The Solution To All Things…

Google is amazing. Google is the king of the search engines. I mean, how often do you hear someone say, “let’s Yahoo! It” or “let’s Bing it”. Doesn’t happen. Google offers us the answers to any question that we may have. It doesn’t care how ridiculous it is. It doesn’t judge.

Recently, my cat was looking a bit poorly. She was squinting and her eye was running. So, predictably enough, away with me to Google to type in “why are my cat’s eyes running?”. Probably an infection was the gist of the 783,000 answers it returned in 0.25 seconds.

But, in between bouts of helping the world find it’s answers and changing it’s logo to honour the anniversaries of things I have mostly never heard of, Google has questions of it’s own. Whether King G actually wants to know or if it’s asking on behalf of an anonymous majority, I’m not sure. But, it’s a beautiful day outside, so what else would I be at but doing my small part to get the answers?

In an awesome show of man and machine working together to educate the world, I started the questions, Google finished ‘em and then we worked together to find the answers. We did ten and then I got a sore back from being curled over this laptop and we decided to conclude. SO! Here we go…

When can a man… Hit a woman?

In short, never. But, that goes with the understanding that it is also never “legally” acceptable for a woman to hit a man.

According to wiki answers, “Hitting or killing someone is against the law, always, regardless of the situation. In some cases it is ‘excused’ by the concept of self-defense. Self defense is not a right. In certain situations it may be permissible by law.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking; What if she’s being an absolute, total bitch? What if she crashed your car? What if she wiped your itunes? What if she served you Greek salad for dinner? What if she says she doesn’t like your best friend?

Apparently… still not okay. Note that this piece is fixed exclusively on “hitting”. I can neither confirm or deny that it is okay to gouge, bite, headbutt or scratch.

Why do people… Hate Nickleback?

Nickleback, the Canadian rock band led by Chad Kroeger and responsible for the song, ‘How You Remind Me’, (Never made it as a wise man.” ‘member it?) have sold over 50 million albums over the course of their incredibly successful 17 years in the biz. However, despite undeniable success, people fucking hate them.

While Nickleback claim status as a rock band, many aficionados dispute this, criticising them for being “poppy”, commercial and repetitive.

Nickleback is the band that everyone loves to hate. Hating them, hating Chad Kroeger and his arrogance, hating the songs, it’s all a big, popular, communal way of saying what Kurt Cobain said way back before he shot himself in the face; “Corporate Rock Sucks”. Funny when one considers that everything about Nickleback and Kroeger (eh!) screams “WE’RE EMULATING GRUNGE!”

Except that while bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam and Alice In Chains garnered success through luck and determination, Nickleback have ridden their coattails, emerging in 1995, and making every move in a calculated and very deliberate manner. Instead of distaining popularity, as the punks from the 70s determined is the cool thing to do, Kroeger embraces it and pretends to hate it.

So, to conclude, people hate Nickleback because they are corporate rock sell outs who stick to a formula and premeditate every fraction of their careers. Mind you, they’ve made a few pound.

How much does… An abortion cost?

It depends.

Here in good ol’ Catholic, God-fearing Ireland, abortion is illegal unless the mother’s life is threatened by continuing gestation.

But get this, abortion is FREE on the NHS! Who knew?! You need to have two referrals from the doctors and meet conditions of The Abortion Act 1967. Alas, “I’m just not a baby person” probably wont get you an abortion on the NHS.

Private abortions in the UK range from around £500 to £1000 depending on various factors.

A quick search tells us that in the US, “A 2001 study conducted by the Guttmacher Institute found that the average overall cost of an abortion in the United States was $468.”

So, you know, don’t just be running out and paying full-whack for your abortion. Shop around, get the best value, times are hard. Google wont judge you.

At what point does… CPR become necrophilia?

It doesn’t.

If we’re gonna be all anal about it (absolutely no pun intended so don’t even think it!), then I’ll tell you that, technically, necrophilia is an attraction to a corpse.

