which is why many of them have flocked to green-and-gold wearing protest club, Newton Heath. While there may be considerable schadenfreude to be derived by fans of other clubs in watching United’s steady decline into a comedic soap opera, they are surely no longer heading to Old Trafford to witness object lessons in how the Beautiful Game should be played. At the time of Early’s salvo, I wrote a fulsome rebuttal to the Letters page of the IT which was not, as was only to be expected, selected for publication. I subsequently penned a one sentence rejoinder, quoting his ‘more watchable’ assertion, which did see the light of day. It simply read: ‘Would it be impertinent to inquire as to what (red) planet he is living on?’

    Meanwhile, the Sunday Independent is a virtual Liverpool FC fanzine, platforming as it does the Scouse-loving triumvirate of Dion Fanning, Eamonn Sweeney, and Declan Lynch.

    Of the three, Fanning is the most measured and fact-based (evidently qualities not much valued at the Sindo, as his work is now more often to be found in the pages of the Irish Examiner, and he has been involved with podcasts for Joe.ie and The Currency.ie) in his criticisms. But his allegiances are easily discerned from a piece like the one headlined ‘A different Liverpool story in a parallel universe’, with standfirst ‘Liverpool’s golden age is ending but is it any consolation if one day they discover they were cheated?’ (The Irish Examiner, April Fool’s Day, 2023). Ineluctably, he highlights that City have been ‘charged by the Premier League with 115 breaches of financial regulations’, and refers to claims that City have ‘used shadow contracts to pay players’. However, he fails to address the argument that such ‘artificial rules’ are designed to protect the existing elite, other than to counter that ‘most rules in sport are absurd and all clubs in the Premier League agreed to these ones.’ Nor does he mention that City had since won their appeal against UEFA at the Court of Arbitration for Sport, for the alleged use of such shadow contracts, and for the alleged hiding of owner investment as sponsorship money – even if the Premier League charges have still to be answered. In fairness, Fanning could not have known at that point that Rui Pinto, the hacker who made public his ‘Football Leaks’ revelations, which were subsequently covered by German news magazine Der Spiegel, and led to the initial UEFA two-year ban on European competition for City, would be sentenced to a four-year suspended prison term for his crimes, including extortion, in September 2023.

    Sweeney is a different case entirely, as he is the source of the most vicious and sustained attacks on Manchester City in this Mediahaus organ. A brief selection of sample headlines from recent years will suffice to illustrate his naked animosity: ‘Looks like Guardiola’s best days are in the past’ (10/11/2019) (that one wore well); ‘Man City’s manager is the figurehead for an organisation which represents all that stinks about modern sport’, the intro of which reads ‘Manchester City are football’s most despicable club and Pep Guardiola its most despicable manager’ (18/07/2020); ‘Soulless City will win title, but Liverpool have hearts and minds of fans’ (19/12/2021); ‘A classless man in charge of a classless club run by classless people’ (22/05/2022); ‘Ugly truth behind the success of City’ (29/04/2023). Without parsing each article word for word, take my word for it that, in any other context – and undoubtedly if it were directed against his preferred Liverpool or many others’ preferred Manchester United – his bile would be widely regarded as libellous incitement to hatred.

    As for Hot Press alumnus Lynch, one is never quite sure as to what extent his tongue is firmly in his cheek or how much he actually means it (probably some weird admixture of the two), due to his unremitting deployment of ironic overstatement. In ‘Big Money meets Big Football meets Big Law’ (26/05/2019), having bemoaned the evils of leveraged buy-outs of clubs by ‘rich-guys-with-no-money’, he continues: ‘Now we’ve got rich-guys-with-money, indeed the problem with the rich guys who own City is not just that they are considerably richer than the rich guys who own Liverpool or Spurs, they are limitlessly rich as only oil-rich countries can be, they are ludicrously, crushingly rich. And still… still they’re in trouble with UEFA, accused of breaking rules in relation to Financial Fair Play.’ As though rich-guys-with-no-money are somehow preferrable to rich-guys-with-money. He endeavours to bolster his case by arguing, ‘One is reminded of the fact that football of the American kind is considered so important, it is rigged like some socialist experiment’, when it could just as easily be framed as being so important that it is rigged like a capitalist experiment – like the rest of U.S. society. By-the-by, he concludes that week’s column with analysis which lays the blame for Brexit firmly at Jeremy Corbyn’s door, a good indication of where his ideological sympathies lie.  This is what passes for informed, astute political commentary in the reputed highest-circulation Irish Sunday newspaper. In ‘Don’t mention the war: filthy rich Manchester City were once hilarious losers just like Basil Fawlty’ (11/02/2023) he states: ‘There are complexities within this story of the Premier League charging Manchester City with breaking 115 financial fair play rules…But there are great simplicities to the case too, the most obvious of which is this: I don’t know any fans of Manchester City. I know fans of Man United, Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea, Spurs, Aston Villa, Everton, Leeds United and West Ham. I even know a Nottingham Forest fan. But I don’t know any fans of Manchester City.’ Maybe Lynch should get out more. He is welcome to attend one of the triweekly meetings of the City Supporters Club – Dublin Branch (of which more anon) to check out how many City fans there really are hiding in plain sight in his midst. But it is in the terseness of his tweets that Lynch gives himself revealing free reign: ‘City are not a good side’ is a gnomically reiterated mantra of his; while ‘Would love to see the Arsenal winning the league obvs, yet I fear City* have aimed for a narrow win this season to maintain the illusion that the competitive structure hasn’t been wrecked by their incessant, hydra-headed cheating’ (8/05/2023); ‘Interesting to see comments about the Arsenal ‘bottling’ it from football writers who “bottle” the mention of those 115 charges against Man City* every day of the week’ (18/04/2023); and ‘No, the biggest bottle in history is the abject failure of so many English journalists and broadcasters to even mention that City* are facing 115 charges of cheating’ (15/05/2023) enter the realms of conspiracy theory nonsense. (It took a while for me to figure out why Lynch habitually places an asterisk after every obsessive mention of City, but eventually Merriam-Webster furnished what I presume is the answer: ‘the character * thought of as being appended to something (such as an athletic accomplishment included in a record book) typically in order to indicate that there is a limiting fact or consideration which makes that thing less important or impressive than it would otherwise be.’

    John Aldridge

    John Aldridge

        The Sunday World features a ghost-written column by ex-Liverpool and Republic of Ireland stalwart John Aldridge. Week in week out, in plain man’s language, he trumpets Liverpool’s cause: the reason they are not able to compete is City’s perfidy. He is quoted in an interview with Kevin Palmer headlined, ‘It’s time to hammer Man City if they are found guilty’ (9/02/2023): ‘Everyone knows this has gone on from day one. They have done well to get away with it for so long. We will have to see what comes out in the wash and give themselves a chance to prove their innocence.’ Was no subeditor at the SW alive to the patent contradiction covered in the space of those three short sentences? In his own ventriloquised voice, in ‘Surprise guys can claim a Champions League spot’, he tells his red readership, ‘As I’ve mentioned in my Sunday World column, Manchester City’s dominance at the top of the Premier League table is a big problem for the English game, as interest will wane if they win the title by a mile every year’ (24/9/2023). Even if City have succeeded by nefarious means, is that even true? The Bundesliga attracts more than fans of serial winners Bayern Munich (eleven consecutive titles, and counting).

    But perhaps the most egregious example of anti-City vilification comes courtesy of Miguel Delaney, who works for the London Independent but is of part-Irish extraction, and a known Liverpool aficionado. (He claims to support one Irish club and one Spanish club, but no Premiership club) Delaney tends to adopt the moral high ground, focusing more on the U.A.E.’s campaign of ‘sportswashing’ – an attempt to render their human rights abuses more palatable to the world – rather than on the resources the owners’ wealth places at City’s disposal. I will tackle these problems in due course, but for now, here is a smattering of Delaney’s critique. In his consideration of City’s 2023 title win, headlined, ‘Five titles in six years: Are Manchester City destroying the Premier League?’ over a standfirst of ‘Pep Guardiola has been given limitless funds to create the perfect team in laboratory conditions, and the result has been an almost total eradication of competition at the top of the Premier League’ (22/05/2023), he declares, ‘City have brutalised the very idea of sporting competition. There’s been no tension. There’s been no drama’, going on to assert, ludicrously, ‘That has meant there haven’t been any real memorable moments, beyond some great goals and the repeated image of Haaland and De Bruyne tearing at goal.’ Those images were, precisely, memorable moments. He concludes with, ‘The reality is all of City’s success is ultimately explained by the fact they are a state project.’ Prior to that, writing in his newsletter (17/05/2023) in the wake of City’s 4-0 win over European giants Real Madrid in the Champions League semi-final, second-leg at The Ethiad (a game I was lucky enough to attend), Delaney revealed that ‘sources within the game (and with Delaney, it is always unnamed ‘sources within the game’) are growing concerned with how City are brushing all before them aside.’ It is little wonder that Declan Lynch has commended Delaney on X (formerly Twitter), praising him for ‘doing God’s own work’. However, while other top clubs may be aggravated by City’s dominance, it is fair to say that City fans are rejoicing in it.

    It might be a good idea if all those engaged in public discourse around football in Ireland were required to declare their interests before being allowed to comment. On second thoughts, perhaps there is no need for this measure as, as has been demonstrated, many of them already do this freely, yet their outpourings are not met with the requisite scepticism – because they are preaching to the converted, and their favouritism is plain for all to see.

    In Part II Desmond Traynor continues his analysis of the financial and political morality of top flight English soccer, and attempts several rebuttals of the frequently voiced criticisms of Manchester City’s current success.

  • Napoli: It Hurts

    It’s an exciting time to be Neapolitan right now. Or should I say a supporter of Napoli FC? I have to clarify, as there’s hardly a dull moment to be Neapolitan.

