The Imbecilic Pioneer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All job offers appreciated!

Becoming Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John, Jan, Joan or Juan?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi, my name is John."

"Hello Jan, I am Antonio."

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

"Joan?"

"John!"

"O, like Juan?"

"Close enough."

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

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

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

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

Not yet a man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Squirrel

I'M being bullied by a squirrel

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

"No work today Hoge?"

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

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

"What are you getting at?"

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

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

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

"Whatever."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"See you Squirrel."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Happy Hoge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canada, Episode 10; Guess whose back

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canada, Episode 4: Norm and Michelle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hoge on Twitter

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

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

Those wishing to sign up for updates should click here.

Shame on us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Lancelot, the Chariot of Liberation

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some housekeeping

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

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

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

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

Speaking of which.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

The Hoge's Lions XV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Gethin Jenkins (Wales)

2. Jerry Flannery (Ireland)

3. Euan Murray (Scotland)

4.Paul O'Connell (Ireland)

5. Donncha O'Callaghan(Ireland)

6. Stephen Ferris (Ireland)

7. Martyn Williams (Wales)

8. Jamie Heaslip (Ireland)

9. Mike Blair (Scotland)

10. Ronan O'Gara (Ireland)

11. Shane Williams (Wales)

12. Tom Shanklin (Wales)

13. Brian O'Driscoll (Ireland)

14. Delon Armitage (England)

15. Lee Byrne (Wales)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!

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


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


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


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


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


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

Hangovers and the Delusionally Positive Brigade

MOUTH like the sole of a Saharan nomad’s sandal. Throat that sounds like I spent the weekend munching on sandpaper. Eyes so heavy that every blink could end in an instant coma.

The unfortunate thing about rowdy weekends is that they are almost always followed by a torturous Monday and - depending on the severity of the previous few days’ lunacy - sometimes a pretty rough Tuesday and Wednesday.

Feeling like you spent the whole weekend fighting off a family of seriously pissed-off grizzly bears does little for one’s creativity on a Monday morning. Last Monday, however, the suffering could be almost justified as the previous few days had thrown up several reasons to celebrate.

It all began on Saturday afternoon with a nail-biting victory for Bruff over Old Crescent out in Kilballyowen.

Two previous meetings this year had thrown up one victory for each side and Saturday’s fixture would decide who could claim bragging rights for the rest of the season.

My many friends affiliated with Old Crescent should be warned that I will be exerting that particular right at regular intervals over the next few months. When in a particularly boastful mood, you will find me intolerable.

Saturday evening brought another victory as Yours Truly took home a gong at the Mid-West Arts, Media and Culture Awards. Being neither arty nor cultured, the award was clearly in recognition of my work here in this paper.

If you think you hear a horn being tooted by its owner, you’re not mistaken.

Then on Sunday, Munster’s comprehensive victory over Montauban gave more reason for revelry. That evening, however, the realization dawned that - bar a major disturbance in the spacetime continuum - Monday morning was speeding our way like an out-of-control freight train, packed with headaches and cottonmouth.]

“Can’t anybody stop it?”

“Afraid not Mister, you better get home for a wash and some sleep before it’s time to suit and boot up for another week of work.”

Yet even on mornings such as last Monday - when my mood is somewhere between unsociable and murderous - it never occurs to me that I’d like to be doing any other kind of work.

I’d just love if attendance was optional on Mondays and Fridays, lunch was three hours long and comfy beds were provided in-house for those times when you feel like a snooze. Hell, I’m an award-winner now, they might just listen to a suggestion like that.

No you can’t

THE “You can do anything if you put your mind to it” mantra has always bothered me immensely, for no reason other than it’s obviously the talk of a blathering half-wit.

A motto for the Delusionally Positive Brigade the world over, this particular phrase has the potential to do far more harm than good.

What if, for instance, I had announced to my family at an early age that the only thing I desired in life was a career in the NBA?

Even at that stage in life, it would have been quite obvious to my parents that I wasn’t going to be the first Hogan in generations to reach the six foot mark. Therefore, they would have sensibly advised me to set out goals that were a little more realistic.

An average seconds rugby player? Perhaps. A world-class basketball player? Come on sonny boy, get real.

If either mammy or daddy had been so reckless as to say “You can do anything if you put your mind to it”, I may have spent years of wasted toil, trying to achieve the blatantly unachievable.