When we perform CPR on someone, compressing their chest, we are manually pumping that person’s heart, keeping oxygen flowing to the brain and thus, keeping them alive. Ergo, CPR is always performed on a living person. Unless of course, you start performing it on someone who’s already been dead for two hours. Then maybe I’d be concerned about your sexual tendencies. Otherwise, work away my life-saving friends!

Is it legal… To own a monkey in Ireland?

Ah the age old quandary. People have been wondering about the legality of pet monkeys in Ireland for generations.

The answer is yes. You can have a pet monkey in Ireland. You can even get them in the Buy & Sell.

What would happen if I ran… Over a ninja?

Another age old question. I’ve never come across a ninja on the roads myself personally. I’ve also never heard of anyone coming across a ninja whilst on a driving excursion ever. But who am I to say that it doesn’t or cannot happen?

Google brought me to Yahoo! Answers, and there, one very clever guy, who definitely sounded like he spoke from experience said this:

Basically, you laugh to yourself and think you succeed; but you don’t. A number of things can happen:

-If it’s a nice ninja, you just die. You just die right then and there. Just drop down dead.
-If it’s a spiteful ninja, you’ll die a long and painful death. This could take up an hour, a day, or just until you find a way to kill yourself (because you WILL want the pain to end.)
-If it’s a horny ninja, you will die of internal injuries after he rapes you in the *** with his giant blade-penis.
-If it’s a ninja who had some bad luck in a recent relationship, you will die of blood loss after he cuts your scrotum off.

I mean, that all sounds pretty awful. And that’s me taught to drive more cautiously and always, ALWAYS, be aware of crossing ninjas.

Do children… have rights?

Yes they do. Contrary to popular belief, children in 2012 do have rights. What’s more, they’ve got feckin’ loads of ’em!

Children have the right to a name and nationality. They have the right to adequate standard of living. They have the right to healthcare, education and services. They have the right to play and recreation. They have a right to a balanced diet. Children have a right to protection from abuse, neglet, exploitation and discrimination. They have the right to participate in communities. They have the right to be helped first in a disaster. They’ve got the right to have their best interests considered in decisions. They have a right to have a say in decisions. Aw man, there’s tons more.

Kids are so lucky!

What is wrong… With Zac in Emmerdale?

Zac’s got pancreatic cancer guys.

Back in December, Emmerdale did a storyline in which Cain Dingle was attacked. It later came to light that it was Zac who attacked him. Imagine! He attacked his own son. Anyways, it was all grand until Zac started getting really depressed and drinking heavily. Racked with guilt, he lost his job at Home Farm and started behaving very erratically and causing poor aul’ Lisa to become very worried about him. A few weeks later, unwell, Zac went to the doctor. He was sent for scans and it was subsequently revealed that he had pancreatic cancer.

Now… Isn’t that sad? Also, I’d like to clarify that I don’t actually watch that muck.

Is it okay… To eat my period?

I didn’t even hit “Search” on this one. I don’t want to know any more. I don’t want to know who asked the question in the first place and I don’t want to know why. Because the answer is no. The answer is no. The answer will always be no. No. It is not ever okay to eat your period under any circumstances. Period.

How do kids… Make money fast?

A video on youtube says that all kids need to do to make money fast is to click the link below. Says they could earn $100,000 in five weeks. I thought about clicking on the link but noting that “adding comments has been disabled for this video”, I decided not to bother.

In my own experience, seem’s the quickest way for a kid to make a FORTUNE is to make either their First Holy Communion or their Confirmation. I know people who save just so they can afford all the hand-outs that have to be given to children in this country every May.

I’m thinking the Catholic church should come up with some other passage for us to go through that involves everyone we know giving us cards with money in ’em. Like a baptism refresher in our mid-twenties or something. Be class.

Now. Don’t you feel educated? Next time your friend is worried that she wont be able to afford that abortion, next time you find yourself in a dispute with an 8-year-old over their god-given rights, next time you see someone hesitate before starting CPR or you consider getting a pet monkey for your niece’s birthday, be confident. You’re armed with the answers. And you’re there to help.