    Wherever I go, it doesn’t matter whether it’s New York or Tenerife, when I answer the classic question “Where are you from?” so many emotions rage inside me that I am unable to handle, because I know there will be questions. And if there are no questions they will be insinuations. And if there are no insinuations there will be sterile rhetoric. Or unbearable clichés.

    In short, being Neapolitan is a bit of a blessing, and a bit of a curse. Having clarified this, it is indeed an exciting time to be a Napoli supporter. This illness (in Napoli we don’t say “I am a supporter” or “I’m a huge fan”. We say “I’m ill for Napoli”, which is a literal translation of “So’ mmalato pe ‘o Napule”) got to me when I was just a kid.

    It was not easy falling in love with the team, as during my whole childhood and adolescence Napoli SUCKED. During the second season after I started following them, we had the worst record in our (why is that supporters think they’re part of the team is something to investigate) history. Fourteen miserable points in thirty-four games. We even managed to lose at home to Lecce; a shameful 2-4 result.

    So, you can probably understand when I say that I never expected what we have been seeing from the team thus far in Serie A.

    Napoli is dominating the championship, and it has done so from the beginning. In August, after half the squad was changed, it was impossible to foresee anything like this.

    We are seeing things we’re unaccustomed to, and the enthusiasm the team has brought to the city is incredible. Khvicha Kvaratskhelia, Victor Osimhen, Stanislav Lobotka, Andrè Frank Zambo Anguissa, Min-Jae Kim, Piotr Zielinski, and the other players are writing their names in Napoli’s history, making likely what we thought would be impossible: winning a scudetto.

    What’s more they are making it look EASY! And they are also working wonders in Europe, winning their group stage and putting four goals past Liverpool and six (SIX!) past Ajax at their home ground. Recalling this makes me quiver with excitement. This is Real Madrid or Barcelona stuff. It’s crazy, but it’s happening for real.

    Over-thinking…

    A normal human being would just enjoy what is going on without reflecting too much on it. Unfortunately, I was gifted with an exceptional talent for over-thinking, and therefore began reflecting on how much this team can positively affect the city’s image.

    It all started a couple of weeks ago when I was walking close to La Sagrada Familia where I live in Barcelona and some teenagers came up to me speaking a language I did not understand. They began pointing at the Napoli crest that is on the back of my tracksuit jacket.

    It turned out they were Georgian students, over on holiday. They wanted a picture with me to express their love for Napoli, and Kvaratskhelia. It was an unfamiliar feeling, so I started to go around wearing the jacket to see if it would happen again.

    Since then, I have been stopped, waved at, and had “Forza Napoli!” shouted after me. The other day, entering the office, the guy that works at the bar downstairs and two security guys I had never spoken to before, asked me about Napoli and expressed their admiration for the team I support, expressing their sincere hope that Napoli win the Champion’s League.

    I am astounded by all this attention. I don’t know how to feel about it. And the astonishment does not end there.

     

    Time Out 

    Time Magazine has put Napoli in its top fifty destinations to travel to. Ryanair has added more routes to and from Naples, and their representative even had a Napoli jersey on.

    A recent article in an Italian newspaper has revelead that for the month of May it is almost impossible to find a hotel room there now.

    Georgian authorities are attempting to create a direct connection between Napoli and Tbilisi to help locals fly to Napoli to see their favorite player. The Diego Armando Maradona stadium has now a diversified audience, with Koreans and Georgians in regular attendance.

    YouTubers are now flocking to Napoli to see the team play, and in the meantime enjoying the city’s mesmerizing sights, art, and food. Thousands of tourists climb the alleys of the Quartieri Spagnoli in pilgrimage toward the mural of Maradona which is famous throughout the world.

    I should feel proud that my city and team are performing so well. It is just that this is unleashing the usual Italian rhetoric about the Neapolitan being a ‘special people’, and of a ‘special city’, which is experiencing a ‘particular moment.’

    The truth is that I’ve had it up here with that kind of talk about Napoli FC, and Naples. It is hard for me to explain what it feels and means to be Neapolitan. I’ll do my best, but I know that in the end, I might start using the clichés I hate so much.

    Volcanic

    Being Neapolitan means you have to excuse yourself for everything you did not do, every time something bad happens in the city. It means fighting with other Neapolitans, who think that Scudetto celebrations will lead some people to destroy the city and its monuments.

    It involves the frustration of knowing that it doesn’t matter if it’s only ten people’s fault, it will be all the Neapolitans taking the blame. I even saw that a newspaper is worried that there will be killings and robberies throughout the event.

    Being Neapolitan means watching #Vesuvio trend on Twitter every single freaking time there is an earthquake in the southern part of Italy. Let me explain this to anyone who think this sounds strange. It’s worse: it’s stupid. You have to know that being Neapolitan entails having a song sung to us that goes:

    My dream I will fulfill / Il mio sogno esaudirò
    Vesuvius erupts / Vesuvio Erutta
    All Naples is destroyed / Tutta Napoli è distrutta
    Vesuvius erupts / Vesuvio Erutta
    All Naples is destroyed / Tutta Napoli è distrutta

    On the subject of ‘Freed from desire’, some brilliant minds even brought out a single that was distributed on Amazon Music, Spotify, Apple Music, and many other platforms, before somebody had the decency to take it down.

    It means that people from Bergamo, in the northern part of Italy, will happily join the German supporters of Eintracht Frankfurt destroying a part of the city because they hate our guts.

    It means that every taxi driver I meet has seen the film Gomorrah, and I am too ashamed to tell them that I grew up in that neighborhood. It means that you will be the butt of many unpleasant jokes. It means that the lazy and incompetent Chief Wiggum of the Simpsons will speak with your accent.

    It Hurts

    So, how does it FEEL to be Neapolitan? It fucking hurts! And that’s the harsh truth. It is a debilitating struggle, because whenever you talk or reason about your city, you are never right.

    It does not matter who you’re talking to, or about what. You are never right, because you’re Neapolitan. You are wrong because you are Neapolitan. You are ‘special’, you are deceitful, you are the one who steals, who is lazy. They say that in stereotypes there’s always a grain of truth. And that hurts more.

    What I’ve been asking myself during this incredible year is how I should feel about it. I don’t know anymore.

    Should I already feel guilty for what some shitheads will do? Should I feel sorry about it? Should I be proud of what is happening or afraid it will not happen again? Should I laugh about the insults we receive because it’s just that the other supporters are sore losers, or should I be worried that the next time we go to an away match it will not be just a small part of the stadium singing about our sleepy giant?

    I don’t know. What I do know is that I cried while and after Kvaratskhelia had received the ball from Osimhen, then dribbled past the whole Atalanta defence and midfield, turning three times in a very tight space before painting with his right foot a supersonic shooting star which ended its run in the top bin. It was simply too much. There’s only so much beauty you can witness without tears.

    I know it can’t last forever and that I should be far happier. I know that I should be proud of how we’re doing, because as my terminally ill and short-memoried father said after I finished telling him (for the fifth time in six hours) that Napoli had won the Coppa Italia final against Juventus on penalties, “See… in the end it’s not so bad being Neapolitan.”

    Diego Pugliese, Naples, 2020.

    Featured images by Daniele Idini, Naples, July 2020.

    Title image: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:19870510_sanpaolo.jpg#/media/File:19870510_sanpaolo.jpg

  • Sport in the Neoliberal Zeitgeist

    Despite all the controversies in the run-up, and as with the last World Cup in Russia, most people are now looking beyond the politics, and enjoying the feast of football.

    For many of those attending sporting fixtures, this is akin to performing a religious duty in a secular age. The rest of us generally slouch in front of TV sets and even squint into smartphones to satisfy compulsive appetites. In Ireland we have a particular grá for team sports as participants but mostly viewers, or even as virtual participants, with the advent of video games.

    The rewards for sportsmen, in particular, are staggering, but many are left on the scrap heap at an early age, while others count the cost in later life with psychological and physical trauma.

    In History

    The popularity of sports entertainment stretches far back into European history. The gathering of crowds for sporting occasions was a feature of Classical antiquity, when these spectacles were explicitly connected to religious worship. Held in honour of Zeus, the king of the gods, the Panhellenic Olympics of Ancient Greece ran from 776BC until 393AD, and attracted participants from across the Hellenic world.

    Later, Romans were fanatically devoted to circus, which featured gladiatorial duals to the death. A note of caution was sounded, however, by the poet Juvenela c. AD100, who witheringly identified panem et circus (bread and circus) as the primary concern of the people:

    iam pridem, ex quo suffragia nulli / vendimus, effudit curas; nam qui dabat olim / imperium, fasces, legiones, omnia, nunc se / continet atque duas tantum res anxius optat, / panem et circenses.

    [… Already long ago, from when we sold our vote to no man, the People have abdicated our duties; for the People who once upon a time handed out military command, high civil office, legions — everything, now restrains itself and anxiously hopes for just two things: bread and circuses.]

    Sport remained an important feature of life in medieval Europe, where knights tested their valour and prowess in vainglorious jousts. Hunting was also popular among the aristocracy at the apex of the feudal pyramid. Pursuit of animals, referred to as ‘game’, was generally not motivated by their value as food: consumption conferred status beyond gastronomic pleasure.

    Pre-modern sports bore a close resemblance to warfare, and, the conditioning of a participant overlapped to a large extent with a warrior’s training, as one sees in ancient epic, such as with the funeral games of Patroclus in Homer’s Iliad. Tests of physical prowess, advantageous on the battlefield are evident, as well as skills such as archery and javelin, which are clearly a preparation for warfare itself.

    The Funerals of Patrocle, oil on canvas. Jacques-Louis David, 1778.

    Fight or Flight?

    At a sporting event, an audience could experience the thrill of battle without risking dismemberment, although the qualities esteemed in the heroic athlete may have whetted a thirst for blood.

