Month: December 2021

• 

It’s that time of the year again. The period between Christmas and the New Year, when we take a break to digest the mountains of food and drink consumed over the last few days. The belt on the trousers has been discarded; no need for it now, the pants will stay up on its own.

Right now, furniture all over the country is being reinforced to support the weight of bodies stuffed to the gills with turkey, ham and all the trimmings.

We feel compelled to eat dinners on Christmas day and Stephen’s Day that would feed an average family for a week. Trying to be strategic is a waste of time. Saying, “I won’t have much now.” or “Just give me a little.” is guaranteed to fall on deaf ears. The plate will still be carried to the table by at least two people.

We do it justice though. When we can’t face another mouthful, we pack in some trifle or pudding and when there’s absolutely no room left, we top it off with drinks, tins of biscuits and chocolates. We pay for it later with bouts of heartburn, reflux and gout and while we complain a little, we must secretly enjoy it because we do the same thing every year.

It can be a stressful time for many too. If I have learned anything over the years, it’s that nothing is straight forward in this life. One miniute you can be having the time of your life and the next miniute you can be on the flat of your back looking up at the bright lights of an operating theatre. Or worse

My family has been in the wars in recent times. My daughter, her partner and the two boys (three now actually since a recent visit to the CUMH) should have a family room in the CUH with the amount of time they spent there this year. My wife and son took turns visiting the Mater and the Mercy University Hospital so I’m the fittest one in the family at the moment which is a poor lookout.

Situations can change in the blink of an eye so it’s important to be adaptable. It also helps to be optimistic. Life is short and the older you get the quicker time passes, so you need to make the most of it. I thought retirement would slow down the passage of time, but the opposite has happened so, every moment should be savoured and appreciated but some people are determined to make life difficult for us, like scammers and hackers.

Modern technology has had an impact on all our lives. We’d be lost without our mobile phones, laptops and access to the Internet, but unfortunately, these things also provide unsavoury characters with the means to part us from our hard-earned cash. They’re not going to disappear either, so we need to learn how to deal with them.

I got a phone call recently from a person claiming to be my broadband provider advising me that I was going to be cut off unless I provided them with my account details. The voice was that of a heavily accented female and I knew from the tone of the conversation, she wasn’t genuine. I had time to spare so I kept her on the line and asked lots of silly questions until she eventually grew tired of me and hung up.

I get silly messages by email from time to time too, usually written in pigeon-English with bad grammar, and making the same demand. They have evidence that I’ve been watching pornography on my computer, and they will publish the evidence unless I pay them. As soon as they get the money, they promise to destroy the evidence. (I really need to find out who’s tipping them off).

When the HSE was hacked, I got calls and text messages, threatening to publish my medical records unless I cooperated and coughed up. They were wasting their time taking that approach with me because if any scammer expects me to be concerned about releasing details of my prostate removal, they better have a plan B because I couldn’t care less. If someone really wants to know, I’ll happily bore them to death with a full account.

I get other emails too advising me that I have either inherited or won, large sums of money which will be released to me as soon as I provide my account details and passwords. These things are computer generated so they’re impossible to trace but somebody must be making money, or they wouldn’t keep doing it.

There’s no shortage of scammers out there but they aren’t a problem as long as you don’t give them anything. The best advice is to just ignore them but that’s becoming more difficult because they’re everywhere. They’ve even started attacking my phone now, plaguing me with text messages to contact delivery people about non-existent packages being shipped to my address. I’ve also been threatened with prosecution for tax evasion and various other offences. They’re a pure nuisance.

They’re after me on social media too. I’ve had my Facebook page cloned at least three times already this year and my contacts are being pestered with friend requests from a fake me. It’s harder to ignore these things because you have to change passwords and report fake pages which is all very tiresome.

It’s important that we don’t let them win though and the advice from An Garda Siochana is not to engage with these people. Ignore the emails and don’t click on any links. Don’t return dodgy phone calls, don’t follow the automated instructions and never transfer money. Never disclose personal or financial information, just hang up and end the call.

In the meantime, prepare for the next dinner.