This Is Not A Political Post, Right!?…

Last Christmas, while doing the obligatory round of festive socialising and seasonal drinking, I found myself having a conversation with a United States army soldier. From California, based in Germany and with at least one tour in Iraq under his belt, he enquired, as many less informed than he do, about the set of military dog-tags that I wear around my neck.

“Well, you’ve heard of Bowe Bergdahl, right?” I replied expectantly, intending it to be a rhetorical question.

I was met with a vacant look, astonishing me and indicating rather clearly, that this guy had absolutely no recognition of the name.

Bowe Bergdahl is a 26-year-old US army soldier from Hailey, Idaho. On June 30^th 2009, in Eastern Afghanistan, he was captured by the Taliban-supporting Haqqani network. His version of the story says he fell behind on patrol. The Taliban version says he was ambushed while drunk off base. Regardless, today, three years later and in a pitiful display of the lack of burden his POW status weighs on the shoulders of the United States military, Bowe remains the only US soldier in captivity.

Bowe (front right) in Afghanistan a month before his capture, May 2009.

I can’t recall an exact moment I first learned of Bergdahl. But I can recall being struck by his story. This kid is just a little older than me, I thought. From a small town in Idaho, Bowe was just a young guy with his whole life ahead of him. He was raised by his religious parents alongside an older sister, Sky. He was described by friends as thoughtful, well-read and athletic with a talent for shooting and a love of skiing and martial arts. He had travelled Europe and worked at a local coffee shop in his hometown. He was just like any other young guy really. Everything about him was relatable. A son, a brother, a nephew. I found myself recognizing elements of my loved ones in him.

Bergdahl, in uniform, before his deployment.

In 2008, ready for a career and without telling his parents, he enlisted in the army. He was placed in First Battalion, 501^st Parachute Infantry Regiment, Fourth Brigade Combat Team, 25^th Infantry Division in Fort Richardson, Alaska. He deployed to Afghanistan in early 2009 as a machine gunner. His parents recall emails from their son, seemingly happy, describing the beauty of the country and the wonderful people.

On the morning following his disappearance Bowe was absent from roll-call at his outpost. Panic ensued as tracking dogs were sent into the surrounding area to locate him. Drones were also sortied in a vain bid to recover the missing soldier. Of course, they found diddly squat. Documents exposed on WikiLeaks in the aftermath of the incident, translate intercepted radio transmissions from the Taliban dated July 1st 2009, the day after Bowe’s disappearance. In the transcript, one voice apparently says, “I think he is a big shot. That’s why they are looking for him.” The second voice replies, “Can you make a video and announce it all over Afghanistan that we have one of the Americans?”. He is told that the video has already been made.

In the few years since his capture, the Taliban have released five videos of Bergdahl. One showed the American, bald and cross-legged on the floor, eating fruit. Another showed him in a pale shirt, noticeably thin and standing alongside a bearded middle-eastern man. As much as each video was riddled with propaganda, featuring Bowe, timid and obviously scared, deeming the war as “not worth the waste of life that it has caused both Afghanistan and the US.”, they also came as relieving proof that he was still alive and as such, were received with gratitude by those who cared.

Probably the most heart-breaking video, released in 2010 and presumably recorded in Pakistan, presented Bowe, wearing an army jacket, describing his life before his imprisonment and making a desperate plea for his freedom. He talked about his family and repented over not letting them know how much he loved them when he had the chance. “I love my family,” he said. “I haven’t shown it very well because, well, I’ve been pretty lost in my life and I don’t think I’ve given my family the love they’ve given me. But I love my family and I pray to God to see them again.” Described by his mother as, “the hardest video to take.” It was almost spine-chilling to watch.

 

In May of 2011, after almost two years of dignified silence, Bowe’s father, Robert Bergdahl released his own heart-breaking video. Stoic and composed, he spoke to his son’s captors, commiserating over their losses in the conflict and, astoundingly, thanking them for keeping Bowe safe. The video was affecting, not least for Robert’s grief-stricken message to his son.

“I pray that this video be shown to our only son. God bless you. We love you. We’ve been quiet in public but we haven’t been quiet behind the scenes. Continue to be patient and kind to those around you. You’re not forgotten. You are not forgotten.”

