Kick Racism out of Football - A success story

Sporting heroes - the best campaigners for equality

Last week my son came home from school and said that some FAI footballers had visited the school. He didn’t seem as excited about the event as I thought he would have been and he went on to say that they hadn’t come to talk about football, but simply about racism. My son couldn’t understand why footballers needed to talk about this as an issue. Earlier that day I had opened up the notebook that I use for jotting down ideas for essays and found a few pages of my son’s handwriting. He has a typically boyish habit of creating imaginary fantasy football line-ups. His teams included names such as Robinho, Fabregas, Torres, Cole, Boateng and Podolski amongst countless others. All spelt correctly and including accents and umlauts as appropriate. It was a reminder of how much football has done for multi-culturalism.

My son has grown up in a world where sporting heroes come from all over the world, and are idolised and respected without prejudice; hence his failure to comprehend why footballers today still need to campaign on issues of racism. My son innocently assumes that racism does not really exist any more.

I explained how football was back in the 1970s when I used to go to football matches on a regular basis. Black players were only just starting to appear in the teams, and they were not universally welcomed, even by the supporters of the teams they played for. The seventies weren’t really that long ago, but it felt like we were discussing the dark ages, and I guess we were. My husband played semi-professional football during this time, and he added his own memories of horror stories of fans throwing bananas onto the pitch and chanting like apes whenever a black player got near a ball.

We are still a long way from total equality, but I think it is a measure of how successful the campaign to kick racism out of football has been that some of today’s children question why it is needed.

Economically speaking

Fear not, I won't be starring in a tragic opera anytime soon

There is a traditional and romantic image of writers being poor, malnourished creatures living in a draughty garret, in Paris or some other place of cultural renown. They spend their time huddled around the dying embers of a coal fire, scratching out a living, leaving their writing only to drink cheap red wine with other artistic types. They will die cold and alone, probably as a result of alcoholism, or tuberculosis exacerbated from smoking too many Gauloises.

My life is not that shabby, although I do share a predilection for wine (or Guinness) and socialising. But having given up my job in the NHS to follow my husband to Ireland to further his career, we are now living off one salary, and my three million job applications have not been successful – yet. It is great to have the time to devote to my MA and to my writing, but it is a little tiresome to have to be so mindful of a much reduced income. Whilst we are far from poor, we are not in the position to be extravagant; and there really isn’t anything romantic about that.

At least we are not alone in this situation. Ireland is going through some serious economic difficulties and the news is depressing to watch most of the time. In amongst the increased violent activities of the dissident IRA, there are numerous stories of companies going out of business, people losing their homes, threatened hospital closures, and droves of young Irish graduates leaving the country to try their luck elsewhere.

To cope with the reduced spending of consumers there are frequent sales and bargains galore in the shops, so I don’t think that clothes and food are very expensive. Public transport is also far cheaper here than in the UK, so there are some bonuses. But considering people have less money to spend there are some strange pricing tactics for some leisure activities which I find seriously annoying.

The new Aviva stadium opened this year, to replace Lansdowne Road, as the home of Irish rugby. I love rugby and was lucky enough to procure tickets for the Ireland v Scotland match in the six nations this year. It was one of the last matches to be played at Croke Park, a far bigger stadium that was packed for this event. I doubt we will ever get a chance to see an International rugby match again as the prices for the new stadium are extortionate. It would cost a minimum of 240 euros for two adults and a child to see a match and with a smaller capacity, fewer seats are available. So I fear I will never get to see Brian O’Driscoll in the flesh again.

The Irish Rugby Union are stressing out about the possibility of important matches being aired for free on national television, instead of the pay-per-view situation we have now. They are naturally concerned about the loss of revenue. However, I think that the general public will respond quite favourably to this vote-winning tactic, as at least ordinary people will get to see the match. Sport should not just be for the wealthy.

But even to do something far more mundane like go to the cinema is also a tad expensive. Two adults and a child costs over 30 euros. It would have cost around £15 when we lived in Shetland. One game of ten pin bowling also costs around 30 euros, which for 30 minutes of entertainment is just a bit too much. It is perhaps not surprising that any time you visit the cinema or the bowling alley they are virtually deserted. The Aviva Stadium was also half empty when it staged some international friendly soccer matches a few weeks ago. Proving the point that when you charge too much, people will vote with their feet.

Ireland still has one of the highest birth rates in Europe and a proportionately young population, a fact that it celebrates. But these young families must find it such a struggle to afford fairly ordinary treats. A trip to the cinema was quite a big deal when I was a child, but surely in this era when numerous films are released each week and most cinemas have a choice of around 10 films to watch, we should be able to take more advantage of the situation. Surely it makes sense to charge less and attract more people.

It feels very elitist. I know that libraries, museums, parks and the countryside are still free to visit, but it is very sad that many young people cannot access the full range of cultural activities that are available.

As I write I am sitting on the bed with the laptop on my knees, with the Ireland v Slovakia match on the portable TV in the background. Downstairs, hogging the sofa and the other TV is my son who is watching the England game, and running up and down to keep tabs on the Ireland score. It is not Paris, but it is perfect enough for me. I could do with a glass of wine though.

The confidence of youth

Irish teenagers

Sunday morning is devoted to Under 12s football and this weekend we travelled to an away game at Donabate, North Dublin. We gave a lift to two other players, and so there were three 12 year old boys sat in the back of the car, and since my son is new to the team and does not know the other boys well, I imagined the journey would be rather quiet.