• 

We were having a bathroom renovation carried out in the house during Storm Barra. Not great timing, but it was pre-planned, so we had to go with it. The toilet was removed and when the plumber was finishing up for the day, he put a plastic bag into the opening of the sewer pipe to prevent the smell coming into the room but when I looked in later, the plastic bag had popped out.

The storm was raging at the time and the draught was coming in around the pipe, so I popped the bag back in and put a toolbox against it to prevent it popping out again. I checked it on my way to bed and I was surprised to find the bag had disappeared. There was only one place it could have gone and that was down the pipe into the sewage system. That might not bother some people, but I was horrified, and I’ll tell you why.

World Toilet Day has been around for the last twenty years, since November 2001 in fact. It’s organised by the United Nations to encourage us to appreciate our toilets for the work they do because 3.6 billion people don’t have one. It’s hard to believe that nearly half the world’s population live without a basic toilet but it’s true.

The UN website tells us to care for them because life without one is dirty, dangerous, and undignified but not only do we take sanitation for granted, we abuse it too. A 2019 survey by An Taisce found that 58% of the public pour fats, oils, and grease down the sink and one in four Irish adults knowingly flushes items down the toilet that can cause blockages.

According to Irish Water, when fats, oils and grease are hot and in liquid form, they pour easily down the sink and drain but when they cool, they form solid masses, commonly referred to as fatbergs. People under the age of thirty-five were found to be the most likely culprits and the most common items being flushed down the toilet include hair, paper towels, toilet wipes, dental floss, tampons, baby wipes, cotton buds and cigarette butts; stuff that should be put in the bin.

Wet wipes, or baby wipes, are very handy around the house but cause a lot of trouble when flushed down the loo and that has led some local authorities calling for them to be banned altogether. That would be a shame because they have their uses.

They are ideal for a quick clean of dirty surfaces but useful for a dirty body too. Back when we were delivering aid to Belarus in the aftermath of the accident at the nuclear power plant in Chernobyl, baby wipes were an essential piece of kit. Parts of that country are very poor so there were times when we mightn’t see a shower for days on end, and on those occasions, the wet wipes were a life saver.

Emptying an articulated trailer by hand was dirty work and would leave you covered in sweat, grime, dust, and other nasty stuff. In the absence of proper washing facilities, wipes were our magic bullet. If you’ve never stripped off in one of these trailers and scrubbed yourself with wipes, you haven’t lived. A good rub down would leave you feeling good enough to mix with royalty.

They can be a menace though when not disposed of properly because they don’t disintegrate or dissolve. They become indestructible wraps of gunk and I’ve had first-hand experience of that.

I lived for twenty-five years in a bungalow that was serviced by a septic tank. That’s a concrete container buried in the garden, where all the waste from the toilet ends up. The liquid drains out of the septic tank through a pipe into a soakaway, while the solid waste remains in the tank and is taken care of by bacteria. It’s a highly effective system but it breaks down when foreign bodies are added.

Once the system clogs up, the only solution is to remove the cover from the tank and free the blockage manually using sewer rods and a garden hose. Apart from the visual appearance of a tank full of crap, there is also the smell and the fumes to contend with. Not the most pleasant job and the toxic environment is guaranteed to give you a headache.

We rented out the house for a few years and some of the tenants had no understanding of the workings of a septic tank and treated the toilet like a waste disposal unit. Sometimes when I went to clear it, it looked as if a bunch of otters had been trying to build a dam in there. Not a job I ever looked forward to, but it was very educational. If everyone had that experience, discarded wet wipes would never again see the inside of a toilet bowl.

Clearing a blockage in a domestic tank is one thing but it’s nothing compared to what the local authorities have to contend with at their pumping stations. Earlier this year the BBC reported that a three-hundred-ton fatberg was found in a city in England. That giant turd was said to be half a mile long, three feet in height and weighed the equivalent of 250 family cars. It took weeks to clear it.

We could do without that happening here, but it was reported in the Irish Examiner last year that the past decade has seen the problem exacerbated in Cork by people abusing the sanitation system. That’s not good news and it’s why I felt so guilty about my plastic bag.

We can all help by remembering to only put the three Ps down the toilet: pee, poo, and paper. It’s not rocket science.