    This may lead to an assumption that sport fosters a destructive, competitive instinct. George Orwell was of the view that: ‘sport is an unfailing cause of ill-will’. But denial of the amusement seems curmudgeonly. Sport can bring us together rather than tear us apart. Perhaps it depends on the underlying psychology of the crowd.

    The nineteenth century incubated most of the sports that are now prevalent in our culture, including the GAA. It was in Britain, where the Industrial Revolution began in earnest, however, that mass attendance of sporting events by a new working class originates, as stadiums accommodating tens of thousands of people sprang up in a newly urbanised society. Here we find the codification of now global sports such as Association Football, Cricket, Rugby (Union and League), tennis and field hockey all of which now have a global reach. Others, such as golf and motor racing emerging in more rarefied environments.

    Interesting, it is in the anglo-sphere that alternative sports emerged to confront the British invasion; in the United States, basketball, American Football and baseball; in Ireland the GAA developed our distinctive sports; even Australia and Canada developed or adapted their own codes. This demonstrates the importance of sport as a source of identity in the English-speaking world where other cultural markers such as food seem to have been of less importance.

    The popular sports in our time depart from Classical and medieval precedent – notwithstanding the revival of the Olympics in 1896 – in the skills demanded of the participants. Although most contemporary sports still demand serious athleticism, their skills sets would be of no particular use to a soldier, especially one engaged in modern, technological warfare; although the skills of the gamer might prove very useful indeed.

    Nonetheless, modern sports are still animated by martial fervour, accessing, and perhaps controlling, that primal instinct to compete and, for men especially, to discuss the competition. Orwell opines that: ‘At the international level sport is frankly mimic warfare’, but at that time most men, unlike today, had trained to be soldiers.

    Harry Hampton scores one of his two goals in the 1905 FA Cup Final, when Aston Villa defeated Newcastle United.

    Judgment

    The demonic ‘Judge’ Holden in Cormac McCarthy’s no-holds-barred novel Blood Meridan (1985) describes war as ‘the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence’.

    He argues that:

    Men are born for games. Nothing else. Every child knows that play is nobler than work. He knows too that the worth or merit of a game is not inherent in the game itself but rather in the value of that which is put at hazard. Games of chance require a wager to have meaning at all. Games of sport involve the skill and strength of the opponents and the humiliation of defeat and the pride of victory are in themselves sufficient stake because they inhere in the worth of the principals and define them. But trial of chance or trial of worth all games aspire to the condition of war for here that which is wagered swallows up game, player, all.

    The ‘Judge’ is right insofar as the higher the stakes the more gripping a sporting fixture becomes for an audience that puts aside its daily trials to vent their passions.

    The worth of the participant is defined by their success or failure at crucial moments. But ‘the Judge’ is mistaken to assume that defeat is always a humiliation, as any crowd may honour a team or individual who loses with good grace, and sport is not only about winning; ‘greatness’ is also measured by how a loser conducts himself in defeat. Thus Harry Kane is above criticism despite missing a (second) penalty, while the Argentinian team are roundly condemned for rubbing defeat in their opponents’ faces.

    Instinctive Selves

    It is striking that Swiss psychologist Carl Jung regarded games as being of the utmost importance for the wellbeing of societies. He said that ‘civilisations at their most complete moments … always brought out in man his instinct to play and made it more inventive’. Sport, he proffered, connects us to our ‘instinctive selves’.

    Sporting success can really raise the morale of a nation, such as the Irish after World Cup Italia 1990. The connection to a team or individual should not be dismissed lightly. Even in defeat, fans can summon a spirit of togetherness that is not necessarily oppositional.

    The popularity of sports may be connected to the decline of religious worship, but the religious origins of sport have not faded entirely – fans often pay homage to virtues of self-sacrifice and togetherness associated with spiritual traditions.

    Moreover, with lives increasingly sedentary and indoor, sport returns us to the idea of a challenge that melds innate athleticism and skill. This is both a natural gift, and the product of training.

    The audience also enjoys the mental side of the game, considering how a team or individual will triumph or fail in advance of a contest, and assessing why a particular outcome has occurred in the aftermath. It can be the springboard for discussion between complete strangers, generally leading to camaraderie rather than conflict.

    Sport has also become one of the last redoubts for mythology at a time when this generally operates on the margins, or in childhood fantasies. Commentators are given licence to rhapsodise about the divine characteristics of participants. We bow before sporting gods, satisfying a latent desire for non-rational explanations, and a taste for supernatural interference, deus ex machina: ‘the hand of God.’

    Sports journalism, unencumbered by constraints imposed on ‘serious’ journalists, vents superstitions and often casually averts to curses; ‘legends’ abound in sporting parlance.

    Titanic Battles

    All this serves to enhance the appeal of ‘titanic’ battles, but sadly we are, increasingly, lured by the theatre away from examination of the vexed political questions of our time.

    The assessment of Bill Shankly the former manager of Liverpool FC is worth revisiting: ‘some people say that football is a matter of life and death. I assure you it’s much more serious than that’.

    It was therefore fitting then that when Jose Mourinho arrived in British football as manager of Chelsea FC in 2004 he chose to present himself as the ‘Special One’. For a time he carried all before him, with a little help from Russian billionaire Roman Abromovich.

    Sporting occasions also offer a Dionysian alternative to lives that are increasingly constrained by social conventions. In what other arena of life can a grown adult scream and shout with unrestrained fervour, orr even streak naked across a pitch?

    Sport imports a communal sense of belonging, evident in the crowd at a huge stadium and in the often transnational ‘imagined community’ of fans of a particular franchise. Support for national teams affirm a sense of belonging to the ‘imagined community’ of the nation.

    The medium is the message. First television, and now increasingly the Internet, allows individuals, living thousands of mile away to support teams, often comprised of players from around the world.

    Mythological themes are played out in real time. The truly great teams, it is said, are those that learn from defeat, just as the heroes of epic returns from the trial of Hades the wiser. We also encounter the tragedy of the flawed hero whose indiscretions are captured by the ravenous paparazzi, and attributed to the wider failings of youth.

    English football fans at the 2006 FIFA World Cup.

    Too Much of a Good Thing?

    Yet we can have too much of a good thing. Attention to sports has reached pathological intensity. Slick marketing has moved an instinctive pleasure into a compulsive and easily-satisfied desire, activating demand in a manner that is almost pornographic.

    In particular, the multi-billion euro football industry uses every available opportunity to lure child and adult alike into compulsive purchasing of television channels and merchandise that is gaudily flaunted. More troublingly still is the expansion of online gambling.

    Young men are now paid unconscionable fortunes for playing games, which many would happily participate in for far less, or no financial reward at all. Televised sport used to inspire kids to imitate their heroes, now with gaming technology they don’t have to leave their couches, and the obesity pandemic carries all before it.

    Rupert Murdoch recognised that sports would act as a ‘battering ram’ for his pay TV, an example most newspapers have followed. Sports coverage underpins a neoliberal zeitgeist by providing an alternative, apolitical, space with elements of tragedy and farce; villains and saviours; loyalty and betrayal.

    Grandeur is evoked through metaphors such as the ‘trench warfare’ of a tight contest or the ‘phoney war’ of a friendly fixture; ‘citadels’ are ‘stormed’, and ‘no quarter is given’, along with specifically supernatural ideas such as ‘demons’ being ‘exorcised’. Stress is laid on the grandeur and importance of the events unfolding: thus we regularly learn that ‘history is being made.’ Too much of our lives, my own included, are absorbed by the spectacle.

    With the degree of psychic energy devoted to the affairs of circus, it is hardly surprising that political involvement is increasingly the province of the paid-up professional; that the percentage voting has declined precipitously; that elections are explained by analogy with sporting fixtures; and that often warfare itself is relegated to the periphery. The widespread obsession is barely questioned by a media that feeds the fervour, and certainly not by politicians that display their colours to appear like regular guys.

  • All Black Inception

    The 2010 film ‘Inception’ has scorched the innermost parts of my brain. This big screen feast had concepts that lit all the senses. Visually it was seeing things like the city of Paris fold in and on itself. Aurally, Edith Piaf’s Je Ne Regrette Rien twisted and reborn as a time bending plot device and a highly memorable if unrecognisable score.

    Christopher Nolan’s cerebral blockbuster may seem a world apart from a rugby contest in store in the Land of the Long White cloud. But the central tenet of the movie, the thing that has stuck with me the most, is that once brought into the world it’s almost impossible to kill an idea.

    It’s that thought that resonates with the mouth-watering sporting clash that awaits us this weekend.

    I’m not sure what the New Zealand team that first toured the British Isle in 1905 would have made of the central idea of Inception. But I suspect they had some inkling that they were creating something special: an idea that would exceed them.

    It is unclear how the touring New Zealand side earned their moniker the ‘All Blacks’ whether through a typographical error – they All played like Backs? – or simply because of the colour of the jersey, which seems most likely. Whatever its origins, this national side made up of native Māori and colonials have been referred to as the All Blacks ever since.

    Coupled with the pre-match ritual of the haka, and their top drawer rugby skills the team’s reputation travelled far and wide. They are easily the most successful national team in the history of the sport.

    The All Blacks at the climax of their haka before a test against France in Paris, January 1925.

    An idea had been born. These New Zealanders were no ordinary rugby team. They were All Blacks and they were unique. Their fans knew it too.

    The Welsh choirs singing Bread of Heaven in the Cardiff drizzle may indeed be a religious occasion, but the relentless chant of ‘All Blacks. All Blacks. All Blacks’ simply demands success.

    It didn’t matter who they faced. What team or colour. Resistance was futile. But one team suffered more than any other. Year after year the team in green were beaten all black, and blue. From that very first tour in 1905 Ireland endured 111 years of shoe pie.

