So the sun goes down on another blisteringly hot day in Burlington, Ontario. Peace reigns within the O’Connor kingdom. Who am I kidding? There’s only one chief in town and it’s not me or my wife. It’s the little girl with the sort-of Canadian accent who currently slumbers in her ‘Princess Something or Other’ bed dreaming dreams of Amarillo. I presume that’s what she’s dreaming of as she does enough hugging of her pillow to put a certain Tony Christie to shame. It’s either that or a monster, known to you and I as the face of Iain Dowie with seven legs.
Though rare, I sometimes get the “what in the name of fuck am I doing here?” moments. It generally happens in Walmart (a sort of glorified Nutgrove for the uninitiated). It happens when you’re about to buy a mobile phone for $150 and you think it’s a great deal until they ring it in at the till and suddenly it jumps to $200 due to HST. I presume this stands for Horrifically Stupid Tax. You see? It’s not just in Ireland that you get ripped off unawares.
It happens when you get sick of listening to the music on your iPod and you switch on Canadian radio and it’s either Bon Jovi singing about being on a bed of roses as opposed to a bed of nails or Kid Rock telling us that in his youth they were “doing stupid things, really stupid fucking things, singing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long”. Idiot. How I pray at night that he were struck dumb. Switch off and have sweet silence all summer long more like. Homesickness really does bite you at the most innocuous of times.
And then there’s the time difference. I am certain my mates back home have begun to detest me. A few beers on a Friday night on the front porch loosen the tongue at around 10. In your mildly drunken state, you obviously forget it’s 3 in the morning in Dublin. And you text. And then you text some more. “Fuck ‘em” you think to yourself, laughing all evil like. And then you forget that one of them has a two-month old son. But you justify it by reasoning that he’s probably up feeding the boy anyway and you get mildly upset when you get no response to your latest brilliant witterings. And then there’s a thunderstorm and your childlike attention span is diverted. You never pause to think that they’re going to wake up at 8 on a Saturday morning and say to their good lady “what the fuck is that c*** on?” In fairness none of them have rang at 8 in the morning Irish time. But I’d better stop because I’m only inviting it on to myself now Innit?
A small part of my job here at the moment is to recruit a couple of Irish land surveyors for my new firm. For that is what my profession is, in case you didn’t know. I have received a dozen or so CV’s in the past week from Ireland. Must have made a good impression eh? Either that or us Irish lot are cheaper. Probably the latter.
What strikes me, as if I didn’t know already, is that every last one of them hasn’t worked since Summer 2010. Not one. And the ones who are in employment are teetering on the brink of unemployment from what I can garner. It’s fucking depressing.
I listen to Tom Dunne on Newstalk via t’internet of a morning (playback, obviously) and whilst he provides some light relief, when you hear the news bulletins on the hour it would make you want to slit your wrists. How is Ireland going to get out of the state it is in with all the talk of doom and bleeding’ gloom that is overbearing within the media? When my wife and I talk of ‘the current climate’ it is actually to do with 30 degree plus temperatures and whether we should turn the air conditioning on or not. I’m in the yes camp; she’s a definite no, for your information. Makes a nice change from rowing about whether we get a take away or pay the ESB bill, I can tell you. I always pushed for the take-away. Just haven’t grown up have I?
What I say in my responses to the applicants is simple. There are no Irish in Burlington save for me, my wife and child. There are no Irish bars. The Guinness is good in the bars that I have frequented on colder nights before my family arrived over. The local beer, Sleemans is cracking. Toronto is half an hour’s drive away. People get out of an evening and actually do stuff. If you want a barbecue, you can fucking have one without worrying if it’s going to rain. There are outdoor swimming pools that resemble beaches so you can feel like you’re on ollyday in Spain of a weekend. It is piss easy to drive over here – just point the car and accelerate; the insurance is unbelievably and criminally expensive mind you. The Canadian people are welcoming and genuinely good-natured, you don’t feel like it’s fake ‘Have A Nice Day’ like south of the border. Your Dublin accent is somehow exotic. You will miss your Mam and Dad and your sisters and brothers and your extended family (even those who support Leeds) and your mates like hell. But you have Skype; if even just to see them because talking on that thing is nigh on impossible. That’s what the Lord above invented the phone for.