• 

My buddy, John O’Connor, was trawling through the Irish Examiner Archives when he came across a photo of me that was taken in 1966 at a school sports day in Cobh. There are three of us in the photo and I’m the one in the middle having taken third place in the under 9’s, 100-yard dash. The sports day took place in what was then known as the College Field, a popular sporting venue in its day but a housing estate, College Manor, now occupies the site.

My memory is shocking at the best of times, but this photo reminded me of something that had confused me as a child. I remember the day clearly for a very good reason. The presentation ceremony in particular sticks out in my mind, if you could call it a ceremony, because after the race we collected our ‘trophies’ at a little table in the centre of the field.

I can’t remember what the other lads got but my reward for coming close to beating the world record was certainly out of the ordinary. It looked for all the world like a biscuit tin and there was a good reason for that. It was a biscuit tin. When l lifted it up, I spotted straight away that it was very light and there was a reason for that too; it was empty.

I think that was the moment I decided that sport might not be the best way to make a living although it worked out differently for two other Cobh legends, Jack Doyle, ‘The Gorgeous Gael’ and Sonia O’Sullivan both of whom also came from the harbour town.

Doyle was the second of five children and grew up in a tenement building on Queen St, along the water’s edge in Cobh and according to Richard Fitzpatrick writing in the Irish Examiner, the Doyle family didn’t have it easy. The children weren’t well off and survived thanks to “the penny dinners” which were basic meals of bread and soup supplied by the local convent.

Jack left school at 12 years of age, and eked out a living working as a labourer, shovelling coal, and carrying luggage for guests at the local Commodore Hotel.

At 17, he joined the Irish Guards, at a recruiting station in Pembroke, Wales, and told his mother as he departed: “Don’t worry, mother. I’m a big boy now. I’ll take care of myself. And soon I’ll be famous. You’ll see.” He was right about being a big boy and grew to a height of 6ft 5in. He was right about becoming famous too.

He found success as a boxer because of his explosive power and a haymaker of a punch but that wasn’t his only talent. He was well able to sing, could act a bit and was a good-looking guy. Women loved him and flocked to see him, but he had his weaknesses. He was demented and dangerous when he was drunk and that eventually brought him to his knees.

Doyle ended up living on the streets in the UK until he died in 1978 from cirrhosis of the liver. His body was brought back to Cobh for burial and a plaque was placed on a wall on Connolly Street where he lived as a child. I pass it most days when I’m out for my walk and it reminds me of his story.

I pass something else on my daily walks as well and that’s the bronze statue of Sonia O’Sullivan. It’s impossible to miss because it’s right in the centre of town, where it should be because Sonia is one of our own and a real hero.

Sonia began her running career in the Ballymore Running Club and went on to become one of the world’s leading female 5000 metre runners. She was known for her dramatic kick at the end of races and her crowning achievement was a gold medal in the 5000 metres event at the 1995 World Athletics Championships.

She won silver medals in the 5000 metres at the 2000 Olympic Games and in the 1500 metre event at the 1993 World Championships. She has also won three European Championship gold medals and two World Cross-Country Championship gold medals and deserves recognition for those efforts.

Speaking to the Irish Examiner at the unveiling ceremony of her bronze statue, Sonia acknowledged that it was a special day for her. “This statue is about everyone who has supported me — everybody who has got me to this point in time. It started for me as just a normal little girl running through the streets of Cobh.”

While she was apprehensive about having a statue commissioned in her honour, she said it was a tribute to all those who had supported her over the years. That’s typical of Sonia’s modesty. With all that she has achieved, she has never lost sight of her roots which isn’t surprising when you look at her parents, Mary and John. John was a good sportsman too in his day and played with Cobh Ramblers for many years.

Fair play to Doyle and Sonia. I have no issue with them being recognised officially and I fully appreciate what they have achieved, but I do have a crow to pluck with whoever is responsible for making these decisions because my third-place finish as an 8-year-old back in 1966 has never been recognised.

Jack Doyle got a plaque, Sonia O’Sullivan got a statue, and I got an empty biscuit tin. There isn’t a flower or a weed anywhere in the town to acknowledge my existence. That needs to be rectified and there should be something to honour the memory of my athleticism. I think all sporting heroes should be treated equally so standby for my campaign for justice.