Irish Entrepreneur Magazine did nothing for realistic ambitions last week with the launch of its campaign titled ‘You can do anything’ which, in fairness, has the noble aim of encouraging entrepreneurism in Ireland.

But why make your slogan so all-encompassing? What’s wrong with ‘You can do anything as long as it’s within reason and your physical and mental limitations’?

Some friendly advice

Continuing with the negativity this week, I’d like to have an ever so slight, friendly, barely-noticeable dig at Live 95 FM.

Not so long ago, I provoked the ire of another local radio station with a less than complimentary comment on its news broadcasts so I shall try my best to tread very carefully as I have no desire to make any more enemies in the broadcasting world.

That said, something really has to be done about 95 FM’s daytime playlist. Remember the Tony Rich Project? Someone on the Dock Road certainly does because ‘Nobody Knows’, his one and only big hit from 1995, is played at least three times a week on Live 95 FM.

And how about Eagle Eye Cherry? His song, ‘Save Tonight’, reached about number six in the charts back in 1997 but that doesn’t stop it from getting as much airplay as good old Tony Rich.

And then there’s also Green Day’s ‘Time of Your Life’, now most commonly heard being murdered by pimply teenagers who have just learned how to play a few guitar chords, but still getting banged out a few times weekly on 95 FM also.

Please don’t take this as heartfelt criticism, more of an impassioned plea in the name of all that is tasteful to change the playlist just a little.

Rugby matches, tiddlywinks and gay pride parades all set for Croke Park in 2009.

Two years ago - when I was still just a wide-eyed student of journalism dreaming of one day getting to report on Limerick city council meetings - I wrote a letter to a national newspaper, arguing that Croke Park should be opened up for the Heineken Cup semi-final if Munster and Leinster were to clash at that stage.

At the time, Lansdowne Road was not available and both teams had qualified for the quarter-finals. As it turned out, neither went any farther so my argument was moot.

However, that didn't stop a barrage of abusive letters - one of them 12 typed pages long - being sent to my address which, in my naivety, I had allowed to be printed in its entirety. I treasured each and every one of these hate-spewing letters as proof that I was capable of getting a reaction out of people with just a few words by firmly laying out my position on something.

That the reaction I provoked was - for the most part - one of temple-bursting rage made it all the better. One letter started off 'Dear Idiot'. Several of my abusers called me a 'West Brit'. If memory serves me correctly, only one provided me with a return address.

It was glorious. I could almost hear them lashing their hurleys in fury against every solid surface in their cave after reading my letter to the editor.

One particularly warped individual from the North even predicted that opening up Croke Park was just another ploy by the Brits to get their grubby mits back on the republic and I was just too darned stupid to see it.

Of course my letter also prompted a number of well laid-out, reasonable reponses. But they were mostly sent to and printed in the newspaper that had printed the original letter. Two subsequent letters from Your Truly were also printed as the argument grew legs over the next fortnight.

Anyway the point of this is that once again the scenario has arisen whereby Munster and Leinster could well face off in a European semi-final and there may be no choice but for the game to be played outside of Ireland.

I'm aware that there is every possibility the GAA could open up Croke Park for such a fixture. But I'm also certain that there are still those whose eyes will water, toes curl and rectums tighten at the very idea of the ground opening up not only for internationals but also for provincial rugby games. I'd like to hear your reactions again guys.

With that in mind, I will once again lay out my position that Croke Park was built with the money of taxpayers (many of whom have never even watched a GAA game) and - if not quite a national stadium - then the ground should at least strive to serve the interests of all Irish citizens, GAA supporters or not.

If demand is sufficient amongst the Irish public to make an event commercially viable and it doesn't conflict with an existing GAA fixture or present a serious threat to the stadium and its surface, then it should take place in Croker whether its a Heineken Cup game, the Tiddlywinks Championships or a gay pride parade.

No home address this time I'm afraid, so abuse will have to be restricted to the comments section.

Thomond Park may be invaded by legions of Fiachras, Fintans and Fachtnas

This week's column from the paper.

IN A few months time, there’s more than a small chance that the rugby world will truly enter the Twilight Zone, with Munster calling the RDS home and Leinster setting up temporary residence in Thomond Park.

I excrement you not. This could actually happen if both sides were to reach the European Cup semi-finals and - by the luck of the draw - each were to get a home fixture.