There is no ‘old school tie’ and class structure here – so you can be whoever you want to be and become whatever you want to be once you work hard and prove yourself. And you do work hard. You get ten days paid leave per year starting out. It’s a far cry from pissing off to Turkey for three weeks I can tell you.
But above all, you can talk a good fight a la David Haye but you don’t want to be knocked out. You have to fight a good fight. You have to really want to escape your lot in Ireland and get the fuck out of Dodge. You have to accept that you won’t be in town with your mates, or going to Ireland matches with your mates or ripping the piss out of your brother in your Mam’s kitchen. And that you won’t be doing it for a while either. Whoever sang “I’ll be home for Christmas, but only in my dreams” was spot on. Quit dreaming this is real life baby.
But the good far outweighs the bad. For every low there is a high. I left partly because I couldn’t take any more blows and partly because I looked into the future and did not like what I saw. May I add, I was thrown a wonderful lifeline to stay by a friend of mine, God bless him. But it still wasn’t enough. I apologize for that but you have to do what you have to do. You only get the one life so you’d better make it good. Sure, cats get nine. But who in their right mind wants to spend eternity sitting on a shed roof licking their town-halls?
I was reading the local paper today and I was struck by a quote by an Italian football manager. “This has to be a starting point. Not the end of everything”. Was it Carlo Ancelotti? Giovanni Trappatoni? Fabio Capello? None of the above. No, it was Carolina Morace. Manager of the Canadian Women’s football team...and to think people said she was just a big pair of t*ts....
From me and my High Flying Birds, I bid you a goodnight.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Cahore Girls
You know that feeling? A smell or an atmosphere or a certain light? It transports you way back when? Well, I had it today. I was suddenly back in Cahore, County Wexford. Fuck knows why. I was in Oakville, Ontario beside a massive outdoor pool but it hit me anyway. It wasn’t the fact that there wasn’t a shop for miles and I couldn’t understand their accents or they couldn’t understand mine. It wasn’t the fact that the sun shone all day. It wasn’t the fact that I had nothing to do and all day to do it. Well, maybe it was all of those things. But I was transported back to Cahore nonetheless.
In Cahore I’d wake up about ten. I’d head out tousle-headed for breakfast in the mobile home my Mam and Dad owned. I’d be greeted by my snivelling little brother who would accuse me of wanking the previous night and keeping him awake (I was 13, he was 10) and to be truthful, it was definitely the other way round. He was a proper delph-rattler in his time was my brother. Every fucking morning we had to go through that particular charade. He knows the truth...
Anyway, most of my cousins had mobile homes in the same park. One or two or all of them would call in around 12 and off we’d go. What did we get up to? Well I can’t speak for my brother but the rest of us(and him) would just get our bikes and piss off. Freedom? You can’t put a price on that.
Cahore was and still is less than a one horse town. The Strand Bar, a pier, a beach, Eddie Sinnott’s pool hall...and that was it. Oh, and a couple of tennis courts. During Wimbledon, you couldn’t get a booking. Pretend Stefan Edbergs everywhere.
When we were really small kids, my Dad and my uncles Joe and Damien would drag us down to the pier of a Sunday and make us jump in to the freezing cold waters. Waters that sometimes had ‘floaters’ in them. To this day, I see no difference between Dad, Joe and Damien and Hitler, Goebbels and Herr Flick. Proper sadists. They created a fictional club called ‘The Geronimo Club’. And if you didn’t jump in first time, they’d discuss your ‘membership’ in The Strand afterwards. The cue for them to get out was “Look, the Heineken sign is lighting up”. Actually, upon mature recollection, they were fucking genii. Get the kids down and get plastered...hats off.
