Trevor Laffan

There was a report on one of the Sunday papers recently suggesting that the anti-tobacco lobby group, ASH, had criticised RTE’s drama series Striking Out because some of the characters were seen smoking cigarettes.

ASH chairman Patrick Doorley, revealed the lobby group had written a letter of complaint to RTE about the “normalising” of cigarettes through showing smoking on screen. It also contacted the Broadcasting Authority of Ireland (BAI).

ASH says it is concerned about scenes in Striking Out which portray two characters smoking heavily in an office. There were two smoking scenes in the first episode of the second series of the legal drama and the letter questions RTE’s policy on the portrayal of smoking in their programmes.

Mr. Doorley is obviously a man with time on his hands. I get that he doesn’t like smoking and would like to stamp it out and, he’s concerned that we might be rushing outside to light up once the programme is over.

But I can make up my own mind and it annoys me that he is trying to influence what the rest of us can or can’t watch on TV. I presume the programme in question is trying to be realistic when depicting scenes of ordinary life and, in the real world, some people do smoke and to ignore that fact would be a bit foolish.

Colin Coyle had a piece in the Sunday Times about another complaint that was made to the BAI.

A lady called Niamh Turley, made a complaint about a scene on the RTE2 comedy show Bridget & Eamon in which Eamon, a character with ginger hair and a ginger beard, suggested going upstairs with Bridget’s mother. She responded: “With the lights off so I can’t tell that you’re ginger.”

Turley complained that this remark was “racist” and demonstrated “discrimination and prejudice against people with different hair colour”. She argued such casual racism promoted bullying against redheads, leading to “alienation”.

Thankfully, the BAI used some common sense and said that suggesting someone with ginger hair is unattractive does not constitute discrimination and concluded that “people with red hair are not considered a separate ‘race’ or group in society”, and therefore did not require specific protection under the BAI code.

Where is this nonsense going to end?

I watched a film on TV the other night called Calvary with Brendan Gleeson and it was made in Sligo. In one scene, Brendan, who plays the part of a priest, went to the pub and drank his loaf off. It was an excellent scene, but it didn’t encourage me to go down to my local and get plastered.

Two other guys in the pub with him were sharing a joint. I have never smoked cannabis or injected myself with heroin and that scene didn’t send me to to the dark net or to my nearest drug dealer to get a fix.

There was another character in the film who was in prison and from what I could gather, he had eaten some of his victims. An Irish version of Hannibal Lecter if you like. Brendan Gleeson went to visit him in the prison because he asked to see a priest. Brendan went along with the request thinking that the guy was looking for forgiveness for having these strange dietary requirements.

They had a chat and the villain of the piece explained how he thought that human flesh tasted like turkey meat. Whether it does or not I have absolutely no idea and neither do I have any desire to find out. Having watched this footage, I am no more inclined to go out and eat my neighbour than I was before I saw it.

There was another scene where the priest went to the pub and he had a bit of a row with the publican. He pulled out a gun and started taking pot shots at the various optics and bottles behind the bar. There were bullets and broken glass flying in all directions.

I enjoy going to Tom Kelly’s for a quiet pint and I think I get on ok with the gang there. We might disagree on some things from time to time but, I can assure Mr. Doorley, that I’m not likely to head off to the pub with my AK47 even after watching this film.

The film ended with Brendan Gleeson confronting the villain of the film, on a beach. That demented soul had been abused by a priest in his younger days and carried a lot of hatred towards the clergy around with him. He had issues.

He decided that the best way for him to resolve those issues was to kill Brendan, so he pulled out a gun and shot him in the head spilling blood and guts onto the sand.

If a person had a mind to, they could find a lot to crib about in that film. Sligo Tidy Towns could have an issue with depicting the beach as being a suitable location for spreading human innards. Gun clubs could moan that firearms were being used to promote violence. Pacifists could be offended by the portrayal of violence as a way of solving problems.

If the cribbers had their way, this film would never have seen the light of day. To meet their standards the entire film would have been shot in one room with Brendan Gleeson talking to himself. He wouldn’t have cursed, he wouldn’t have had a drink, he wouldn’t have had a gun and he wouldn’t have made a mess on the beach.

It’s television, it’s entertainment, it’s make believe and most of us can decide for ourselves the difference between reality and fiction. I personally don’t need Mr. Doorley, Ms. Turley or anyone else acting as a censor on my behalf.

I was driving through Midleton the other day when I stopped at a set of traffic lights. As I sat there I saw two things that surprised me.

The first one was a young woman sitting next to me in a spotlessly clean white SUV and before I could figure out what make of car she was driving I was immediately distracted by what she did next. She stuck her finger up her nose and started having a good root around.