Last year I ordered a set of dog-tags. Stainless steel and encased in red, rubber silencers, one reads my details. The other reads as follows:

SGT. BOWE. R BERGDAHL.

06/30/2009

POW

AFGHANISTAN

The tags are not part of some political stance or even a means to try and convince myself that I’m making a difference. I’m not dumb. I don’t know this guy. He doesn’t know me. We’ve never met. I’d be very surprised if the news of some chick in Ireland wearing dog tags provoked the Taliban to reconsider the whole thing.

I guess I’m just attracted to the sentimentality of the idea that as long as this kid is alive, alone and thousands of miles from home in the hands of a terrorist organisation, at the very least it’s nice to think that someone, somewhere, keeps him in their thoughts. That’s all.

Bowe, here in an old family photo, describes his love for motorcycles in one of the released videos.

Like many, I’ve long been disappointed by the apparent lack of action from the United States to secure the freedom of their M.I.A. Regardless of the various different counts of the circumstances of his capture, Bowe is a Prisoner of War. He was kidnapped whilst in Afghanistan serving his country. And his country seems to have just left him there, attempting to make words speak louder than action.

I am signed up for Google Alerts on Bowe. It means that every afternoon, I receive an email with an assortment of links forwarding me to any recent mentions of his name online. I originally signed up in the hope that someday I’d receive notification of his release. Alas it hasn’t happened yet. As much as my breath is baited for good news, I am, instead, greeted with a daily plethora of links to stories summarising stalled talks between the US and the Taliban and word of remembrance events across the States.  The display of ignorance on the part of the American soldier at Christmas solidified my belief that Bowe Bergdahl, if not completely unknown to most, is viewed as just a tiny piece in a conflict much bigger than himself, and, certainly, just a small fish to fry in the eyes of the Obama administration.

Bowe, thin and anxious-looking in another propaganda video

Having said that, after a mild flurry of interest last year, when word spread that Bowe had escaped and spent three days on the run (apparently “fighting like a boxer” when he was found), awareness is on the rise again. This week, his parents have come forward in an effort to try and push the government into doing more to bring their son home. They revealed that secret talks between the US and the Taliban were recently brought to a standstill by the opposing side. The deal would have seen the transfer of five Taliban prisoners from Guantanamo Bay to Qatar under conditions of house arrest in exchange for the release of Bergdahl to the United States military. The Taliban rejected conditions of the deal and, in essence, walked away.

Five for one perhaps doesn’t sound like the fairest deal going but the bottom line is that as long as they hold an American citizen, the Taliban has leverage. While his captors might lack the sentiment that their Western opposition places on the lives of it’s soldiers, they’re not blind to it’s importance in this exchange. America wants Bowe back. The Taliban know that and it’s for that very reason that he remains alive today.

Speaking out last week, Bowe’s father, Robert, who has learned the Pashto language in order to communicate with Taliban members, said that he believed he was in email contact with an Afghan man who has information on his son. In reference to him and his wife’s growing frustration at the slow progess, he said, “we don’t have faith in the U.S. government being able to reconcile this. You don’t leave something like this to Government officials. Why wouldn’t a father do this? This is my job.”

The Government, however, is adamant that it is exhausting every possibility to secure Bowe’s release. Spokesman for the Defense Department, George Little said, “finding Bowe Bergdahl is a top priority, and we will not stop searching for ways to return him to his family and country.”

Another official said that as much as an exchange may sound like a straight-forward means to an end, “We’re not talking about real nice guys out there who are willing to let Sergeant Bergdahl walk.”

A poster of Bowe sits on display at the Defense Department Central Command Center in an apparent show of dedication from the US.

Regardless of the conditions under which he gets returned, the reprise in awareness of Bowe’s saga comes at a tricky time and brings with it a sense of urgency for two reasons, the first being the obvious. The 2012 Presidential Election in November. Bowe’s capture, imprisonment and attempted release negotiations have all happened under Obama’s presidency. Aside from the obvious fact that there’s a chance he may not get a second term in the Oval office thus throwing the proverbial spanner very much in the works, in the run up to the election, Obama is being careful. The last thing he needs is controversy. He doesn’t want to be seen to be entertaining the demands of terrorists. The second reason is the imminent withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan by 2014. Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan has been ongoing for over 10 years now and is largely known as “the forgotten war”. Public interest had gradually faded and global focus has changed. The withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan can only serve to heighten ignorance on Bowe Bergdahl’s plight.