Tuesday night was ‘Disco Night’. Ooh, the epitome of glamour. A bus would pick up all those of teenage years at the gate at 8 and it would be bound for the Hacienda of Kilmuckridge, ‘The Hydro’.
I’d lash on the hair-gel so I’d resemble Marcus Tandy and throw fuckloads of my Dad’s Old Spice on my baby-esque face in the hope of “getting me hole”. Funny that I never managed it isn’t it? Well, maybe with some Wexford girl who knew no better but the Dublin girls knew the score, God bless ‘em.
The night was spent in the corner talking to nobody except the Dublin lads until the slow set. The slow set usually consisted of some Bon Jovi offering or God forbid and more than likely, fucking ‘Patience’ by fucking Guns ‘N’ Fucking Roses. Couldn’t wait to get on the bus back to Cahore so we could spit on the bus driver’s head...
The next day was spent avoiding the girl you didn’t kiss and didn’t talk to. We were all as guilty as each other. We should’ve stuck together, right here, right now, in sweet harmony (to use the lyrics of a popular song of the period) but we didn’t. We were idiots as teenagers. As teenagers are now. And always will be.
Wednesday nights were back to playing a football match at 7 in front of the tennis courts ,trying to impress the girl you should’ve talked to the night before but didn’t and spent the whole day avoiding. “I’ll impress her by making Geoff look like a fucking mug” you thought to yourself. And you made him look a mug, but it didn’t impress her.
And for that attitude alone, I raise a glass to the girls of Cahore(Dublin ones) in 91-92-93-94. Throw your hands up at me...and Kev...and Jimmy....and Barry...and John...You ain’t no WAGS and never will be.x.
In Cahore I’d wake up about ten. I’d head out tousle-headed for breakfast in the mobile home my Mam and Dad owned. I’d be greeted by my snivelling little brother who would accuse me of wanking the previous night and keeping him awake (I was 13, he was 10) and to be truthful, it was definitely the other way round. He was a proper delph-rattler in his time was my brother. Every fucking morning we had to go through that particular charade. He knows the truth...
Anyway, most of my cousins had mobile homes in the same park. One or two or all of them would call in around 12 and off we’d go. What did we get up to? Well I can’t speak for my brother but the rest of us(and him) would just get our bikes and piss off. Freedom? You can’t put a price on that.
Cahore was and still is less than a one horse town. The Strand Bar, a pier, a beach, Eddie Sinnott’s pool hall...and that was it. Oh, and a couple of tennis courts. During Wimbledon, you couldn’t get a booking. Pretend Stefan Edbergs everywhere.
When we were really small kids, my Dad and my uncles Joe and Damien would drag us down to the pier of a Sunday and make us jump in to the freezing cold waters. Waters that sometimes had ‘floaters’ in them. To this day, I see no difference between Dad, Joe and Damien and Hitler, Goebbels and Herr Flick. Proper sadists. They created a fictional club called ‘The Geronimo Club’. And if you didn’t jump in first time, they’d discuss your ‘membership’ in The Strand afterwards. The cue for them to get out was “Look, the Heineken sign is lighting up”. Actually, upon mature recollection, they were fucking genii. Get the kids down and get plastered...hats off.
Tuesday night was ‘Disco Night’. Ooh, the epitome of glamour. A bus would pick up all those of teenage years at the gate at 8 and it would be bound for the Hacienda of Kilmuckridge, ‘The Hydro’.
I’d lash on the hair-gel so I’d resemble Marcus Tandy and throw fuckloads of my Dad’s Old Spice on my baby-esque face in the hope of “getting me hole”. Funny that I never managed it isn’t it? Well, maybe with some Wexford girl who knew no better but the Dublin girls knew the score, God bless ‘em.
The night was spent in the corner talking to nobody except the Dublin lads until the slow set. The slow set usually consisted of some Bon Jovi offering or God forbid and more than likely, fucking ‘Patience’ by fucking Guns ‘N’ Fucking Roses. Couldn’t wait to get on the bus back to Cahore so we could spit on the bus driver’s head...