I turned my head to the other side and what I saw in that car was even worse. There was a guy sitting on his own with all the windows closed and he was puffing away on a cigarette. He was sitting in a cloud.

I can only imagine what the smell was like inside that car. Not only the interior, but his clothes, his lungs and his entire body must have been stinking. He was a human ashtray and it wasn’t a pretty sight. He didn’t see anything wrong with it because he has probably been doing that for years and it is just habit at this stage. It’s normal to him.

Before we go any further, I must put my hands up. From my teens to my early twenties I was a smoker. Then I gave up the dreaded weed for about sixteen years and never thought of it again. Until one day, I can’t remember why, I reached for a cigarette and I was back on them.

Then I gave them up again and for a few years I had an on-off relationship with cigarettes. There was a time when if I was stressed I would have one but then I figured out that I was deliberately stressing myself at times, so I could have a fag.

Then I went through a period when I would only have a cigarette if I was having a drink. But I had to stop that too when I found myself going out for a drink more than I used to, just so I could justify having a smoke.

There was a friend of mine who used keep a packet of cigarettes on a shelf in the local pub. Whenever he went there for a pint he would take down the packet, have a few cigarettes and when he was leaving he would put the packet back on the shelf again.

I tried the same thing, but my system didn’t work so well though. I was practically living in the pub so I could smoke and doubled my chances of having an early death from either cancer or Sirois of the liver. That was when I decided to quit altogether.

I haven’t touched one for years now and I don’t miss them either. I can’t say that I feel any healthier but I’m sure I must be. People will often comment about the money that smokers spend on cigarettes and how much better off financially they would be if they quit.

But it doesn’t work that way and you don’t have any extra money in your pocket because you just spend it on other things.

But anyway, apart from all that, I rarely smoked in the car. On the odd occasion when I did, I had the window fully open to keep the air and the car as clear as possible. The guy I saw that day in Midleton, probably didn’t even realise how sad he looked or maybe he did but he just didn’t care.

Smokers, and I know this from my own days, don’t listen to the negatives. They convince themselves that they don’t smoke much so they’re not really doing any harm and they’ll quit soon anyway before any real damage is done. There is lots of evidence to support the fact that smoking is bad for you, but smokers don’t listen even though it’s staring them in the face.

According to the HSE, tobacco use is the leading cause of preventable death in Ireland with 5,500 smokers dying each year from tobacco related diseases like cancers, chronic obstructive pulmonary diseases (COPD) and heart disease. Smoking harms nearly every organ of the body.

Back in 2004, Ireland became one of the first countries to introduce legislation banning smoking in the workplace. Publicans claimed the ban would sound the death knell for the Irish pub. Minister Micheal Martin who was driving the initiative wasn’t very popular and in Cork, they called for him to be sacked for “being a zealot”.

There was huge opposition to the ban. One publican reported that he did a survey of his own customers, and that 82 per cent of those polled said they had no problem drinking in a smokie environment.

That’s not surprising either because back in the days before the ban, we didn’t think anything of sitting in a smoke-filled bar because we didn’t know any different. It was what we grew up with. We’d probably have a little moan about the smell of smoke from our clothes after a night out, but it didn’t take us long to get over it.

But the ban went ahead. Nobody died, ash trays disappeared, and the air became clean as the smokers were forced to go outside to pollute the atmosphere. When the hysteria died down, it was generally agreed that it was a good idea.

It wasn’t until we were able to experience having a pint in a clean atmosphere that we realised how toxic the old way was. It didn’t take us long to get used to that idea either and it has become the new normal. Now we’re horrified if we see smokers having a fag in their own cars.

For those of you trying to quit, stick with it. You won’t regret it.

I heard a comment on the radio recently about an incident that occurred at sea during the Second World War which resulted in 168 German sailors being rescued by an Irish vessel. They were plucked from certain death and brought to Cobh in Cork Harbour after they had been recovered by the MV Kerlogue.

This was news to me and it was the first I had heard of that story so I had to find out more.

On December 29, 1943, the 142-foot-long coaster, the MV Kerlogue, was carrying a cargo of oranges from Lisbon to Dublin on behalf of the Wexford Steamship Company. They were in international waters and were aware that they could be heading into a war zone.

So, when the crew of MV Kerlogue spotted a plane approaching the ship, they took notice.

It swooped down towards them but instead of strafing them with gun fire, the plane signalled them and dropped flares away to the starboard bow of the coaster trying to alert them to an incident nearby.

The coaster realised that something was wrong and altered her course. When they reached the area that was lit up by the flares, they were astonished to find the sea all around them was full of men, hundreds of them, holding on to life rafts and other objects in very rough seas.

More than 700 men were in the water and the sea all around them was littered with bits of wreckage and corpses. At first, they had no idea who these people were, but it soon became clear that they were Germans sailors.