“Every day I want to go home. The pain in my heart to see my family again doesn’t get any smaller. Release me. Please. Bring me home. Please. Bring me home.”

One can only hope that the candour of Bowe’s loved ones and the consequent revival of public concern will push those who need to act into action to secure his safe return to the United States. I’m still waiting on the Google Alert in my inbox in the hope that I can, someday soon, put my dog tags into an envelope and send them to him in Hailey, Idaho.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bring-Bowe-Bergdahl-Home/105831760749

Handy Work If You Can Get It…

“Tell me about the health issues you’ve had recently.”

Staring blankly across the table at the man I was paying €40 to read my cards, I racked my brain.

“I’ve always been pretty healthy,” I replied, almost apologetic at having failed to come up with anything that had ailed me in recent months.

“No, emotionally,” he made a second attempt.

Again, I hit a brick wall. I understood his logic. It would be a fairly safe bet to assume that the majority of the usual suspects that graced the curtain of his “psychic’s lair” would have had some kind of emotional turbulence going on thus provoking their visit. Alas, I was not one of those people and, having been informed that I was incredibly fearful of rejection and that I cry a lot on the inside, I was now concluding that this man was nothing more than a very good con artist.

I would like to clarify at this point that paying €40 to have my future told by a chain-smoking medium down the back of a pub in Mullingar was not my idea. It was my mothers. Inherently trusting and full of faith, she wholly believes in angels, banshees and the ability of those few to see the future. She’d been to this guy several times. Swore by him. Many do.

I, on the other hand, am innately more sceptical. I have little time for religion, UFO sightings or ghosts. In general, if you can’t explain it to me, it aint getting past the door. I once read a saying on one of those funny signs you see outside churches in America. It went, “Faith sees God. Intellect does not.” Accurate and witty. I remembered it. That’s how this scribe sees it.

Having said that, at the encouragement of my ever compassionate, entirely trusting and kind-hearted ol’ Mum to accompany her, I found myself sat in front of one of Ireland’s most renowned psychics the other evening.

Having agreed on the reading and aware that it came at a princely cost, I decided to try and open my mind a little. Maybe I haven’t got it all figured out. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ve heard many people raving about this guy, how he’s predicted deaths and illnesses around them and gave them lucidity on a lot of things.

Driving down there after work, with my mother doing some Oscar worthy acting in her role as ‘most-nervous-passenger-in-the-world’ for the trip, I will admit that there was a part of me hoping I’d be told something profound. Something insightful. Something that I might be kept awake pondering that night. Even just some form of reassurance that I’m making decent decisions. No such luck.

Of course, the client themselves play a huge part in defining how good these guys are. As far as I can make out, the majority of clients at this particular dude are middle-aged women, house and duty bound and crippled with regrets.

That was way harsh Tai.

Point being that the best part of the people that go to see psychics go because they’re looking for some kind of emotional reassurance. They go hoping to emerge fulfilled, hopeful and enlightened. They go, so certain it will put their mind at ease, that when Mr. MoneyBalls tells them that he sees a wonderful future in store for them and that their dead dog wants them to know that he’s happy on the other side with Granny and Paws the cat, they lap it right up. I mean, he knew that Granny was dead! And you never told him! He must be legit!

Or perhaps he just clocked you coming in all positive and accepting, took in your age, your clothing, your immediate persona and he made some generic but fairly accurate conclusions about you. He sees health problems? Maybe you had a chest infection out last year. Death in the family? Perhaps your great-aunt died just before Christmas. Travel on the horizon? Who doesn’t have travel on the horizon these days?

Sitting in the dark room the other night with the tatty old cards laid out on the table in front of me, I was determined to poker face my way through the session. He was gonna have to do this on his own.