The next day was spent avoiding the girl you didn’t kiss and didn’t talk to. We were all as guilty as each other. We should’ve stuck together, right here, right now, in sweet harmony (to use the lyrics of a popular song of the period) but we didn’t. We were idiots as teenagers. As teenagers are now. And always will be.
Wednesday nights were back to playing a football match at 7 in front of the tennis courts ,trying to impress the girl you should’ve talked to the night before but didn’t and spent the whole day avoiding. “I’ll impress her by making Geoff look like a fucking mug” you thought to yourself. And you made him look a mug, but it didn’t impress her.
And for that attitude alone, I raise a glass to the girls of Cahore(Dublin ones) in 91-92-93-94. Throw your hands up at me...and Kev...and Jimmy....and Barry...and John...You ain’t no WAGS and never will be.x.
Oh Canada - Part 1
It all seems like a lifetime ago.
There I was, clinging on to my mother in the sitting room in my house in Stocking Wood knowing that I’m not going to see her for months on end, my sister Lyn in floods of tears. My father having to walk out of the room as the emotion enveloped and got the better of him. My Mam’s Peugeot 206 driving down the road with me stood on the front step crying like a baby waving at it until the red tail lights turned the corner and I felt empty and sorry for what I was about to do. That was Wednesday 6th April 2011.
Thursday the 7th was spent tying up loose ends and worrying. Worrying because my Canadian work permit hadn’t dropped through the letterbox. Myself and Doc had stood across the road from the house when the postman made his delivery that morning and he’d delivered nothing but a stupid fucking letter from UPC(Cunts).Janette and I had agreed that I’d fly on Friday regardless.
I paced the floor like a man demented. Shitting myself. Fear like I’ve never felt before. What if? So many what ifs.
At five o’clock a neighbour dropped me home. I was met in the porch by my best mate on the verge of tears. His partner was due to have their first kid in two weeks time, and there I was talking about fear? The worst part of it was the knowing I wasn’t going to be around for it.
One by one, my nearest and dearest showed up to the house. It was like a wake. My own funeral. Well wishing text messages flooded in. The older brother-like figure, the singer bloke out of Rhythm Culture, who was up in my house on the previous Tuesday gave me inspiration in thirty words or less. (In times of loneliness I look at it and it gives me the inspiration to keep on trucking.I thank him profusely for it.)
Everyone stood in the kitchen that night looking at the floor. Janette and I had gotten rid of everything, and I mean everything of what was dear to us. Stephen turned up to pick up the 52 inch telly that we’d bought out of our wedding present money. That for me was a significant moment. It was the moment that the baton was passed from Ireland to Canada.
I loved that telly. I’d seen United do Arsenal in the Champions League Semi Final in the company of Rob, Mark and John on that telly whilst my seven month old daughter slept in her little cot upstairs and Janette went mental at us for cheering the first goal. The second goal? It was celebrated in mute, like a bunch of little deaf fellas.
Good times were had with that telly and me and others. Jools Holland’s New Years Eve Hootenanny was screened religiously and the resultant magic shows from my brother Alan and Daragh that followed were good times. That telly could tell some stories, I’m telling ya...
Back to the kitchen and there was those not knowing what to say, awkward moments. I stood outside on Stocking Wood Copse with Alan D, Kaner and Helga and unborn Adam all shuffling uncomfortably and putting off the inevitable. Not four years previously myself and Alan had greeted the sunrise, sitting on a kerb with a bottle of red wine in an empty new street. Life was sweet and so was the wine. My neighbour Francis looked on, pissing himself laughing at the drunken fools he had just shacked up next door to. And manys a great nights drinking I had with him. But life had changed in oh so many ways.
Eventually the goodbye hugs and kisses came. Proper hugs. Ones with true meaning. “I’ll see you soon”. But how soon? Not soon enough.