    At best there were crushing last minutes loses. At worst, and usually in response to these ‘near wins’ the humiliation of record score obliterations. In my lifetime it was teams that included the likes of Vinny Cunningham, Keith Wood and Conor Murray from 1992, 2002 and 2012 that typify this. Each poked the All Black bear and suffered brutal and pitiless responses. 56-9. 40-8. 60-0.

    For Ireland, the All Blacks were a giant albatross on our backs, and it took a Kiwi to help bend, and finally break that mystique.

    In just his third game in charge, Joe Schmidt’s Ireland had New Zealand beaten. Until they weren’t. It may have taken the last play of the game and a conversion twice taken, but the All Blacks had beaten Ireland. Like they always did.

    Three years later in Chicago we finally beat New Zealand. This was an end of season game, however, almost an exhibition match, a test played in a neutral, non-rugby venue, against an All Black team lacking recognized second rows.

    The following week they came to Dublin and ‘shoe pie’ resumed. With a violent intensity and no little skill, they beat us into submission once again.

    The victory in 2018 was a more genuine breakthrough. But normal trouncing service was resumed at the subsequent World Cup when it really mattered. Joe out. Busted Flush.

    But something had changed. The aura of invincibility around the All Blacks had disappeared forever. Mythological characters – the McCaws and Carters – were reduced to mortal men – Canes and Barretts.

    When they came here last autumn Ireland obliterated them in the most one-sided, close-margin-victory I’ve ever witnessed. We played them off the park, with the score board somehow saying 29-20 at the end of the match. But make no mistake, the All Blacks had been beasted by Ireland.

    Now, incredibly, Ireland could be the first side in the professional era to win a series in New Zealand. Having largely gifted the first test to the home team, Ireland won comfortably enough last week; although, slightly worryingly, throwing away at least two gilt edge tries to give a final score line that flattered the hosts.

    This is new territory for an Irish rugby fan. But can we actually do it in the third and deciding test? For sure it’s not the best team New Zealand has ever put out, albeit with Sam Whitelock back in the second row they present a more challenging proposition, and they surely won’t be so undisciplined next time out. Ireland are essentially unchanged, but Ringrose’s dashing forays will be missed.

    The rational mind says New Zealand are 7-10 point favourites. They just don’t lose home series. The PTSD of previous bloodbaths suggests there could yet be another dose of shoe-pie.

    And yet, with their aura of invincibility gone forever, another idea is crystallizing, which is that, whisper it, Ireland are becoming New Zealand’s ‘bogey’ team.

    It’s too early for this nascent idea to have much hold. Or power. But win tomorrow and it may start to play tricks on the All Black mind, just like the French have had a habit of doing.

    In all likelihood, come 10am on Saturday morning my foolhardy hopes will be confronted by crushing reality as normal All Black service is resumed. But this is sport, where hope is everything.

    I believe Ireland can make history. And even if i have egg on my face after the final result comes through, non, je ne regrette rien.

    Feature Image: All Blacks rugby union team that toured the United Kingdom in 1905-6.

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  • Burren Bliss

    During a visit to the Burren in County Clare, Oliver Cromwell’s lieutenant-general Edmund Ludlow wrote of the memorable landscape that it had ‘not water enough to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him’. A spell on a yoga retreat might have opened his eyes to the serene natural beauty around him.

    In 1999, off a small fuchsia-fringed road near the Clare-Galway border, Dave Brocklebank found what he had been looking for at last, a haven from the turbulence of the city, and a place to realise his dream. The Burren Yoga Retreat Centre was born; where the wisdom of the East meets the wild Atlantic West of Ireland.

    Wild Atlantic Way.

    Dave and his wonderful family have invested themselves in the venture with admirable devotion, and no little sacrifice, bringing together a dedicated team to offer a retreat to enhance body and soul. I can testify to the experience affecting lasting, positive change.

    I arrived in the early evening and breathed in the clean, fragrant air. A sylvan pathway led me past moss-covered rocks to the door where I was greeted by Dave, his azure eyes brilliant pools of inner calm.

    He showed me around the recently renovated building; immaculately clean and finished to the highest standard. The objective is to be carbon neutral by 2025. The bedrooms, all newly constructed with fine-quality woodwork, very comfortable beds, and sophisticated modern touches such as underfloor heating and electric window blinds, are ample in size and bright, affording verdant vistas of lush fields and woodland. The bathrooms are sparklingly modern and elegant.

    There is a room for silent relaxation, and one for massage from a therapist who, I was assured by a repeat visitor, has “magic hands”. Upstairs is a cosy nook for reading, with numerous books on yoga and meditation. There is a comfortable lounge in which to take one’s ease and admire the treescape and mountains beyond, or chat with fellow guests. Outside is a circular, stone space for outdoor activities; a nod to our ancient forebearers and the many archaeological sites in the area.

    In the dining room, Ida, our Croatian cook, presented sumptuous and cleansing vegetation and vegan meals, produced from locally sourced and organic ingredients, all washed down with water from the well.

    Gráinne leads a class.

    The pièce de résistance is the brand-new state-of-the-art yoga studio. Here, in this large and well-lit space with enormous windows offering more expansive views of bare mountainside, and trees swaying in the breeze like seaweed in a current – Gráinne, poise and grace incarnate – gave gentle instruction in yoga and meditation, at times bathed in glorious sunlight. She is one of a team of teachers who Dave, over years of careful selection, has chosen to offer the best possible experience to well-practised yogis and novices alike.

    And then there were the daily outings. The first was to mythic Coole Park, once home to Lady Gregory and haunt of Irish literary greats, their names carved into its Copper Beech autograph tree; W. B. Yeats, Bernard Shaw and J.M Synge. We took a stroll by its otherworldly turlough (a disappearing lake), its banks ablaze with vivid green, and along its woodland paths, passing great cypresses and cedars along the way. Then lunch in the pretty market town of Gort, in the charming Gallery Café with paintings by local artists displayed on the walls.

    Clints and grykes.

    On the second day, led by radiant, soulful Erin, our guide and bean an tí, we went to Mullaghmore, to explore the renowned karst landscape of the Burren, those primordial tropical seabeds, abrim with petrified corals, urchins, and ammonites, sculpted by glaciers and carved by rainfall into incised pavements of glistening clints and grykes. The latter are fecund with long-ago deposited Connemara soil to create nurseries for the abundant flora (among them orchids, herb Robert, and honeysuckle) to jostle towards the sunlight.

    A dragonfly, tinkerbell wings of shimmering organza, sketched a perimeter around us as we walked. Upwards we climbed to the summit, horizons of wonder before us, it seemed as if we were atop the cerebral grey matter of a submerged giant.

    Returning to the road, we paused to pet some “self-walking” dogs and headed to the shore, via the house which was the location for the irreverent Irish sit-com Father Ted, enjoyed an excellent seafood lunch at Linnane’s in New Quay and later, a swim in the brisk, abluting ocean.

    Back to the centre and a yin yoga session. Given my lack of yoga over the previous months I was reminded of a quote from another famous Clint, who once growled, “a man’s gotta know his limitations”, but I was surprised to feel how my muscles and joints could be coaxed into suppleness in the right environment, and with such expert instruction.

    So if you’ve been thinking of doing yourself the favour of spending some time at a lovingly-envisaged and realised home away from home, with superb food and facilities and nestled in sublime natural beauty then this retreat is for you.

    Personally I have felt a renewed sense of corporeal freedom and am learning to transcend more easily the clints and grykes of my mind, moods, and emotions,  and am discovering a higher plane of consciousness, to operate  in the space between thoughts,

    I carry it still, this moment of bliss in the Burren. And I hope you will too.

    The Burren Yoga Retreat offers full-board stays of various lengths with expert yoga instruction throughout the year.

    All Images courtesy of the Burren Yoga Retreat.

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  • Rugby: the Four Irish Provinces take to the Field

    I yearn for Six Nations matches at this time of year. Despite my worthier self, I cannot take my eyes off a psychological drama and physical spectacle offering respite from interminable winter.

    The violence is terrible, but it seems life-affirming that these specimens can, for the most part, withstand the battering. At its best, it conveys life-in-action, a primal dance and irrepressible human spirit.

    One man who never played in the Six Nations is the Australian of Zimbabwean-descent, David Pocock, and to my mind he has been the bravest player of this era. It is unsurprising that his political convictions are similarly resolute. Fittingly, he was once arrested after chaining himself to mining equipment in a protest against a new coal mine in New South Wales.

    Thankfully he seems to have emerged relatively unscathed from his many bouts on the field, bowing out at last from international rugby at the end of the recent Word Cup, unfortunately on a losing note against Engalnd.

    Embed from Getty Images

    Make no mistake, there are injuries which occur as a matter of probability in rugby that make the endurance of the current rules almost unforgivable. Driving straight into the back of a player, with staggering force, who is grappling with his hands on the ground is surely unsustainable, but at least the high tackle is being clamped down on by referees. This makes the current game a more enjoyable spectacle as a player can offload more easily out of the tackle, and the quagmire of rucks and mauls become less frequent.

    ‘Drico’ v O’Connell

    For this Irish rugby fan of over thirty years duration the recurring debate is whether Brian O’Driscoll or Paul O’Connell was the greater Irish player of the era. Both were giants of the sport that transcended the structures from which they emerged, subtly altering players that emerged in their wakes. Thus the sublime Garry Ringrose is the heir to O’Driscoll and the all-action James Ryan the pretender to O’Connell’s throne, an unenviable posture locking the Irish scrum.

    The provincial origin of each of these totemic player must be taken into account. Munster from which O’Connell hails is the beating heart of Irish rugby where many of its origin myths lie. Of course much of this is late magic, compared to the rarefied surrounds of Trinity College in Dublin, which is said to have the oldest pitch still in use in the world. But Munster is where a distinctive mark was placed on the sport of rugby itself in the latter decades of the twentieth century.