He asked about the animosity on my father’s side of the family, wanted to know why there’s a separation there, why we don’t speak very often. I took a moment to correct my raised brow and duly told him that we were actually a very close-knit family and had, in fact, all been away together the weekend before. Not quite on top form there buddy. Go again.

“What about the recent death on your mother’s side of the family?”  … “Well, my grandmother died 12 years ago.” Ouch. Strike two. It really wasn’t going all that incredibly well between myself and Mr. MoneyBalls here in his curtained cave. My inner cynic was utterly frothing at the mouth at the realisation that it had been right all along. The naïve, curious side of me, however, was a tad crushed in the knowledge that my life really was in my own clumsy hands.

With a mutual recognition that this reading was turning out to be far from the best show he’d ever done, he got a little more specific. He told me he saw travel in my future. Right. No shit Sherlock, but okay. Apparently Australia’s not for me but I’d really enjoy South America or Africa. He told me he saw marriage. Again, doesn’t take a genius, but all right, I’ll take it as a prediction. He wanted to know why I thought I wouldn’t have children. Fair play, you took a risk, thought maybe I looked like someone who didn’t have much time for kids. But FAIL nonetheless. He told me I’d always come back home and would end up settling within 30 minutes of where I currently live. Game over buddy. My definite (vague) and intended (hoped) life plan dictates otherwise.

I reckon that was about the time he gave up on me. He’d gotten it wrong so many times it almost seemed pointless to continue. I wasn’t buying it. He knew I wasn’t buying it. He told me to enjoy my travels and the session was brought to an abrupt and slightly awkward end with a shake of the hand and the exchange of what I’ve decided is a sufficient amount of money to justify scamming vulnerable, insecure housewives from across Ireland for a few hours in the evening during the week.

There’s a medium in the UK by the name of Derek Acorah. Some might know him from his work on ‘Most Haunted’ in which he became “possessed” by a spirit called Kreed Kafer. Kreed Kafer was subsequently exposed to be a total fabrication and a rather obvious anagram of the words ‘Derek Faker’. Clever. A while back I watched a documentary featuring Acorah. He was accused of being a fraud, cold-reading his clients, throwing out non-specific statements, gauging reactions and essentially just allowing people to make their own assumptions. He had hoards convinced. In reality it was all just years of honed fakery and showmanship. Acorah, of course, was enraged at the suggestion that he might be a liar and denied everything. But like, come on. I am, however, giving Derek one more shot at pursuading me. He has predicted that he will be involved in a plane crash between the UK and Canada in 2013. He reckons he’ll be one of three survivors and will consequently need a walking stick. So… Yeah… Look out for that news… I swear, if that happens I will eat your hat (I like mine)!

Derek Acorah under the influence of Derek Faker… Wait…

Anyways, feeling both disappointed at the lack of any kind of philosophical insight into my healthy, loss-lacking, socially acceptable life and decidedly smug at the confirmation that good old, time tested logic always prevails, we drove home, with me explaining to Mum exactly why I had deemed the man a fraudster, in between bursts of trying to reassure her that yes, I could see that the car in front of me was indicating and I wasn’t driving too fast.

Moral? I dunno really. Don’t go see a psychic. Instead, maybe just… get on with your life and quit being so darned scared of fucking it up. Be graaaaand!

Here’s a link to the art of cold reading. Why not set up down the back of your local and charge innocent old ladies a fortune to come and be cheated? http://www.wikihow.com/Cold-Read

PS: In case you’re wondering, my eternally trusting mother’s reading turned out to be a much more insightful experience for her.

There Were Five of Us In The Wolfpack…

I’m not trying to be the full time reminiscing about my college days on here. Droning on about how awesome it was back then as opposed to how crummy it is now. By the time my final year rolled around, having watched as the closest of my peers fell by the bi-annual exam wayside, I was WELL ready to graduate and get the rock outta there. I was sick of lectures. I was sick of campus and I was, most definitely, sick of the city. My heart had had enough of buses and lights and neighbours and costs. It was pining for a world that consisted of dogs, the sound of a car engine in the vicinity being a “who’s here?!” situation and being able to see the stars in the night sky.