All the nights spent with Alan D and him carrying me home from Club Sarah, all the nights in The Coach House with Kaner, all the nights with Helga laughing at mine and Alan D’s drunken stupidity suddenly crystallized into history. And then they were gone. “You and I we’re gonna Live Forever”. I haven’t listened to that song since. I can’t bring myself to.
Steve and Maria made the long trek over from Castleknock. They’re getting married this year. I’m going to miss their wedding. I’m toying with the idea of doing a congratulatory video with a pretend butler serving me Scotch. But I wish I could be there. Yarm? It, apparently rocks. Look it up on Google Maps. Bryan Robson lives there. Get well Robbo!
Ed, my Leeds supporting brother in law gave me a hug. That, for anyone who knows him, is as rare as a Liverpool title winning side since the back-pass rule was introduced. My eight year old niece Ciara sat on my lap and assured me “we’ll be able to talk on Skype, so don’t worry Paul”. I miss her and I missed her communion.
My mother-in-law Valerie saw the distress behind my eyes and shared wonderful words of wisdom with me. That Les Dawson sure is full of shit man!
My brother Alan and Sabine had put in Trojan efforts all day. As time crept on and I knew I had to be up at the crack of dawn for my flight, I couldn’t hang on all night. I’d shared a room with this geezer for a quarter of a century. Time to say goodbye. Hard to do, rock fucking hard. We imbibed twice a week from the age of twenty to twenty five in The Coach House (Monday to Thursday and Friday to Sunday, FYI), he’d lie on the middle of the road whilst we’d replicate the ‘Stuck In A Moment’ video before Kaner would throw his bag of chips into Doctor Hooi’s back garden before we’d come home to watch “I’m Alan Partridge” every fucking night as we lay in our single beds ‘apple-tarting’ and laughing. Our Mam would come in to tell us to shut up because we were waking the whole house and we’d laugh at the fact we’d woken her up. Never a peep from Dad or Lyn. Funny that. Magical.
We just looked at each other and had a big hug. I can’t remember what was said but words are made redundant in moments like that, its just the look in their eyes you remember. It was like a bad dream as he was leaving. And then he was gone into the night.
Right then, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m really doing this shit. Emigration was a word reserved for people who went to foreign and grew beards and bungee jumped. Not me. Not I. Never me. But so it was.
Eva had gone to sleep and I knew I’d have an hour or two with her in the morning. Myself and Janette lay in bed talking about the future. Janette and Eva were due to follow in three weeks time. “Are we mental?”, “Are we doing the right thing?”. Fuck it. We’ve gone too far to go back now. Three weeks apart is nothing in the grand scheme of things is it? “Don’t worry, it will be alright”. “What if they turn me back?”. “Don’t worry. Get some sleep”. No more worries or doubts, the good will come out....
Yeah right....‘Kite’ kept going through my head keeping me awake:
“Who’s to say where the wind will take you? Who’s to say what it is will break you? I don’t know which way the wind will blow. Who’s to know when the time has come around? Don’t want to see you cry, I know that this is not goodbye...”
Terminal Two. Dublin Airport. An architectural wonder. Beautiful innit? Makes you feel like you are in some wondrous city until you step outside I’d imagine. But there is a major design flaw that borders on the criminal called Departures. It’s fucking horrific. You have to walk through a mile of rope before you disappear into security. The Green Mile. All well and good heading off on holiday but, when your wife and daughter are standing there and you know you’re not going to see them for the best part of a month and you’re daughter is going “Bye Daddy! Bye! Bye Daddy! Bye!(repeat to fade)” , you want to get your hands on the architect and strangle the bastard. Thank God no one else came out to see me off.
I was so bad and so noticeable that some oul’ one gave me a hug in the queue to get my luggage checked. She was flying to see her son in Leeds. ”Don’t worry about it son, you’ll see them soon enough.” The first of a lot of motherly figures. I barely kept the sobbing in. In times of acute embarrassment like that and also other moments I can’t go into on a family show such as this, I recite the Arsenal team of 1989 in my head and it keeps the wolf from the door, so to speak . Lukic, Dixon, Winterburn, Adams, Bould........