    Essentially Munster played above the collective athletic attributes of the team with an unprecedented unity of purpose that laid low the greatest international team of its time. Of course the All Blacks had been beaten before and since on tours, but this was generally where teams were composed of stellar internationals playing for clubs, or perhaps if the All Black team was at a low physical ebb on a long tour. In 1978 the Munster team in unison with the crowd performed a mythological feat no less: Alone it Stands indeed.

    Embed from Getty Images

    Archetypal Munster rugby players, such as the late Moss Keane, were certainly not small or necessarily unathletic, but are rarely the biggest or fastest in their positions. It was when they combine with one another, as a band of brothers, that they overhaul and outwit – with a capricious gale blowing behind them in the second half – any opponent who dares enter their Thomond Park redoubt.

    This group togetherness – comparable to what the medieval Arabic writer Ibn Kaldun termed asabiyyah in describing the warlike Bedouin tribes of North Africa – allied with tactical awareness and sheer bravery yielded two European Cups in the early years of professionalism (2006 and 2008), at a time when French and English teams could not easily pluck talent from the outer regions of the Southern Hemisphere, as occurs today.

    That is not to say that Munster was closed to foreign influence; the team embraced the new wave of professionalism, recruited wisely, and established a brand that had a halo effect on Irish rugby as a whole, before the limitations of a small population made it impossible to sustain the conveyor belt of talent required for success.

    As a player Paul O’Connell possessed what is commonly referred to as Munster ‘dog’ in spades, but he allied this with often quite outrageous feats of skill in the air. He was not, however, for all his capacity to take a game by the scruff of the neck and play it his way – fast rucking and relentless pick and drives – the complete player. His handling in the loose at times let him down, and he never developed the dexterity commonly seen in Southern hemisphere players of his ilk.

    Embed from Getty Images

    This was perhaps the product of an upbringing where rugby was explicitly training rather than a form of self-expression, as where kids ‘play’ with a ball in a game such as ‘tag’ on a sun-baked field or beach. One could point the finger at the wet climate of the south-west of Ireland which required outdoor activities to be more structured.

    Perhaps this background in hard graft and adversity accounts for what seems to have been a tendency on O’Connell’s part to see the ball as means to an end: putting points on the board. As a leader, he seemed untroubled to amaze a crowd in the process of scoring points, calculating that a try from a rolling maul counted for as much as the giddiest of wing play.

    O’Driscoll, on the other hand, was a trickster, who played with a smile on his face, and burst on the global scene as a superstar when scoring a bravura hat trick of tries in Paris in 2000, before in 2001 seducing British and Irish Lions fans in Australia, who waltzed to his tune.

    A brash, cosmopolitan boy from the capital city of an increasingly prosperous country and class, ‘Drico’ ended his career to great fanfare, winning a second Six Nations Championship medal in 2014. He was the swashbuckling hero who performed feats on a rugby pitch that amazed a crowd, but he was as physically brave as any Munster contemporary. His capacity to recover from serious injury, especially the cruel assault on him as captain of the Lions in 2005 against the fearsome All Blacks, was also nothing short of remarkable.

    It is, however, as a team captain that one might prefer O’Connell. One senses that other, lesser, players reveled in O’Driscoll’s star turns on the pitch, but perhaps relied overly on his individual brilliance.

    O’Connell on the other hand appeared to exercise the force of a demagogue over his companions. Under his guidance, players offered the same relentless hunger for confrontation, and group togetherness in the Munster tradition, as opposed to the elusive capacity for individual brilliance that O’Driscoll imparted.

    Leinster Schools Rugby

    I grew up in the province of Leinster and my formation as a rugby fan arrived in the school’s game where we viewed the likes of Dennis Hickey when he was a young buck. It is now one of the world’s great breeding grounds for new braves, as the remarkable recent consistency of Leinster in European competition demonstrates, with four European Cup wins to date: 2009, 2011, 2012 and 2018.

    I have heard it said that the relatively flat lands, and slightly drier conditions, of the east of Ireland produce a different, swifter, physical specimen, meaning the archetype of the Leinster player is generally a purer athlete than the Munster equivalent – players such as Jordan Lamour and Andrew Porter conforming to this type, in contrast to grizzled Munster legends such as ‘the Claw’, Peter Clohessy or ‘Gaillimh’ Mick Galway.

    Embed from Getty Images
    ‘the Claw’, Peter Clohessy or ‘Gaillimh’ Mick Galway in action for Ireland.

    The all-round excellence of O’Driscoll remains the high water mark, but the number of players of great ability breaking through is quite astonishing to behold. I admit to a vain pride in a step cousin Caelan Doris – a wunderkind number 8 – who is now a regular part of the international squad.

    If only I had a few of young Caelan’s genes my rugby career might have got beyond the muddy far pitches of Gonzaga College. Although admittedly a reluctance to allow my head to be left in close proximity to rapidly moving legs, and little appetite for the punch-ups that marred many encounters in the 1990s, made even a moderately successful career unlikely.

    A Nation Once Again?

    A polite argument broke out among a few friends recently on the subject of nationalism, and whether it is a destructive force in the world. That led me to consider what motivated the appreciation I have for a sport that is often quite dull as a spectacle, with constant repetitions of drills and risk aversion all too often evident. Indeed, to the uninitiated the game of rugby, with its puzzling array of rules, is not the most accessible.

    Competition between national groups reminds me of the psychodrama of a contest between competing forces, which take on the simplistic roles of good and evil to the viewer. Thus, even if an opponent displays skill or impressive composure I cannot enjoy it, and positively shrink from the sight of his success. Meanwhile even if my own side are playing in a stolid fashion I can still appreciate the effect, and even look beyond any skullduggery, especially if it is part of a wider strategic plan, weakening the opponent before striking in an unexpected way.

    Likewise, it seems to me, nationalism can be an ugly, zero-sum game of winning and losing, whether it is the aspiration for a united Ireland – albeit there are distinct practical and civic advantages – or having one language dominant over another under the law. Similarly, we are generally inclined to disregard whether nationalistic aspirations are achieved by fair means or foul, ignoring the cruelty of earlier conquests, just as the Americans laid claim to virgin territory, glorifying the first settlers and ignoring those who once populated the land in relative harmony.

    There is, however, a more edifying side to nationalism, where we achieve a form of greatness not in terms of others, i.e. winning as the be-all-and-end-all, but simply in the way we exist, and play. Lest we forget, few states of the Old World appear to be content where different ethno-linguistic groups co-habit – even the prosperous Belgians of different languages only grudgingly co-exist.

    It is in the songs we sing, in the food we prepare, and in the nature we adore and protect that the best expression of group solidarity is found, and in sport at times too. This is the nationalism of an O’Driscoll, where magic happens, but where the processes derived from tradition, which we might associate with an O’Connell figure, are upheld.

    Maybe conflict is in the nature of humanity, and in that respect sport serves a purpose that George Orwell overlooked when he peremptorily described it as ‘an unfailing cause of ill-will.’ But perhaps it really just channels or acts as a conduit for ill-will, and is not the cause itself. Of course the contrary argument that discord is actually magnified by these latter-day gladiatorial contests might, paradoxically, also hold true. It seems as if the meaning of sport is as varied as any other field of human endeavour, and forms of it are always likely to excite us.

    The Four Proud Provinces

    In Irish sport the code of rugby is almost unique in generating genuine all-Ireland national fervour,crossing political and sectarian boundaries. Notably, ‘big’ Davy Tweed, a former Unionist councillor and alas a convicted paedophile, played on a number of occasions for the Irish team, and with great energy it should be said. It was Tweed who demanded an alternative to Amhrán na bhFiann, the anthem of the Irish State, which bequeathed us Phil Coulter’s ‘Ireland’s Call’, a rather primitive song. But for all its harmonic deficiencies it has nonetheless proved a popular, and unifying dirge that is belted out with great emotion by crowd and players alike.

    It has snobbishly been said that rugby is a game for thugs played by gentlemen, while soccer is the reverse. Clearly there is a class basis to each of these sports across Britain and Ireland. The food calories alone that an elite rugby player requires every day must be quite an investment throughout early adulthood. But it is perhaps more accurate to say that rugby is an institutional sport, requiring the availability of pitches and training facilities all too often absent in working class districts, and more likely to be found in a rural setting. Yet the example of the Southern Hemisphere demonstrates that even working class kids can develop into professional players.

    During the amateur era Ulster were the most successful of the Irish province, and fittingly the Ulstermen were the first to win a European Cup in 1999, using a group of players drawn overwhelmingly from the region. But the province has latterly struggled to compete with the number of new players available to Leinster every year, and the great spirit that Munster players still derive from playing in the red jersey.

    Moreover, the recent displays of toxic masculinity in Ulster rugby shocked the entire country, and brought an existential crisis to the game. This is a stain that has not been fully removed, at least publicly, from the public – as was the case in New Zealand where less worrying incidents led to the development of a respect and responsibility programme for players.

    Yet all but the most curmudgeonly of Irish rugby fans rejoice when Ulster performs on the European stage, unlike the more divisive Leinster-Munster rivalry, and the success of Ulster players in the Irish shirt provides a bewitching fellowship recalling the United Irishmen of Catholic, Protestant and Dissenter.

    Like the Leinstermen of lore, Ulster’s greatest warriors tend to be fleet-footed athletes but with a Nordic edge of physical brutality epitomised by the incomparably tough Stephen Ferris. The new Ulster hero is the powerful Jacob Stockdale, who has made scoring tries at the highest level look easy.

    The Western Province

    One can only admire the durability of the men of Connacht, withstanding probably the wildest weather in the rugby world in their Galway citadel. Against the odds, they have created a spirit unique to themselves that culminated in victory against Leinster in the Celtic League in 2016. My father comes from Sligo on the Western seaboard, so I have a particular sympathy for their plight as underdogs in the Irish game.

    As an immigrant for a time in London I did my own impersonation of one of the province’s greats, the rampaging number 8 Noel Mannion who, it should be said, was not the most fleet-footed.