Two British cruisers had earlier shelled a flotilla of German ships. They sank a German destroyer and two torpedo boats leaving more than 700 Germans, some dead, others burned and injured, floundering in the ocean.

For at least 10 hours and well into the night, the Kerlogue’s crew pulled men into their boat. There was no doctor on board, so the crew treated the Germans as best they could. They put them in cabins, storerooms and just lay some of them in the alleyways.

They put more of them in the engine room where it became so crowded that the engineers were unable to move around to attend to the engines. They used hand signals to get some of the able-bodied Germans to carry out certain tasks.

The rescue effort was relentless. The sea was rough and it was long, backbreaking and heart-breaking work. Many of the men hauled aboard were dead and had to be slipped back into the sea to make room for others.

Finally, the Captain of the Kerlogue had to make a difficult decision. The ship was packed tight and he was unable to take any more men aboard. He had no choice but to turn away, leaving hundreds of the men still in the water, facing certain death. A head count later revealed that they had taken 168 German sailors onboard.

The crew were exhausted from the effort and were soaked to the skin. All their spare clothes had been given to the Germans and all the ship’s stores had been used up very quickly. The Captain ordered the cargo of oranges to be broken open and the crew made hot orange drinks for everyone.

The story began to emerge slowly. Three days earlier, a German flotilla of ten ships, including three destroyers, sailed from Brest to meet with a merchant ship from Japan with a cargo of materials vital to the German war effort. As they waited to rendezvous with it, two Royal Navy Cruisers, “H.M.S Enterprise” and “H.M.S.Glasgow” who were also out searching for the merchant ship, appeared on the horizon.

A battle ensued but it didn’t last long, and the Germans were no match for the allied fire power. As darkness fell British planes flew over and dropped life rafts and flares to aid the struggling sailors. The cruisers had earlier left the area to avoid being spotted by prowling U-boats.

The crew of the Kerlogue didn’t hesitate to answer the call and they put in a massive effort to save the lives of so many. It wasn’t their first time either.
On April 2, 1941, German bombers attacked a British convoy, and a ship called the Wild Rose, was left in a bad way and sent up flares.

The Kerlogue altered course and went to the Wild Rose and took the 12-man English crew aboard and towed her to Rosslare strand on the Wexford coast, saving her from sinking.

Two years later, In October 1943, two planes, which were later identified as RAF Mosquitoes, attacked the MV Kerlogue, 130 miles south of Ireland, even though it had sailed under an Irish flag, and had ‘EIRE’ painted in white letters on its deck and sides. For 25 minutes, cannon shells rained down on it.

Several crew members were injured, and the captain was shot in both legs. Water flowed into the engine room, but the pumps kept enough water out until the ship limped into Cork harbour. Ironically, it was the boat’s cargo of British coal that saved it. The coal absorbed the cannon fire, and protected the hull.

But back to December 1943. The Kerlogue headed to Cork Harbour with its cargo of 168 German sailors. As it made its way home, it was passed several times by German a plane which tipped its wings to acknowledge the crew of the Kerlogue.

It arrived in Cobh on New Year’s Day at 2.30 a.m. Emergency services treated the survivors in Cobh, before moving them onto the Military Hospital in Collins Barracks and then to internment at the Curragh, Co Kildare.

The MV Kerlogue and its brave crew punched above their weight and their efforts were later recognised by the German Government.

 

I grew up in Cobh in Co. Cork which, as you probably know, is an island, and as youngsters we all messed about in boats, so we learned to swim at an early age.

As soon as we were old enough to go near the water, we were shown how to do the basic dog paddle. This would usually be enough to get you out of trouble unless you found yourself in seriously deep water with strong currents. In that case you might need some help.

Local fishermen were always keeping any eye on us to make sure we were safe. This was ironic in some ways because many of the fishermen couldn’t swim themselves.

A lot of them refused to learn because they believed that if they had an accident at sea and ended up in the water, they wouldn’t last long anyway. They didn’t see the point in prolonging the agony by thrashing about in the water when they were eventually going to succumb to it. Many of them didn’t even wear life jackets.

They wore a lot of clothing to keep warm while fishing and they believed that the weight of the wet clothes would pull them under. And even if they could manage to prevent themselves from sinking, the cold would probably kill them anyway so why fight it?

I don’t have much interest in swimming anymore and even when I go on holidays these days, I don’t swim too much, apart from the odd dip in a pool.
There is one reason that I’ve gone off swimming in the sea and it has to do with the creatures that live there. Jelly fish in particular. I hate them with a passion and with good reason.