Home / Henry Street

Of course, hindsight is 20/20 and now, four years into my “real life”, as I assumed it to be, while the thoughts of city living fill me with a sense of suppressed rage and exhaustion, I miss education. I miss learning something everyday. I miss deadlines and the constant niggling pressure that keeps you with something on the to-do list at all times. I miss going to Tae Kwon Do on a Wednesday evening or to the bar on a Tuesday. I miss coming home at the weekends for a catch-up with friends in the smoking area of the dingiest pub in town. It was ignorant bliss at it’s most brilliant, where my biggest concern was whether I should spend my last fiver on printing fees for this assignment that’s due in tomorrow OR should I spend it on three bottles of Koppaberg to drink in the courtyard with the gang right now? The Koppabergs won every time and the assignments almost always got printed somehow, like I’d known they would from the start.

Then, the other night, while listening to my sister describing the three boys she shares an apartment with in college, I got to thinking about the lucky people that have had the pleasure of living with me in Dublin in the mid-noughties and how sad it is knowing that I might never live like that again. As much as I was glad to get out of there in the end, it’s apparent to me now that I took for granted the time I got to spend living with the characters I lived with.

In first year, I managed to secure a place on campus. I was in a tiny little “apartment” that consisted of two single blue-carpeted bedrooms, each with a door that opened into the kitchenette that separated them. Behind the kitchenette was a bathroom reminiscent in size to that of an airplane toilet. On my second day there, another girl moved into the second bedroom, 27B. I don’t even remember her name. It was never going to work. She took one look at me, cigarette in hand, black hair, lip ring and a red t-shirt with the word “HOSTILE” emblazoned on the front. She moved all her food from the kitchen cupboard to her wardrobe. She locked her bedroom door and within a week, she was gone.

Me, popping pills, having seances and provoking people to hide food in wardrobes, circa 2006.

For a while I gleefully and naively thought that she wouldn’t be replaced. I had a whole sub-letting scheme going on in my head. Until one day, about two weeks later, in walked Claire. She was wearing a GAA jersey, her hair strewn back into a bun and a massive smile on her face as she shook my hand. She wasn’t remotely deterred by my menacing appearance. In fact, she was lovely. Claire was consistently cheerful. Her enthusiasm for just about everything was infectious and, despite being incredibly sporty and health-conscious, she tolerated my Thursday night parties, my smoking habit and my continual failure to bother going to class, for the whole year without ever so much as shooting me a disapproving look. She was even there with a comforting shoulder when I broke up with my first real boyfriend. When the college year drew to a close and the time came to move out and go home for the summer, I will admit to welling up a bit when I hugged Claire goodbye.

When I returned to campus in September, I was set to go, new upgraded, facypants 2^nd year apartment where I was to have the luxury of my own en-suite bathroom. Except when I got there, there was a fuck-up with residences and I ended up, last minute, being placed in a room in an apartment with four guys, none of whom I knew. I was horrified. I knew immediately what to expect. Mountains of beer cans and unwashed dishes, sticky floors, X-Box and bad smells. It was pretty accurate. But what I didn’t expect was for that living situation to end up being one of the most relaxed times of my life.

The four guys, Willie, Mark, Brendan and Fergal were delighted to have a girl on board. They enquired about my cookery skills, my cleaning abilities and about any “hot birds” that I might have had in my social circle. Our relationship was sealed when, one afternoon, upon the discovery of an army of ants living under the desk in my bedroom, I ran to the living room for help. The guys came running and, after awing at the huge volume of critters invading my space for a minute, proceeded to blast the colony with an arms consisting of a can of Lynx and a lighter. Then, admiring the charred carpet and array of dead ants, and giving me a sympathetic pat on the back, they went back about their business (I got out the dustpan and brush).