    Living in Bloomsbury in the heart of the capital, I went out for a stroll one night that took me to the back of the British Museum, a tranquil spot amidst the maelstrom of the capital. I proceeded down the road, lost in reverie. Luckily, however, just in time it dawned on me that a small crowd of youths, who didn’t seem like a welcoming committee, were about to surround me. There were no other pedestrians, or cars, in sight. Then, as I recall, one of them requested a cigarette.

    I responded that that I could not provide him with one, which seemed to perturb him, so without pause I turned heels and began to walk back up the street. At that point another one enquired as to why I had taken that course of action. I replied that I was being surrounded. Then I took off at a gallop as fast as my ruddy thighs could carry me.

    It was then that I summoned the spirit of Noel Mannion in 1989 at the Cardiff Arms Park when, after he charged down a kick he found it in his possession with a clear run to the try line, almost the length of the pitch away. Like Noel before me, I pinned back my ears, and hoped the chasing pack wouldn’t catch me. But by this stage one of the youths was abreast. He tried to trip me up, but I strode on with a power and pace hitherto unknown.

    At last I heard the youth scream in despair before I reached the well-lit sanctuary of Gower Street, and in my mind I heard the away supporters in the Cardiff Arms Park roar their approval.

    Although he hails from a land far down under, Bundee Aki now carries the flame of Connaught resistance in the Irish team and one must admire a guy who brings his family to an ethereal place such as the City of the Tribes, and gateway to the Never Never Land of Connemara. Romantically, I expect the next great hero of Irish rugby, in the mould of an O’Driscoll, O’Connell or Ferris, but of a distinctly Far Western character, to emerge as the heir to Bundee.

    Twickenham Awaits

    So let us gather Irish people, new and old, to enjoy the spectacle this weekend. I for one am avoiding any sense of guilt at enjoying this crucible of unabashed manliness. All sports should of course be open to both genders, but the failure of educational institutions to provide adequately for women over the course of our history should not inhibit the simple pleasures we derive. After all it’s not a zero sum game between the respective sports of the two sexes.

    Win or lose, let us hope the Irish team carries itself with pride on the pitch. If they do lose, and we cannot expect the team to win every game, away from home, against a rugby union with a far greater playing pool than our own, let them hold their heads high in the knowledge they played with pride in the traditions laid down by those who once played their parts, and with the individual brilliance which each has been endowed.

    For the men of Leinster, Munster, Ulster and Connaught must play with a unity of purpose and great skill to overcome the English team, summoning the spirits O’Driscoll, O’Connell, Ferris and even Noel Mannion.

  • Not in Our Name – the Fall and Fall of Conor McGregor

    Greater in combat
    Than a person who conquers
    A thousand times a thousand people
    Is the person who conquers himself

    Gautama Buddha, the Dhammapada, (third century B.C.E.)

    There is no opponent
    Who the fuck is Jose Aldo?
    There is no Jose Aldo,
    There is no no-one
    You’re against yourself,
    You’re against yourself.
    Conor McGregor, Interview, (2013)

    Anyone with even a passing interest in combat sports cannot but be aware of the terminal decline of a one-time candidate for the greatest Irish sportsman of all time, Conor McGregor.

    For a time, when he could do no wrong, it seemed like the entire Irish nation was behind McGregor. The pride of a fighting nation. There were a few dissenting voices admittedly, who wisely recognised a crassness and thuggery to his character. A premonition, perhaps, of what was to come. The rest of us were mesmerised by the meteoric rise of the dual-weight UFC champion.

    The Irish sportsman has almost always been a plucky underdog, destined to fail at the highest level.

    Our national rugby team, ranked number one in the world going into the last World Cup, recently imploded with barely a whimper before the might of the All Blacks.

    There have been exceptions, it is true – Padraig Harrington and Brian O’Driscoll, for example – but Irish people seem to bear a psychic wound handed down from a colonial legacy of brutal suppression. As a nation, we don’t believe in ourselves.

    Mould-breaker

    McGregor broke that mould, and for a time, we celebrated him for it. Many of us, myself included, were seduced by the story of a plucky kid from Crumlin who became champion of the world.

    McGregor was the law of attraction in action, and became probably the most recognisable Irishman in the world. His self-belief, audacity and sheer natural athleticism were a sight to behold. He was that most un-Irish of Irish sportsmen, one who backed himself against the very best, and won.

    For a time, everything he touched turned to gold. I vividly remember the high points: getting up at 5am to watch his six-second-demolition of the reigning champion Jose Aldo; he showed what dedication, self-belief and hard work could do. ‘Who the fuck is Jose Aldo?’, he said, ‘You’re against yourself.’  Did he have any idea how prophetic those words were?

    Pantomime Gangster

    It is time to call McGregor out for what he has become: a caricature of a nineteenth-century punch-drunk, stage Irishman. An empty vessel behind which lurks self-destruction and self-loathing. A false hero. A morally bankrupt shell of a man.

    An immutable law of the universe is the higher you rise, the further you have to fall. Just as McGregor’s rise was meteoric, so his fall has been catastrophic. It is like watching a brutal car crash in slow motion.

    The decline of McGregor is not just as a sportsman, but as a man. A would-be role model has been reduced to one whose demons have taken control. He is someone who clearly needs help, not selfies and adulation.

    If you invoke the gods of war, expect to be their victim in the end. In Irish mythology Cú Chulainn is our greatest warrior-hero. Unsurpassed in battle, even he eventually meets his doom when An Morrígan, the Celtic goddess of the battlefield, turns against him, leaving his corpse tied to a standing stone with his own spear driven through his gut. W.B. Yeats evoked the scene in ‘Cuchulain Comforted’, (1939)

    A man that had six mortal wounds, a man
    Violent and famous, strode among the dead;
    Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone.

    Similarly, McGregor invoked the gods of war, who smiled on him for a time, before turning on him.

    Yet McGregor’s fall began slowly, almost imperceptibly. For a long while we, as a nation, looked the other way and ignored the excesses. This seemingly loveable rogue could do no wrong. He said controversial things, ‘but sure that’s grand, he’s Irish.’ With a twinkle in the eye he could get away with it.

    But no more. Now he serves as a warning to our children on what fame and excessive wealth can bring – that empty promise of chronic materialism which is the real sickness of our age.

    First came the money. Ostentatious, crass and tasteless displays of wealth at a time when there are ten thousand homeless in Ireland; McGregor buys an €80,000 Gucci mink coat and brags about it on a social media account which bears painful witness to his slow descent into delusion and madness.

    Gone was the bright-eyed kid from Dublin, whose positive attitude and laughter were contagious.

    The press conferences, which at one time were sharp and witty, steadily grew nastier and more vindictive. The wit and humour of the early years soon dried up.

    We looked away in shame at the racial taunts directed against Flyod Mayweather before that circus of a fight. He may have made one hundred million dollars, but he lost his soul that night. Or maybe he lost it last year when he was brutally demolished, choked out, by Khabib Nurmagomedov, a disciplined martial artist.

    Arrested Development

    And so the glint in McGregor’s eyes grew darker, his face harder, and the fuse shorter. The losses seemed unbearable for him, and his demons came out to play. Surrounded by yes-men, with no one calling him out, there was no bounds to his mis-behaviour.

    Arrests followed for assault, ‘strong arm battery and criminal mischief’; lurid headlines; different cities, new countries, but the same old story.

    Images revealed McGregor on yet another rollover – out of his mind on drink and drugs. The signs of chronic cocaine and alcohol abuse evident for all to see. Then came photos of McGregor mingling with some of Dublin’s most notorious mobsters – men with the blood of many victims on their hands. McGregor had become notorious alright, but not in a good way.

    Recently he was found guilty in a Dublin court of a shameful and unprovoked assault against an older man in a Dublin pub. The CCTV footage catches him red-handed. One can only imagine what happens behind closed doors off camera.

    Worse still are the sexual assault allegations, though of course anyone is innocent until proven guilty, and McGregor deserves the presumption of innocence.

    ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story’

    McGregor was a showman, never a real person. A pantomime gangster in a twenty-first-century Punch and Judy show. The story of his notoriety is based on a lie. The hardman attitude, the association with real criminals were contrived to create a false persona.

    As they say in Dublin: ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.’ He was never supposed to start believing his own bullshit.

    Somewhere along the road, the dream became a living nightmare. Now stuck in a circus of his own making, he is the ringmaster who no longer wants to play the role. But with the lions circling, like all doomed heroes, he is in the hands of his inescapable fate.

    What we are also seeing is the moral bankruptcy of UFC itself. There is something rotten in the state of Nevada. What does it say for a sporting code when its greatest heroes, McGregor and John Jones, fall from grace in such spectacular fashion?

    False comparisons have been made between McGregor and Mike Tyson, but Tyson grew up in a real ghetto. His mother was a prostitute and from childhood Tyson had to fight just to survive. Today, Tyson has tamed the monster within and has largely redeemed himself.

    McGregor had choices. He grew up in a functional family in the working class Dublin suburb of Crumlin. The Image McGregor has cultivated of being from the ghetto are designed for his American fans. He took a decision to associate with gangland criminals and thugs, and assumed the role of a pantomime gangster.

    Out of control

    It is clear now that McGregor has been out of control for several years with illusions of invincibility. In a country with more stringent laws than Ireland, he would probably be behind bars already. For his own, and others’, safety that seems like the best place for him.

    Perhaps the demons were always there, and it’s possible that one too many punches to the head have damaged him more deeply than we are aware.

    Maybe the pressure of living a lie in a toxic world of fame and wealth inevitably leads to this. No doubt, living without constraints would test anyone’s character.

    Money can’t buy class, and it certainly doesn’t lead to happiness. It can buy you time though, but however painfully slow, the wheels of Irish justice will turn.