Years ago, I took the kids down to Inch beach, outside Midleton. It was a beautiful sunny day and I had a few hours to spare before I went to work so I headed to the seaside. I was paddling around the edge of the water, watching them splashing about, enjoying the moment and minding my own business.

Suddenly a piece of what looked like brown seaweed, floated on top of my foot. I went to kick it off me, but it wouldn’t go. It was then I realised that it was a large jelly fish and he didn’t want to leave.

I got a fright and lashed out with my foot and a few seconds later I felt this stinging sensation. It was as if I had been stung by hundreds of nettles in the one spot. I eventually got the thing off me, but I was in agony. The pain was worse every time I stepped out of the water and the only relief I got was when the foot was submerged.

I heard somewhere, once upon a time, that urine is a good antidote for jelly fish stings. Well, let me tell you a little secret, that’s rubbish. It doesn’t work so don’t even bother trying. Apart from the fact that it’s a waste of time, it’s not easy to pee on your own foot while you’re hopping around on one leg. Trust me.

The other issue I had was that I was due to start work in a few hours, so I couldn’t stand around in the sea all day, I had to get home. When I got back, I went straight to the doctor and he gave me a shot of anti-histamine or something. That eased it a bit, but the pain stayed with me for the rest of the day.

So, ever since then, I have a healthy fear of jelly fish and I won’t go near the water if I see any sign of them. I don’t even have to see them myself. If someone tells me they saw one, that’s good enough for me.

But that’s not all. A few years ago, we were in Brisbane in Australia as a family, visiting my daughter who was living there at the time with her boyfriend.

We went to a beach one day and their dog had a great time running in and out of the water and fetching a little ball. It was mid-week, so we had the place to ourselves. The only company we had was in the form of a cabin cruiser sitting off the shore, about 200 metres away. It was close enough to see, but not close enough to identify anyone on board, but it looked like a nice boat.

I was at the edge of the water for a long time playing with the dog and I was watching out for my enemies. I hadn’t seen one in all the time I was there, so I got a dose of courage and decided to go for a swim. I still wasn’t completely relaxed, but I decided to stick near the shore and swim parallel to the beach and everything would be fine.

I had my swim and when I came ashore, I set off to the car park to get some grub from the car. When I got back to the gang on the beach, I could see them in a huddle together and they seemed a little excited.

They told me that while I was gone, the guy on the cruiser jumped into a smaller boat with an outboard engine and came in to the shore. He told them to stay out of the water because a few sharks had been circling his boat for the previous hour. He said that all our splashing about had probably attracted their attention. I felt sick.

I took his advice though, because I’m pretty sure that peeing on a shark bite is unlikely to be any more effective than peeing on a jelly fish sting.

As I get older, I find that things are changing constantly, and time is flying by. This year is still in its infancy, and I’ve already had a few surprises. One of the things that caught me off guard was that some of my friends are hitting 70 years of age.

The fact that we’re all getting older shouldn’t be that much of a shocker, but it is an unwanted development in my life and I would prefer it to stop immediately.

It all started when I was having a drink with a friend of mine on New-Year’s eve.We’ve known each other a long time and a bunch of us have played tennis together for years. We weren’t professionals or super fit, but we managed to find our way around a tennis court without falling too often. We did ok and we enjoyed ourselves.

While we were chatting, he told me that he is 69 years old. I didn’t know what age he was, but I just assumed that he was around 62 or 63. I was really surprised because this guy doesn’t look his age.

Having said that, I’m not sure how I thought a 70-year old should look but when I think of people I knew back in the day who were that age, they were old. You knew they were seventy because they looked it and they moved like an older person and they just acted old. But not anymore.

I know another lady who is very glamorous and full of fun and I heard that she too has reached 70. After hearing that, I carried out a bit of research on some of my other friends and I discovered the awful truth that many of them are also older than I thought. This isn’t great news for me either by the way.

Down through the years, age was never important and rarely came up in conversation unless there was a significant birthday in the group. But even at that, there was only passing attention paid to it. I’ve gone through life with these guys and all the time I just considered that we were all around the same go.

When we were in our thirties and forties, age didn’t matter as long as you could kick a ball or swing a tennis racquet. There was no difference between late thirties and early forties or mid forties and early fifties. But now those extra few years seem to be taking on a more significant role and 70 is a big number.

I should have noticed of course, because there were lots of tell-tale signs along the way. For instance, our babies started having babies themselves and were buying houses and doing all kinds of grown-up stuff.

Some of them studied medicine and became doctors and nurses and could very well be the people checking us shortly for signs of senility. Others have gone into law and could be putting our defence together if we should be unfortunate enough to do something bold and find ourselves in front of a jury.

These babies have thrown away their comfort blankets and teddies and have managed to make lives for themselves and some of them are even living on the other side of the world. They’ve grown up. So, the signs were there all along, I just wasn’t concentrating.