• 

I got up early the other morning and I could feel a chill in the air, so I flicked on the heat before I had a shower. I like my comfort. It was about 7am and my grandson Cooper who had stayed the night would soon be getting up for school. I wanted him to have something warm in the belly before heading out, so I made some scrambled egg and bacon with toast. He demolished it.

We jumped into the car about 8.30am and the temperature indicator told me it was about three degrees, and it felt every bit of it. When we got to the school we had to stand at the gate until the staff decided to let the children in and I could feel the cold coming up through my feet from the concrete. My follicle challenged head wasn’t doing much to keep the heat in the body, so I was frozen.

When the gate finally opened, I darted back to the car as fast as a person of my age, shape and weight can dart, and turned up the heat to thaw out the bones. As soon as I got home, I made a cup of hot coffee to ward off the hypothermia and slowly but surely the temperature in my body returned to normal. I began to feel human again.

As I sat in the recliner with my coffee, I rang my brother Alex. The call went to his voicemail, but he rang me back a little later. We’ve established by now that it was a cold day but at 9am, at the end of November when the outdoor temperature gauge in the car was warning me to be prepared for frostbite, he couldn’t answer the phone because he was swimming. Outdoors. In the sea.

When it goes below four degrees, my car sounds an alarm to let me know that driving conditions could potentially turn tricky. It showed a snowflake symbol as well and nowhere on the instrument panel did it indicate that this was the best time of the day to dive into the ocean. You could possibly put it down to the foolhardiness of youth except that his father-in-law went with him and he’s in his seventies. There were others too. In fact, there seems to be no shortage of like-minded souls.

I struggled earlier to get into a hot shower before the room warmed up properly so I can’t imagine being in the altogether out in the open at this time of the year. If someone put a gun to my head that morning and told me to strip off outdoors, I would have told them to go ahead and pull the trigger. Death was facing me either way because my heart would stop the miniute I hit the water so shooting me would have saved me the additional agony of having to go naked in Baltic conditions. So why do people volunteer for this madness?

According to IPRS Health, a UK company providing Physiotherapy, Mental Health and Wellbeing Services, there are significant health benefits attached to cold water swimming. They say it boosts your immune system and studies have shown that cold water helps to boost the white blood cell count because the body is forced to react to changing conditions.

It’s good exercise too which helps to activate the endorphins that make us feel good during activities. That improves circulation, flushes the veins and arteries, burns calories and has been proven to treat depression. So, it’s all good.

There are also ongoing studies into the positive effects that cold-water swimming can have on the menopause but that’s more difficult to assess because while the cold water could be having a positive effect, the socialising and exercise could also be the reason for the improvement in general health and wellbeing.

Anyway, I think it would take a very brave man to suggest to any woman going through the menopause that it would do her good to jump into the river in winter. If you are considering offering that advice, can I suggest you stand well back and position yourself behind something solid.

I’m hearing a lot of talk too about the benefits of taking cold showers. Apparently one study found that having thirty second cold showers every morning for sixty days could decrease the number of sick days by 30%. I’ve also heard celebrities promoting this idea, but I can’t help wondering if they would be as enthusiastic if they lived in Ireland.

It’s easy to champion the cold shower theory if you live in a Mediterranean country where shorts and a T-shirt will do you all year round but it’s a different kettle of fish where I live. Cold showers are not nice, which is exactly why they were used to torture people once upon a time.

In the 1920s, the Chicago police used to extract confessions from prisoners by chilling them in freezing water baths. That wasn’t the first-time cold water was used to put manners on people either. During World War I, American military prisons subjected conscientious objectors to ice-water showers and baths until they fainted.

I read an article on the Internet suggesting that in the 18th century, insanity was thought to stem from a “violent heat” and inflammation in the brain. Physicians knew that cold water could calm inflammation in joints, wounds, and elsewhere in the body, so the idea was that a shock of cold water on the head might have the same effect on an inflamed brain. Doctors doused patients with cold water unexpectedly to shock them, and the showers would continue “for as long as the patient could endure, thus creating in them the fear of death.”

Alex and his buddies would probably have enjoyed that.