    The Irish state has an embarrassing record of tolerance for the rich and famous breaking the law, and our sexual assault laws, and criminal justice system more generally, are outdated and not fit for purpose. It could be years before any trial occurs, if it ever comes to pass. Money has a way of making these things go away. But even if allegations magically disappear, reputational damage cannot.

    An addict in full self-destruct mode with bottomless pockets owning a whiskey company. What could possibly go wrong? The lunatics have taken over the asylum. Like any addict who has lost the ability to make rational choices, McGregor is trapped in pit of self-pity, self-loathing and resentment.

    In archetypal Irish fashion, McGregor has become a dirty family secret. Since the spiral of his decline began, collectively we have just stopped talking about him. ‘Nothing to see here, move on.’

    But we need to talk about Conor McGregor.

    We need to draw a line.

    This behaviour is not ok.

    Not in our name

    Not in my name. When, and if, McGregor ever walks into the Octagon again, with the Irish flag on his shoulders, he does not do so in the name of the Irish people. The men and women who died in the pursuit of Irish independence would not permit this. He does not represent me or my people. Not in our name.

    What McGregor clearly needs is help, not adoration, and to be held accountable for his actions, before the courts if necessary.

    Not more selfies with the mindless fans who do not seem to care about his behaviour. No more being egged on by the sycophantic thugs who surround him, or by his equally lost family. No more glorifying the shadow side of masculinity. Do we really want teenage boys aspiring to be Conor McGregor? He is the poster-child for a failed version of Irish masculinity.

    The saddest part about McGregor is what he could have been: a role model and inspiration for kids around the world. Instead he is alone in the world, alone with his demons. For all his tens of millions of dollars, I do not envy him.

    We could be heroes

    At this time of tremendous upheaval and change in the world, we desperately need new heroes.

    As Joseph Campbell masterfully put it, a hero is someone ‘who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself’. Not to the false and empty pursuit of money and fame like McGregor. But at least we can thank him for showing us the antithesis of a hero.

    Jungian psychologist Jasbinder Garnermann describes how essential it is to confront the unconscious shadow in the human psyche in order to fight our demons:

    The hero’s obliviousness to his inner nature becomes his fatal flaw … The shadow defeats kings, princes and generals, men who have fought great wars and shown superhuman courage. These are all heroes who have vanquished the external enemy. But, to a man, they have been brought down by the enemy within. And for this battle, humankind is still in training.

    I take no pleasure in writing these words, in seeing the sorry fall of a fellow man. We all have our demons and fallen from grace at some stage in our lives. Conor just had further to fall, and no one to save him from himself.

    Yet there is always hope of redemption, even for those who have descended to the darkest depths, but that would require McGregor to confront his demons – a fight he has shown no stomach for so far.

    No matter how far we fall, each of us has the instinct for transcendence, and the hope of  redemption. Maybe one day he will indeed make amends, and remember his own words:

    I just feel like I can beat myself. I can beat my mind, I believe in myself so much that nothing is going to stop me

    I wish him well: that he can turn things around before he loses everything, if it is not already too late.

  • ‘Don’t let me stop you from going for a swim’

    Picture this scene. Next to a Martello tower, a grimy concrete shelter below which a motley crew, ranging from whooping lads to fragile ladies, make their way, often daily, into the ocean at Seapoint, Dublin. Some swim significant distances – measured in buoys and other landmarks – others simply ‘take the waters’. There are New Irish here, while native Dubliners mix easily with country friends, in the collective gasp before wading in.

    I have visited the sea most days so far this winter. It is the dread of the cold, not the cold itself that holds the most fear. Once enclosed by the water my limbs thrash a course, and I am no longer conscious of the temperature. That is as long as I go in every day. If I leave it for any length, the cold will sting, even in the summer months.

    Is this a sport I wonder? There is no zero sum game of winners and losers. No match reports. No fandom. But there is conviviality, life affirmation, fitness and even a boost to the immune system I have been told. But something deeper motivates my immersions, and any health benefits are tangential.

    I am dreading the months of January, February and March. It is hard to contemplate temperatures that will have dropped a further three or four degrees to eight degrees.[i] Remarkably, the average sea temperatures in December is higher than in May, when the difference between air and water could be fifteen degrees. This month the water is often warmer than the air, although you lose heat a lot quicker without your clothes on.

    Also this month the solstice coincides with a full moon. I have no idea if this has a symbolic significance. What I do know is that swimming with a crowd during a full moon is great craic. I have attended these lantern-lit gatherings for the past two months, and am hoping to brave it again on the 21st. One trick to stave off hypothermia is to bring along a hot water bottle to pour over extremities afterwards, making sure to avoid giving yourself a scalding.

    I have just started wearing protective gloves – which I found on the street – into the water. It makes quite a difference to my hands on the twenty-five minute cycle home. I am thinking of acquiring booties that I see other people wear, but that would involve a financial investment in this lowest maintenance of sports. Really all you need are togs, towel and a good dollop of madness.

    I take pleasure in seeing an array of birdlife by the seashore: there are the usual suspects of gulls and cormorants – which I now see are colonising the River Dodder near where I live as fish numbers decline in the sea – but also Brent Geese along with Waders some of which make their way from Iceland, so I guess they find our waters positively balmy! It is shocking to hear that shards of plastic are affecting these migrants’ welfare.[ii]

    Most days I take a picture from the same spot overlooking the Poolbeg stacks. I do wonder about posting these on social media, but I have available to me the superb technology of a telephone, which takes fine pictures of sky, sea and land converging. Obviously in the process I am selling the platform of an irresponsible multinational, but cannot the same be said of any author whose book is on display in a chain store? I just want to convey the beauty of my city and its hinterland, and how we should treasure the wildlife, and examine carefully issues like the emissions coming from that eerie incinerator by the stacks.

    This summer my mother died. Losing a parent is generally a seismic life experience. I think my dedication to the swimming has had something to do with that. Cycling to and from Seapoint I pass by places I associate with her. It is sad, but I don’t want to avoid it.

    When my mother went into a hospice I immediately returned from the UK where I had been working. The following day she said: ‘don’t let me stop you from going for a swim’, much to our amusement. Two days later she passed away.

    The other landmark near where I swim is Dun Laoghaire pier. It is so much a part of the geography of this place that it seems timeless, but it was built on the initiative of a private citizen, Richard Toucher, a Norwegian sailor who settled in Dublin, passing away in 1841. He provided, at great personal expense, most of the granite for the building of the harbour. This philanthropic enterprise saved many lives, and now provides a bit of shelter as we swim at Seapoint, where it can still get quite choppy.

    This is an extract from one of his letters:

    I write not for fame, but for utility. It is my aim rather to be understood than admired. To elegance of composition I aspire not. But I have some nautical experience…and…the idea of an Asylum Port at Dunleary is ever first in my thoughts.

    The Merchants, Ship Owners and Ship-Masters of Whitehaven, Workington, Maryport, Harrington and Parton, are also preparing a petition to be presented to His Grace The Duke of Richmond, praying his aid and support for the erection of this much wanted pier at Dunleary. This I am not astonished at, when I reflect how many of their relatives have been lost on the coast of our Bay, the numbers of widows and fatherless children that are left to bemoan that this pier had not long since been built, which would have saved to them what was in this life most valuable.

    For his troubles Richard Toucher died a bankrupt.[iii] We recall his great legacy today, this Cassandra Voice, who devoted his fortune to the continuing benefit of others.

    Did you know that Cassandra Voices has just published a print annual containing our best articles, stories, poems and photography from 2018? It’s a big book! To find out where you can purchase it, or order it, email admin@cassandravoices.com

    [i] ‘Dublin Sea Temperature’, Global Sea Temperature, https://www.seatemperature.org/europe/ireland/dublin.htm, accessed 13/12/18.

    [ii] Tim O’Brien, ‘Plastic shards from Dún Laoghaire spill found in Donabate’, Irish Times, 12th of November, 2018.

    [iii] Tom Conlon, ‘Richard Toutcher – the case for a memorial’, Dún Laoghaire Harbour Bicentenary, January 23rd, 2018. http://dlharbour200.ie/richard-toutcher-the-case-for-a-memorial/, accessed 13/11/18.

  • The Limits of Artificial Intelligence

    The 2018 FIFA World Cup was an unqualified success. While the number of goals scored per game was the same as four years previously in Brazil, the entertainment value was way ahead, as were the number of close games.

    One of the pre-tournament favorites, France, won, and deservedly so. Still, luck played a significant role: both in the absence of technology in the build-up to the first goal, when a free kick was incorrectly awarded, and for the second – the result of a controversial VAR penalty decision. This served to remind us that technology is only as good as the humans using it.

    Prior to the tournament, all the big investment firms used data analysis and artificial intelligence to predict the eventual winner. Goldman Sachs ran over a million simulations and concluded that Brazil would emerge victorious. Another corporate giant, UBS predicted Germany would win after running ten thousand virtual tournaments through its software.  Well Germany was knocked out in the group phase, while Brazil only made it as far as the quarter-finals, only to be knocked out by Belgium.

    Recognizing the limits of Artificial Intelligence (AI), and technology in general, is important. Predictive tools may be excellent at setting the correct price for a product, or service, according to consumer demand and competition (full disclosure – one of my clients is an award-winning pricing analytics firm), or at predicting how many teachers will be needed in a given school district. But when it comes to predicting the future of our economy (the Crash), our culture (#MeToo), our politics (Trump), or even a sports tournaments like the World Cup, it does not perform so well.

    Yet there is no shortage of effort to turn messy and complex scenarios, into neat algorithms and software programs, in an effort to control or predict those variables that make us human. 

    For example, human resources departments increasingly use AI and data analysis to track and predict employee performance, run training programs and vet potential employees.  Political campaigns also use past behavior and demographic data to bombard us with targeted messages, playing to our fears and hopes. In the echo chambers of social media, we are constantly subjected to commercials for products or services curated and micro-targeted to our (supposed) needs. 