I had to fly to Chicago and then get a connecting flight on to Toronto. That means US Immigration, obviously. “What’s the purpose of your trip?”.”Oh, I’m heading to Canada to make a better life for meself” says I.”Ok, well make sure you get into Ice Hockey. And you will. It’s a fucking great sport man. Good luck” said Immigration Official. Simple as. Why was I shitting myself so? This will be a piece of piss this...
There I was, clinging on to my mother in the sitting room in my house in Stocking Wood knowing that I’m not going to see her for months on end, my sister Lyn in floods of tears. My father having to walk out of the room as the emotion enveloped and got the better of him. My Mam’s Peugeot 206 driving down the road with me stood on the front step crying like a baby waving at it until the red tail lights turned the corner and I felt empty and sorry for what I was about to do. That was Wednesday 6th April 2011.
Thursday the 7th was spent tying up loose ends and worrying. Worrying because my Canadian work permit hadn’t dropped through the letterbox. Myself and Doc had stood across the road from the house when the postman made his delivery that morning and he’d delivered nothing but a stupid fucking letter from UPC(Cunts).Janette and I had agreed that I’d fly on Friday regardless.
I paced the floor like a man demented. Shitting myself. Fear like I’ve never felt before. What if? So many what ifs.
At five o’clock a neighbour dropped me home. I was met in the porch by my best mate on the verge of tears. His partner was due to have their first kid in two weeks time, and there I was talking about fear? The worst part of it was the knowing I wasn’t going to be around for it.
One by one, my nearest and dearest showed up to the house. It was like a wake. My own funeral. Well wishing text messages flooded in. The older brother-like figure, the singer bloke out of Rhythm Culture, who was up in my house on the previous Tuesday gave me inspiration in thirty words or less. (In times of loneliness I look at it and it gives me the inspiration to keep on trucking.I thank him profusely for it.)
Everyone stood in the kitchen that night looking at the floor. Janette and I had gotten rid of everything, and I mean everything of what was dear to us. Stephen turned up to pick up the 52 inch telly that we’d bought out of our wedding present money. That for me was a significant moment. It was the moment that the baton was passed from Ireland to Canada.
I loved that telly. I’d seen United do Arsenal in the Champions League Semi Final in the company of Rob, Mark and John on that telly whilst my seven month old daughter slept in her little cot upstairs and Janette went mental at us for cheering the first goal. The second goal? It was celebrated in mute, like a bunch of little deaf fellas.
Good times were had with that telly and me and others. Jools Holland’s New Years Eve Hootenanny was screened religiously and the resultant magic shows from my brother Alan and Daragh that followed were good times. That telly could tell some stories, I’m telling ya...
Back to the kitchen and there was those not knowing what to say, awkward moments. I stood outside on Stocking Wood Copse with Alan D, Kaner and Helga and unborn Adam all shuffling uncomfortably and putting off the inevitable. Not four years previously myself and Alan had greeted the sunrise, sitting on a kerb with a bottle of red wine in an empty new street. Life was sweet and so was the wine. My neighbour Francis looked on, pissing himself laughing at the drunken fools he had just shacked up next door to. And manys a great nights drinking I had with him. But life had changed in oh so many ways.
Eventually the goodbye hugs and kisses came. Proper hugs. Ones with true meaning. “I’ll see you soon”. But how soon? Not soon enough.
All the nights spent with Alan D and him carrying me home from Club Sarah, all the nights in The Coach House with Kaner, all the nights with Helga laughing at mine and Alan D’s drunken stupidity suddenly crystallized into history. And then they were gone. “You and I we’re gonna Live Forever”. I haven’t listened to that song since. I can’t bring myself to.
Steve and Maria made the long trek over from Castleknock. They’re getting married this year. I’m going to miss their wedding. I’m toying with the idea of doing a congratulatory video with a pretend butler serving me Scotch. But I wish I could be there. Yarm? It, apparently rocks. Look it up on Google Maps. Bryan Robson lives there. Get well Robbo!