ERC rules stipulate that teams who receive home advantage for a European semi cannot play the game in their home ground and must nominate a neutral venue in their home country.

That rules Thomond Park out and the regulations of the GAA mean that Croke Park would also not be an option (heaven forbid an Irish side were to play a game in a stadium which was built with Irish tax-payers’ money.)

Unfortunately, construction work in Lansdowne Road won’t be completed on time either and that leaves one undesirable remaining option.

While particularly delusional Leinster fans will tell you that the Royal Dublin Society has become something of a fortress since Drico and pals started plying their trade there, in reality it is the ugly cousin to Thomond Park’s homecoming queen.

For one thing, the ground can only hold 18,500 (although this would have to be increased to 20,000 for a European semi-final). On top of that, my reliable rugby sources inform me that well over half of these tickets would go to sponsors and visiting fans if the match were to be played there.

Also, playing our home match in our arch rival’s ground would necessitate having to navigate the labyrinthine streets of the capital. Half of us probably wouldn’t make it past the Red Cow Roundabout.

And as if that isn’t bad enough, on the same weekend that we’re all out of town, legions of Leinster supporters will invade our brand new stadium when no one’s looking.

Limerick will become part of the Pale for 24 hours as blue, harp-emblazoned flags are draped around Thomond Park, ‘Alive Alive-O’ is sung from the terraces and barmen in the stadium try to figure out what the hell Courvoisier Cognac is.

It’s just not right. Richard Harris would do a few pirouettes in his grave, stray dogs would howl outside the stadium gates and - worst of all - instead of respectful silence, kicks at goal would be marked by cheers and jeers from legions of Fiachras, Fintans and Fachtnas.

I know it may be jumping the gun a little to speak of this possibility before Munster even play their last group game but if we don’t address the matter now, it may be too late. You have been warned.

Lucky gal

NOTHING says ‘I love you’ quite like phoning in a few bomb threats to your girlfriend’s school just so she can get out of class early, as the old saying goes.

That was the course of action taken by lovesick puppy (and complete looney tune) Christopher Wiley in Pennsylvania, USA, who caused his lucky girlfriend’s school to be evacuated 13 times over the space of eight days.

“What’s the problem there?” says you.

“None at all, just a bit of craic.” says I.

But those right-wing nuts in America don’t take kindly to the odd love-inspired bomb threat, it seems, as they threw poor old Chris into the slammer for his antics.

What an over-reaction. I mean he didn’t even blow up the school. Not once.

Thank the gods the authorities on this side of the Atlantic are a little more understanding when it comes to the crazy hijinks of a man in love. I’ll tell you, if I was flung behind bars every time I rang in a bomb threat, kidnapped a beloved pet or wrote a love letter in my own blood just to impress the object of my affections, I’d have my own suite in Limerick Prison.

Sweet nothings

SPEAKING of sacrifices made in the name of love, one unlucky Chinese lady will be hearing sweet feck all - as opposed to sweet nothings - for a while after a supposedly inoocent smooch caused her to lose her hearing in one hear.

Such a powerful kisser was her boyfriend that he caused the pressure in her mouth to reduce, pulling her eardrum out and causing the breakdown of her ear.

Thankfully, her hearing should be back to normal in three months time, the lady’s doctor pointed out between guffaws of laughter.

To Russia for love

On an almost daily basis, I receive an email from a different misfortunate Eastern European sexpot begging for financial aid to help her and her poor, misfortunate family in these tough economic times. In exchange for my largess, they also extend an invitation to join them in their freezing little village where they will express their gratitude. I think it's time to take them up on the offer.

This is Elena, she lives with her mother and 7-year-old daughter in Russia, she found my email address on the internet apparently. My beloved Elena is currently suffering through one of the coldest ever Russian winters and all she wants is a portable stove heater to heat her daughter and old mother.

She says I can send her one if I want but that it would actually be cheaper just to send her the €192 and she'll buy it herself. Already she's looking to save me a little money, what a darling!

She lives 200km from moscow and it's meant to be very cold but I'll send the money for the heater on ahead, so by the time I arrive to take my place as the patriarch of my new Russian family, herself and the mother should have the thing installed and on full blast.

Anyway it may be a while before you see any more updates here as Elena says there's no electricity in her village. That has left me a little confused about how she got my email address and had access to the internet but I suppose only a true fool searches for reason in the ways of love.