    There are those who argue the problem is not with the technology, but with the data – if we had access to better data than our predictions would be more accurate. This may be true, but only to a point.

    This still would not take into account unpredictable occurrences, or the flashes of inspiration which can make ordinary people do extraordinary and unusual things.

    The truth is, past behavior, and success, is no guarantee of future behavior or success.  Technology is most life-changing and effective when it is used as an enabler of human performance, not as a predictor. This is good news for those among us who are put off by the artificial constraints imposed on us in the daily doses of propaganda, curated specifically for each individual by machines.

    The more we continuously train ourselves to think and act independently the more we prepare ourselves for an uncertain and unpredictable world.

    I, for one, am hoping to be the next Croatia, the one that few saw coming…

  • World Cup Fans Conquer Russia

    How to fathom the phenomenon of ‘fandom’? Certainly it is one of the most familiar, most recognisable, and common, of personality traits – yet oddly, one of the least analysed personality traits.

    We all have a tendency towards being a ‘fan’ of something or other. It is a near-universal inclination evident in everyone from tech titans to favela-dwelling street kids. Yet that doesn’t make this thing called fandom any easier to comprehend.

    Becoming a fan of the right thing, at the right time, can be a liberating gateway to an array of regular natural highs, and an excuse for completely out-of-character behaviour. But it can lead to frustration and a pain that only eases when you abandon hope.

    There are genuine physiological and mental health benefits, and even employment opportunities in fandom, even if it defies rational explanation. Fandom may define a person’s life: ‘He was a fine father, a good friend, and as everyone knows, a passionate Waterford hurling fan all his life,’ it might be said.

    Nick Hornby always pops to mind whenever I consider the topic (as I do more than is good for me). Like most struggling writers, Nick had been tipping along for years, when a lightbulb switched in his head. He dropped his Dostoevsky-lite pretentions, and tapped directly into his Arsenal FC obsession. He came up with the novel Fever Pitch (1992).

    He followed this up with another global bestseller High Fidelity (1995) – a novel built entirely around musical obsession, and the butterfly effect it can have on a life. The success of both books lies in their unique, and accessible, capacity to get under the skin of fanatical fandom.

    Hornby’s is the simplistic, embedded fandom that most of us get sucked into at some point in life. There is none of that nauseating need ‘finally to meet my hero’ – or fulfilment of a deep quest to reach ‘the destination of a lifelong journey.’   No, none of that horseshit, Nick Hornby’s global bestsellers are simply about the reality of being a fan.

    One of the defining features of fandom, as Hornby explained, is that pleasure of reading newspaper reports after a favourable result, and knowing that friends and family are reading the same report and thinking of you. But my word there are many more aspects.

    II – From Russia with Love

    As I write I am travelling from Moscow to St. Petersburg on day seven of the 2018 World Cup, the biggest sporting event on the planet, by any metric. It really is something to behold.

    The host nation is Mother Russia, and in the midst of a toxic sameness afflicting an increasingly globalized world, this place remains, unmistakably, Russia, an intoxicating brew which hits you as soon as you arrive.

    Or at least that is how it was before this. As with anywhere, the World Cup month is an entirely different beast and – whether you really believe it or not – this month of madness every four years is still all about Football and Fans. Nothing else. To battle against that reality would be a fruitless endeavour.

    Even the legendarily terrifying Russian authorities have succumbed to World Cup madness. To such an extent that the normally reserved Russian people have followed suit.

    Y’see, just  like fandom, the World Cup itself is a bizarre and inexplicable thing. It temporarily requires even the most autocratic and despotic regimes to drop tools and play nice. But it ain’t some well-meaning peace initiative organised by the UN. It is a deeply corporate enterprise – the colossal plaything of an openly corrupt and corporate governing body named FIFA.

    To be given the right to host the event by the Swiss-based sportocrats, Russia has had to commit to the biggest societal and behavioural shifts since the fall of Communism, and by Jove it is running smoothly.

    Napoleon may have made it to Moscow before a ruinous retreat, and Hitler came close too, but only FIFA and Football fans have found the ingredients to the secret sauce required to tame the Russian Bear – albeit temporarily.

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1as1IceOALY

    III – The World Cup in Unison

    So here we all are now. Hundreds of thousands of the most colourful and diverse visiting fans, mixing delightfully with millions of ethnically-diverse Russians. While the spell lasts, it is bizarre and wonderful.

    Everything is choreographed to within an inch of its life, but nothing is familiar. To anyone. In normal times most people enjoy the chance to show wide-eyed visitors around their homelands, taking pride as they see the place for themselves through fresh sets of eyes.

    But not this time. The World Cup is entirely its own domain – familiar to nobody – a surreal pop-up-football-country and unique cultural mix built entirely around the unlikeliest blend of fans in full expression.

    Everything is being made up as it goes along, and to this writer it is a joyous space to inhabit temporarily (in spite of the best efforts of the English fans). I believe everyone should make this kind of pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime.

    This really is unchartered territory for all of us – even seasoned fans such as myself attending the sixth World Cup, who are brief residents of World Cup Fantasy Land.

    Everyone – from the dourest cop, to the openly gay charmer who cut my hair, is on their very best behaviour for the month.

    The diplomatic top brass in all the foreign embassies are on high alert too, and stocked with temporary crisis staff. Legions of PR gurus focus on protecting each country’s reputation from a potential humiliation in front of a watching world.

    For instance yesterday a group of Columbians were caught sneaking alcohol into a stadium concealed in a pair of binoculars. This became a huge incident – a national embarrassment – requiring ministerial-level apologies to the Russian authorities. And that’s from a country that allowed Pablo Escobar run riot for decades, and one of whose players was shot for missing a penalty after USA 1994.

    Even a train journey during the World Cup is an uplifting experience. Reportedly, all Russian train conductors have been compelled to attend training exercises in ‘pleasantries and tolerance’, and the country’s vast rail network is free-of-charge for any fan with a match ticket.

    IV – Fiesta Time

    Extravagant hospitality is normal at World Cups – national stereotypes go out the window – but this visiting horde of fans seem on better behaviour than usual.

    My apartment until mid-July is in a leafy, well-to-do corner of Moscow called Sokolniki – a sleepy neighbourhood with playgrounds, and parks aplenty. However, an entire block in this normally placid area has been taken over by the hugely charismatic and enigmatic fans of Senegal.

    Masses of wildly-enthused, tall and athletic-looking Africans are crammed into one building, spilling out in groups to dance and sing loudly on the street in support of ‘The Lions’ of Senegal, while festooning the locality with their flags.

    Honestly, it’s Fantastic. The energy, the vibrant colours, the pumping music, the tribal moves – all delivered with a World Cup-imbued civility and joy that the normally stiff locals are warming to. It is brilliant and contagious.

    And that is one single building – just one set of visiting fans. There are thousands of other fervent groups spread right across the enormous country for the month. Even the usually stiff and well-groomed Scandinavians and Germans are going batshit crazy.

    And then there is the remarkable juxtaposition of fans gatherings in iconic places like Red Square, Nikolskaya Street, and outside the Bolshoi theatre.  A wild and widespread array of colour and noise has caught all of Russia off guard, and foreigners already living here are giddy at the sight of their normally reticent neighbours smiling and casually chatting to strangers.

    Even the over-organised and branded FIFA ‘Fanzones’ have a lovely vibe to them, mostly down to one simple fact: these are the places where you will find the South Americans.

    Their fans raise so many questions. Even after a week of asking around, I have found nobody who can explain how so many South American fans have managed to make it to Russia. How in god’s name have they been able to afford the trip when most of these countries are falling apart economically, while so many Western Europeans have ‘sensibly’ skipped it?

    Where are all these South Americans living, eating and sleeping while they are here, and how the hell did the Peruvians manage to carry their hundreds of street-long flags and blow-up Llamas?  Imagine the excess baggage costs alone!

    What a thing Fandom is, eh? It might be dismissed as just a curious personality trait, but as the first world gets ever blander, with toxic sameness delivered via massive global brands like Apple, Facebook and Nike – I see fandom as an important way of keeping human life interesting on planet Earth.

    In this time of multiple global tensions and unreported traumas, the World Cup in Russia is arguably the most hopeful place to be in the world – now who could have guessed that?

    Russia might well go back to being the stiff scary place of yore, but after this experience there will certainly be a residual warmth towards Russia felt by fans who have been caught off guard by how welcoming it has been. And the effect on Russians could be the same. That’s the brilliance of a World Cup.

    *******

    ‘Ahhh but Ed… How can you praise an event hosted in a place with a reputation for x, y and z …?’, I was repeatedly asked by well-meaning liberal mates before leaving for Russia.

    They have a point, but they don’t get it. The host country is merely a vessel for this event to bloom, a landscape where a pop-up utopia flourishes regardless of everyday norms. In fact, the more damaged a country is, the greater the benefit of a mass influx of World Cup fans.

    So sod the haters and the cynics. With a fortnight to go in Russia 2018, I am already plotting how to get to the next one in 2022, due to be hosted in the utterly-illogical FIFA choice of Qatar. There you will find the full menu of human rights abuses; and strict public alcohol bans, and female repression, and dark laws against homosexuality.

    But I will still go to Qatar, along with hundreds of thousands of fans, because I get it. I have seen at first-hand how transformative a month of fan-delivered warmth can be – and will enjoy watching Qataris melt in different ways when the hordes descend, and the World Cup fiesta takes over.

    The legacy of an unstoppable force meeting an objectionable object is not easy to quantify, but I would defy any human with a soul to come to this event and not be moved to appreciate the joys of life as a football fan.;

    My train has arrived in St. Peterburg. A Costa Rican has already invited me to/ visit his solar farm over an 11am beer. Another one has offered to help carry my equipment. Brazil kick off their second match in a space-aged stadium in the centre of the most beautiful city in Europe. If you can’t be a fan of this experience, then I pity you.