There were other indicators too. Sean Connery, the real James Bond, is now 88 years old. Christopher Plummer who we watched prancing around with Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music has reached the ripe old age of 89.

Clint Eastwood who played the part of Dirty Harry and also made a host of westerns like The Good, The Bad and The Ugly and many more, is 88 years old. Kirk Douglas, who famously played the part of Spartacus, is over 100.

These guys were heroes and weren’t supposed to age, but they did and it all seems to have happened over night.

Not so long ago, when my parents were alive, I worried how they would manage to keep up with a changing world and all the new technology invading our lives, but now, I am my parents.

I used to sit in my recliner and turn on the TV in the evening. It was a simple, uncomplicated little pleasure. Now my son has turned it into an interactive entertainment centre that would not look out of place in the nerve centre at Cape Canaveral. My son tells me that it can do lots of things.

But I don’t want it to do lots of things. I just want it to let me watch it but now I can’t even turn it on. There are times when I sit in front of it with two remote controls in my hand, afraid to push a button in case the whole thing blows up and kills my neighbour.

There was a time when, if your car broke down, you brought it to your friendly mechanic. He poked around inside the engine and after a bit of banging with a hammer and tweaking with a spanner you’d be back on the road again.

Now you must bring it back to the car dealer. A 12-year old child will connect it to his phone and he’ll find out what’s wrong with it. Then it will be connected to another computer that will make a few beeps and flashes and then the car will be all better again.

Young people are starting to run the world and they are making it too complicated for me. So, let’s just slow everything down. Keep the kids as kids for another while and put an end to this business of hitting 70 and all will be well with the world again.

After a recent experience, I would like to pass on a small bit of advice for drivers who are renewing their insurance.

My car insurance is due for renewal on 31st January 2018. I got a renewal notice from my insurer reminding me of that fact and advising me that I should send them a cheque for €490 if I wanted to renew it with them.

I picked a few other insurance companies and got some alternative quotes. I gave each of them the exact same information and they came back to me with various prices. A couple of them were in and around €600 while another was close to €1000.

One company gave me a price of €430 which was €60 cheaper than my current insurer, AIG. So, I rang AIG and I told them that I was leaving them for another company. They asked me to hold for a second and then told me that they could match that price.

I was annoyed with them for not giving me that price initially but the point I want to make here is that I saved myself €60 by making a few phone calls and spending a bit of time on the Internet.

There could be people out there renewing their premiums automatically and paying more than they should. Just because you’re with the same company for a few years, don’t take it for granted that they’re giving you the best value for money. There are huge differences between many companies and it definitely pays to shop around.

It doesn’t take long, and it could mean extra money in your pocket.

Over the last year or so I have been in contact with a lot of guys who are heading towards retirement and I’ve been surprised at how many of them are dreading the prospect of having to throw in the towel.

I must be missing a gene or two because I retired a couple of years before I needed to, and I didn’t bat an eyelid. I was looking forward to the prospect and didn’t see the need to hang around, waiting for the letter to arrive that would tell me to pack my bags and clear out my desk.

It’s a personal choice, I know, and it all depends on individual circumstances so it’s not the same for everyone. I loved my work, particularly the time I spent in community policing and I enjoyed what I was doing, but after 36 years, I felt that the time was right for me to go.

Do I miss it? Absolutely not. I had a great career, but the time came when I felt I wanted to call it a day. I worked with some great people over the years and there are times when I miss them and the camaraderie but that’s it.

I feel sorry for those who find it difficult to let go, because there is a wonderful life waiting for them beyond retirement. It’s probably more difficult for those who don’t have interests outside the work place, but they shouldn’t despair, retirement is good.

It does take a little getting used to though and one of the obvious changes is that you have more time on your hands. You don’t have to watch the clock for start times, finish times, meetings or whatever and it’s surprising how quickly you adapt to that even after spending a lifetime governed by a time piece.

It doesn’t take long either before you start losing track of the days. A Monday is no different to a Wednesday or a Friday and a Bank Holiday is no longer something to get excited about. Every day is a holiday.

That’s how it should be. Retirement is a sign that you’ve done your bit, paid your dues and now it is time to take your reward and relax. But new retirees will have to get used to being asked; “What are you doing with yourself now?” or “How do you pass the time?”

There is an expectation that a retired person must be doing something. They worry that if I don’t go to work, I might lose my sanity, or starve to death. Apparently, I’m not allowed to relax and enjoy myself and chilling out is forbidden.

I know there are people who can’t sit still for five minutes, but I’m not one of them. I’m not interested in challenging myself, finding new horizons or breaking new ground. I’m grand thanks, so just leave me be.