The rest of the year became a rota of television shows on MTV. We’d convene on the sofas daily for a round of ‘Next’ and ‘Date My Mom’, placing bets on the outcomes and pleading our case when we guessed it wrong. Fergal was poker fanatic. He’d come home at night, drunk, after a hard night’s bluffing, and regale me with tales of how close he’d come to winning it, “fuckin’ ragin’!” he’d say, inhaling his cigarette and shaking his head, thinking about the €400 he’d just lost. Brendan and Mark were old friends. Mark, tall and serious, was often to be found in a suit. I think he actually owned a briefcase. Brendan was quite the opposite. He was always found in slouchy jeans with earphones slung around his neck. Before leaving the apartment he’d always stop and give you the peace sign through the window before he exited. Willie (Hi Willie! ;)) was a real sports-head. In addition to playing gaelic, he was also on the university’s American Football team and was really involved in go-karting. He was very popular, known by everyone and constantly on the go, fuelling up with Berocca before running out the door. He was also a regular Cassanova, owing to his tactical and perfectly executed charm. Willie once learned that I am apt to a bit of cleaning after a few drinks. From that point onwards, whenever we were having pre-drinks drinks at home, if I turned my back for a second, Willie would have my glass re-filled and strengthened twice-over in the hope that I’d get drunk enough to clean the place, alas it more often resulted in me not getting very far past the bed for the rest of the night.

The apartment was usually messy. The floor was decorated with shoes, bottles and random bits of clothing or books. Every now and again I’d try and clean it or put some flowers in the window. But mostly, I didn’t care. The point of that being, that I learned that the better part of how content we are somewhere has nothing to do with our surroundings or any of that feng shui bolox. It’s the people who make an environment bearable. Living with the lads for that year, I had some of the best laughs I ever had.

You know how it goes…

The following year, my final one, I was placed in an apartment in the same complex. This time I lived with four girls. All nursing students. All strangers. They hated me. I mean, those girls thought that I was the devil incarnate. I think in the entire year that I lived there, I had maybe two conversations with them. They were all really straight-laced, friends already and not into anything remotely out of the ordinary. One night I invited some friends over. I didn’t want to mess up the girls evening by commandeering the living room so we spent the night hanging out in my bedroom. We had some drinks, listened to music, talked, laughed, tried to talk one of the guys through his relationship woes. By the time we realised the time, it was too late to send everyone home. We set up some beds on the floor and two of the lads headed for the living room sofas. The next morning, Paidi, a big metalhead with long red-hair who looked a little scary but was actually a gentle giant, told me that while he’d been asleep on the couch that morning, two of my roommates had come into the kitchen and had a whispered conversation about what they assumed my friends and I had been doing all night. Their description concluded that we must have been “popping pills and having a séance.” I. Shit. You. Not.

I barely said goodbye to those girls when I moved out at the end of the year.

Living with the boys in 2^nd year, although I was happy, I was wholly unappreciative of the simplicity of the other sex. Boys don’t judge the way girls do. They don’t make assumptions. They take things as they see them. The general rule of the apartment seemed to be something along the lines of, “if the mess bothers you, clean it.” It didn’t matter who made it. If you had the problem, you could deal with it. That year, I was content in a world where everyone said what they meant and bad behaviour was applauded. Pranks, in boy world, are a million times better because along with the elimination of girls goes the elimination of the risk of someone getting upset and storming off. A joke is a joke. Retaliation is fair and it’s all to be laughed about later. I felt embraced by the guys, part of the gang. I heard all the smut and gritty details. I learned how to be really good at Mario Kart and I learned to chill the fuck out a bit and not to think so damn much.

Now, older, wiser (ish) and musing over the good ol’ days, I doubt that I’ll ever have such a situation again. In the years since my emigration from Dublin, I’ve lived with my best friend. It’s a much more gratifying experience. It’s an environment where the smell is pretty decent, the dishes are washed and the carpet is vacuumed. We get on like a house on fire and, while I do look back fondly on the days of the “boy pack”, I’m not sure I’d go back.

I guess I just want to take that uncomplicated, it is what it is, boy mentality away with me.  Bottle it and try and convince people that maybe, just maybe, men have got it right when it comes to social skills. They’re not dumb, as stereotype dictates we believe, they just don’t give a shit if we think they are.

And then they go about their day. Harmony.