Ed, my Leeds supporting brother in law gave me a hug. That, for anyone who knows him, is as rare as a Liverpool title winning side since the back-pass rule was introduced. My eight year old niece Ciara sat on my lap and assured me “we’ll be able to talk on Skype, so don’t worry Paul”. I miss her and I missed her communion.
My mother-in-law Valerie saw the distress behind my eyes and shared wonderful words of wisdom with me. That Les Dawson sure is full of shit man!
My brother Alan and Sabine had put in Trojan efforts all day. As time crept on and I knew I had to be up at the crack of dawn for my flight, I couldn’t hang on all night. I’d shared a room with this geezer for a quarter of a century. Time to say goodbye. Hard to do, rock fucking hard. We imbibed twice a week from the age of twenty to twenty five in The Coach House (Monday to Thursday and Friday to Sunday, FYI), he’d lie on the middle of the road whilst we’d replicate the ‘Stuck In A Moment’ video before Kaner would throw his bag of chips into Doctor Hooi’s back garden before we’d come home to watch “I’m Alan Partridge” every fucking night as we lay in our single beds ‘apple-tarting’ and laughing. Our Mam would come in to tell us to shut up because we were waking the whole house and we’d laugh at the fact we’d woken her up. Never a peep from Dad or Lyn. Funny that. Magical.
We just looked at each other and had a big hug. I can’t remember what was said but words are made redundant in moments like that, its just the look in their eyes you remember. It was like a bad dream as he was leaving. And then he was gone into the night.
Right then, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m really doing this shit. Emigration was a word reserved for people who went to foreign and grew beards and bungee jumped. Not me. Not I. Never me. But so it was.
Eva had gone to sleep and I knew I’d have an hour or two with her in the morning. Myself and Janette lay in bed talking about the future. Janette and Eva were due to follow in three weeks time. “Are we mental?”, “Are we doing the right thing?”. Fuck it. We’ve gone too far to go back now. Three weeks apart is nothing in the grand scheme of things is it? “Don’t worry, it will be alright”. “What if they turn me back?”. “Don’t worry. Get some sleep”. No more worries or doubts, the good will come out....
Yeah right....‘Kite’ kept going through my head keeping me awake:
“Who’s to say where the wind will take you? Who’s to say what it is will break you? I don’t know which way the wind will blow. Who’s to know when the time has come around? Don’t want to see you cry, I know that this is not goodbye...”
Terminal Two. Dublin Airport. An architectural wonder. Beautiful innit? Makes you feel like you are in some wondrous city until you step outside I’d imagine. But there is a major design flaw that borders on the criminal called Departures. It’s fucking horrific. You have to walk through a mile of rope before you disappear into security. The Green Mile. All well and good heading off on holiday but, when your wife and daughter are standing there and you know you’re not going to see them for the best part of a month and you’re daughter is going “Bye Daddy! Bye! Bye Daddy! Bye!(repeat to fade)” , you want to get your hands on the architect and strangle the bastard. Thank God no one else came out to see me off.
I was so bad and so noticeable that some oul’ one gave me a hug in the queue to get my luggage checked. She was flying to see her son in Leeds. ”Don’t worry about it son, you’ll see them soon enough.” The first of a lot of motherly figures. I barely kept the sobbing in. In times of acute embarrassment like that and also other moments I can’t go into on a family show such as this, I recite the Arsenal team of 1989 in my head and it keeps the wolf from the door, so to speak . Lukic, Dixon, Winterburn, Adams, Bould........
I had to fly to Chicago and then get a connecting flight on to Toronto. That means US Immigration, obviously. “What’s the purpose of your trip?”.”Oh, I’m heading to Canada to make a better life for meself” says I.”Ok, well make sure you get into Ice Hockey. And you will. It’s a fucking great sport man. Good luck” said Immigration Official. Simple as. Why was I shitting myself so? This will be a piece of piss this...
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