Hopefully, as soon as I can get my wife into the same frame of mind, I will be spending more time in a warmer climate and less time dealing with our damp weather. I fancy a sunny future for myself. T-shirt, shorts, flip-flops and gin and tonics on the balcony are what I see in my crystal ball. The only sweat to come from me will be from the heat.

It was different in the old days. Workers quit at sixty-five, got their pipe and slippers and sat in their favourite chair for a few years until they died. But that has changed because now we’re fitter and living longer.

Life isn’t as harsh as it was back then either and we have more medicine, pills and potions to keep us going. Our living standards have greatly improved too and we have more disposable income to spend on leisure activities. We tend to have a healthier outlook on life and look after ourselves better.

So, these days, retirement should be something to look forward to. Or should it? Maybe these guys who don’t want to retire know something that I don’t.

According to Age Action Ireland, retirement can have a detrimental effect on some individuals. An increasing number of people contacted them when they realised that the pension wasn’t exactly what they thought it would be and they were worried about how they were going to survive.

For many retirees, their colleagues are often their friends as well and so when they retire, they lose many of those, leaving them socially isolated. For others, it challenges their self-worth and self-confidence when they are told that they can no longer work.

Projections by the Central Statistics Office (CSO) show by 2021 the number of elderly people will have grown by 200,000 and it is estimated that by 2046, there will be almost 1.5 million people over the age of 65.

A recent report has claimed that some nursing homes are adding on extra charges in addition to the Fair Deal scheme. Anything between €30 and €90 a week to cover the cost of social programmes such as bingo, board games, religious services and pet therapy.

Justin Moran of Age Action, said they have received reports of some elderly nursing home residents being placed in longer-lasting incontinence nappies so they don’t have to be changed for up to twenty- four hours to make life easier for the staff.

Now, I’m beginning to think I might have made a terrible mistake. Nobody told me this stuff before I retired. It’s possible that my life could be about to get tougher than it was when I was working. I might get sick, run out of money, lose my friends, have no nursing home and be unable to wipe my own bottom.

All things considered, the prospects don’t look too encouraging. Might be time to dig out my CV.

It’s only the start of 2018 and we’re already seeing record numbers of patients waiting on trollies in our hospitals, despite all the promises that things were going to improve. It’s like groundhog-day. There isn’t a day goes by when we’re not talking about patient waiting lists or hospital overcrowding.

We hear so many heart-breaking stories, it’s easy to see why people get worked up. We are angry and frustrated and that’s understandable, but we need to be careful who we blame.

Nurses are operating at the coal face, so they often end up being on the receiving end of the abuse. They do their best in difficult circumstances but not everybody appreciates that.

A few months ago, my mother fell down a flight of stairs at home in the early hours of the morning. She crawled back upstairs to get her phone to call me. When I got to her, there was a lot of blood on the floor and the wall at the bottom of the stairs. She had a significant gash on the top of her head where she hit something on the way down.

It was about 5.30am when I contacted the emergency services and they arrived quickly. A paramedic attended to her at the house and an ambulance brought her to the CUH. These people knew their job and each of them was professional, efficient and caring. They did well.

I followed on to the C.U.H. a little later and when I arrived at the Accident & Emergency Department, I thought I had landed in a war zone. The place was heaving. There were nurses, doctors, patients on trollies, more on chairs, family members, cleaners and porters moving trollies here and there.

Some of the wounded were bleeding, some moaning, some covered in bandages. All of them had one thing in common, they needed help. They were broken and wanted to be fixed.

I took a seat as instructed and waited for my mother to make an appearance from one of the many doors. I was watching what was going on around me and I realised that what looked initially like chaos, was anything but.

The staff moved around unhurried but determined. They had things to do and places to go and patients were being dealt with systematically and efficiently. Medicines, pills and potions were administered, bandages, splints and plasters were applied, x-rays were taken. It was a hive of activity but there was no panic.

The staff kept everyone informed about what was happening and what the next step in the process was going to be. It was all very organised and when the time came for us to leave I asked if I could leave my mother where she was until I could get the car out of the car park and find a space close to the entrance.

A nurse pointed to a side door and told me to bring the car there and she would bring my mother out to me. This was really helpful and made things so much easier for us.

Accident and emergency departments are busy places. As the name suggests, they are the first point of contact for people when things go pear shaped. The staff must be ready for anything and they never know what is going to come through the doors.

It’s a difficult and stressful environment to be working in at the best of times but when you add the shortage of staff and hospital beds into the mix, then it gets even tougher. Because of that, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find tempers flared and patience in short supply. But it was the opposite.

Everyone was pleasant. Doctors introduced themselves to their patients by their Christian names and while this might seem insignificant, I think it makes a big difference to the patient. It reassures them that the care is going to be personal. A nice touch.

The nurse who helped me was busy. I’m sure there were other, more important issues that required her attention, but she took the time to arrange an easier exit from the hospital. It was a bit of consideration that went a long way and was greatly appreciated.

My mother had a subsequent visit to the South Infirmary Victoria Hospital for an overnight stay while she underwent some tests and we had a similar experience there. The nursing staff were busy, and beds didn’t stay empty for too long. When one patient left, the vacant bed was quickly filled.

The staff were constantly on the move and I wondered if they ever got a break. Whether they did or they didn’t, they never let it affect their professionalism. They were always friendly, reassuring, caring and smiling.

At one point, a woman was being admitted to the same ward my mother was in. This lady had a huge issue. She didn’t want to be there. She told anyone who would listen to her that she thought the hospital was a dump. She demanded a private room and wanted and electric bed. She said the food was awful, but I don’t think she ate anything.

She couldn’t sit in the chair beside the bed because it wasn’t at the right height and it didn’t have a cushion and she couldn’t use the bathroom because it was too far away. In fact, it was right next to her.

Through all her whinging and complaining, different nurses came and looked after her. They all smiled and bit their tongues while promising to do whatever they could to make her life better. She was a king sized, ungrateful pain in the arse but she didn’t break them.

They do a great job and deserve a lot of credit, but it seems that not everyone appreciates them.

Happy anniversary to me again. It’s hard to believe it, but today marks the start of my third year writing this column. I have no idea where the last two years went but I’ve enjoyed it immensely.

I’ve heard rumours that there are some who want to reward me for my contribution to literature and rightly so. I think an Irish knighthood would be very proper. It wouldn’t be new ground for me either, because I have been knighted before, in Slovakia in fact.

A few years ago, I was involved in an EU project with a group of international police officers and we were examining crime prevention methods around Europe. On one occasion we were in Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, when our hosts brought our group out for a meal.

The restaurant was in a basement type setting that looked a bit like a stone tunnel. It was decorated in medieval style with large timber tables and benches and everyone was dressed up in costume.

There were knights with swords, jesters, acrobats and flaming torches on the walls. It was really well done, and it was a perfect setting for our medieval-banquet.

The meat was placed on a large platter in the centre of the table and we tore lumps out of it as we needed it. Tankards of ale were supplied, and they were so big that you needed two hands to lift them off the table. There were guys engaged in sword fights, jumping up and down off tables and it was all great fun.

I went to the bathroom at some point and while I was away, the staff asked for a volunteer. They wanted someone to go down on one knee and sing a love song to a wench. Ger Dillane, one of my colleagues, had very kindly offered my services and when I came back, I received a round of applause. This wasn’t the first time Ger had ‘volunteered’ me so I knew something was up.

The medieval wench was another colleague, Agnes Nemeth, a Hungarian police officer. She had to stand on a table while I serenaded her with the song, ‘Save your love my darling, save your love’. I remembered it from an ad for ice cream that I had seen on TV, but I didn’t know the words, so I just made them up as I went along.

I figured that as we were in a country where English wasn’t the first language, most people wouldn’t know what I was saying anyway. Add a Cork accent into the mix and my confidence was rising. I’m not a singer but I struggled through it and we had a good laugh.

Afterwards, one of the swordsmen approached me and told me to get down on one knee in front of him. He was the guy with the sword, so I did what I was told. I was beginning to worry that I was going to be forced into making a proposal of marriage or that possibly I might be about to lose a limb for singing out of tune.
I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth and waited for my head to fall into a basket.

Instead, I felt the cold steel on my neck as he placed his sword on my shoulder and knighted me, Sir Trevor the Brave. I haven’t been able to lay claim to a chunk of Slovakian real estate yet, but I haven’t lost all hope. I’m sure it’s just a slight delay in the paperwork.

So, being honoured is nothing new to me and if the current Lord Mayor, Tony Fitzgerald, sees fit to acknowledge my contribution to literature, then so be it. I owe it to my legions of fans across the world to accept any accolade. Loyal readers of The Echo in Uzbekistan, outer Mongolia and even in the Australian outback regularly express their admiration for my literary talent.

Being recognised for outstanding achievements is something I have had to live with all my life. One of my earliest experiences occurred during the school sports day when I was in primary school. I think I must have been about ten years old and I ran in the 100-yard sprint.

I was never blessed with speed, but I can clearly remember enjoying myself. It was a beautiful sunny day in the sports field next to the school and we were running in our bare feet. I crossed the finish line but where I was in the pecking order I have no idea, but I certainly wasn’t first. I wasn’t expecting to win anything.

So, I was surprised when I heard my name being called out and I went to the table where they were handing out the trophies and medals. I was given a multi coloured biscuit tin. This was back in the sixties, so this type of tin wasn’t as common as they are now.

I was delighted with myself as I accepted my trophy and I couldn’t wait to show it to my mother. When I took hold of it, I felt that there was something wrong. It seemed very light and when I took the cover off, I saw that it was empty.

Obviously, there were some who thought that my future in athletics was going to be very short lived and that an empty biscuit tin was the true measure of my talent. If that happened to a child today, he would probably be sent for therapy.
But I didn’t let it hold me back and I have defied the odds to become one of the greatest columnists in modern times.

No doubt, you will be pleased to know that I will continue to spread my greatness, with my usual modesty, for another bit.

Just in case you’ve been living in a jungle for the last fifty years, allow me to let you into a little secret. We have a huge problem with alcohol.

The relationship that many of us have with drink is unhealthy and despite the substantial amount of money and effort that has gone into changing our culture of socialising, we are still as bad as ever. In fact, we may even be getting worse.

I was in a pub recently having drinks with a few friends when at about 9pm the doors burst open and there was an invasion of young people. They were delivered to the venue by a private bus. I mean it when I say they were young because they were there for an eighteenth birthday party. The majority of them were already drunk when they came in and many had difficulty in standing up.

Sitting down even posed a problem for some of them. After about twenty miniutes they had the toilets destroyed with wet toilet paper and hand towels thrown everywhere. I went in to the gents toilet at one stage and there was a mixture of boys and girls standing around chatting as if it was a public park.

I saw youngsters falling on the floor because they couldn’t manage to get into a seat. There was one young guy, who looked no more than fifteen or sixteen, who was trying to sit next to a girl that he had his eye on. He made his way towards the chair like a tiger stalking a deer. He wasn’t as sure footed as a tiger and he somehow managed to end up underneath it. He had great difficulty trying to escape from his trap.

This was very early on in the night and we left around ten o’clock so I have no idea how it ended up. But I would hazard a guess that it was not a pretty sight by closing time. Even at that stage there were signs that some of them were becoming messy and a little aggressive. Statistics would suggest that incidents of assault and anti-social behaviour would be likely to occur as the night wore on.

According to the Garda Analysis Service, 83% of offenders in assault cases are male and the majority are aged between 18 and 39 years old. These assaults typically take place in and around public places such as streets, roads, pubs, and clubs between 8pm and 5am and primarily at the weekend.

Around a quarter of the assaults that are linked to the night-time economy involve intoxication of either the offender or the victim, or both. Seven out of every 10 assaults involve men attacking other men, while three-quarters of all assault victims are also male.

I’m pretty sure that most people won’t be surprised by this. The fact that young men fight in the early hours of the morning, after a feed of drink, particularly at the weekends, is hardly earth-shattering news. Alcohol plays a significant part in the vast majority of these assaults and the culture of binge drinking has to be a significant factor.

Alcohol consumption is often offered as a legitimate excuse for someone’s bad behaviour. It is regularly used by offenders to justify their poor judgement and is also regularly used by defendants in court in the hope of gaining some sympathy from the presiding judge. Being drunk should not absolve an offender of guilt and should not lessen his responsibility for his actions.

A simple punch, or even a push, can result in a victim banging his head on a solid surface which can cause serious injury and even death. A recent campaign by An Garda Siochana was designed to highlight this potential danger and to encourage young people to consider the likely outcome of their actions before they get involved in a conflict situation.

For the average uniformed policeman, routine patrolling is what constitutes an average working day. Public order issues are probably the single biggest item that he or she will come up against. It is a major issue across the country, particularly at weekends after pubs and clubs close and a considerable amount of garda time and resources are tied up, dealing with these types of incidents.

Simple cases involving drunken scraps and assaults can be very time consuming, and they are played out with monotonous regularity around the country, week in and week out.

A person who has been convicted of a serious assault will have to live with the consequences of that incident for the rest of their life even though the incident itself it may have only lasted for a matter of seconds. Their victim may be maimed, disfigured or worse.

The conviction will remove the possibility of obtaining a visa and that will impact upon their travel and employment opportunities. That recorded conviction will remain with them for life as a constant reminder of their moment of madness.

Embarrassment and remorse are experienced by the vast majority of offenders once they sober up and re-join the real world. As reality begins to dawn on them, they wish that they could turn back the clock. They swear that they never intended for things to turn out the way they did and they say how sorry they are. Unfortunately, this is of little benefit to the victims.

In the cold light of day, when people come to their sober senses, they start to consider the consequences of their actions but it’s too late at that stage. The damage has been done.

If they could just reduce their intake of alcohol they would save themselves, their victims, the gardai and the justice system a lot of trouble.