But instead my husband and I were subjected to an interrogation and banter about everything from favourite musicians to where we came from, taking in along the way, favourite holiday destinations and best jokes. The opening gambit to my husband went along the lines of “so, my Dad’s big into Elvis; what’s your “thing?” When he admitted his “thing” was training for a 2011 Iron Man challenge, this was met with much hilarity and general teasing, mixed with admiration and curiosity.

It was an entertaining journey, to and from the match, and it made me realise how much more confident children are these days, to when I was the same age. At the risk of sounding ancient, kids just did not behave like that in my day. They (we) were shyer, quieter and less inclined to take an equal, much less a dominant, role in a conversation with unfamiliar adults.

I remember reading a recent article in an Irish newspaper about the phenomenon of Jedward, and how these two exuberantly confident young men were fairly representative of Irish youth, brought up to believe in themselves. Jedward aside, it is lovely to witness such confidence, especially when it is combined with good manners and kindness. The article compared Irish teenagers with those raised in Britain, and the assertion was that Irish teenagers are given a better deal. In Britain there seems to be more of a feeling that teenagers are not to be trusted. They certainly don’t normally get much of a good press.

I have often wondered how different my life could have been if I had had even a fraction of the confidence that today’s young ones have. Self-belief is key to the success of so many things; careers, creativity and relationships. But one thing I can be grateful for; I have two confident and brilliant sons, who don’t need to waste valuable years playing catch up with their self-esteem.

Self-publish and be damned

A couple of weeks ago I got chatting to a writer in Eason’s bookshop in Dun Laoghaire. He was doing a book signing session for his book Gurriers. Seeing that he looked a trifle lonely I got chatting to him and he told me about his book which had taken 10 years to write and was a novel based on his experiences as a motorcycle courier in Dublin. This sounded like an intriguing idea for a book, so I purchased a copy and he duly signed it for me. It turns out that he had paid for the book to be published and he explained how he had done this and why.

I have heard many people say that self-publishing is not the sensible option for a serious writer as it gives the impression that you were not good enough to be taken on by a “proper” publisher. I have no strong feelings on this, but self publishing is quite expensive and I am not confident that I would have the energy for all that self promotion and marketing. However, while speaking to Kevin Brennan, I was struck by the amount of joy he had received from seeing all his hard work in print. And it seems that his book was going down well in his network of friends and fellow couriers. He had enjoyed the publishing process so much he was now embarking on a selection of short stories.

We chatted a little longer and I told him about the Masters course I was doing and my ambitions to be published one day, and shared with him some ideas about raising his online profile, which he appreciated. I left the shop with a rather large novel to read and a smile on my face.

The book itself is a weighty tome, think “A Suitable Boy” and you’re nearly there. And there is no doubt that some might think that it could have done with some judicious editing for length and pace. However, it is not without a certain charm. The characters are great, the plot is crazy, funny and realistic in turn, and the language is pure Dublin. It has definite commercial appeal, so it is a shame that Kevin had to resort to self-publishing.

But it definitely gave me something to think about. And I have decided that if I fail to get my novels published through the normal channels, then one day I will give serious consideration to whether or not to self-publish. It is not call vanity publishing for nothing, but I don’t want to live with the idea of giving up on my ambition to see my work in print. And I would like to leave something of me behind for my family. I wonder what my great great great grandchildren would make of Dancing with the Ferryman or Peace Lily in years to come.

Meeting literary superstars

One of Jennifer Johnston's many books - and one for my reading list

There are numerous literary festivals around the world, and they are great places for writer wannabes to hang out. Dun Laoghaire was the setting for a new book festival that started last year, and is likely to continue in years to come, judging by the attendance. The “Mountains to Sea” title of the festival sums up the fact that the ferry port of Dun Laoghaire has the backdrop of the Wicklow Mountains on one side and the sea on the other. It is a lovely town to visit these days, despite being in the shadow of Dublin. I have quite an affinity with the place as my father was born here, and on the way to the festival I drove past the house where he was born, which I had never visited before. Anyway, I digress.

The main reason I bought tickets for the book festival was to hear John Banville. He is quite a hero of mine. I had to write an essay on his Booker prize winning novel The Sea. His writing is beautiful; perfect pace and exquisite language. I was not disappointed when he started his session by reading from his as yet unpublished new novel Persephone. It was really good to hear a writer read in his own voice, and it added something to the books I have already read of his.

However, I was a little disappointed when he answered questions from the audience. He seemed bored, irritable and very condescending to the idea of anyone else attempting to write a novel. His responses ran along the lines of writing should be left to the professionals and even creative writing students would be better off doing something else. I could not really tell whether he was being facetious or not, but somehow I doubt it. He has something of a reputation for being a little bit arrogant. And that’s fine – each to their own, as they say. But it is a little sad that published writers could not share something of what compels them to write, and understand that that same compulsion exists in others. We might not all have the same prodigious talent, but a desire to write is not something that can be brushed aside easily. And anyone who has ever tried to write understands how difficult, lonely and financially unrewarding it can be.

Contrast Mr Banville with another writer, Jennifer Johnston. I sat in on a session with her and I was amazed by how warm, funny and brilliant she was. Ms Johnston is another Irish writer who writes literary and historical fiction, dealing with tough issues such as Ireland’s involvement in the World Wars and the "Troubles". She was encouraging to other fledgling writers and seemed to really enjoy the reception from her legion of fans in the theatre. I have to admit to not having read any of her books before the festival, but they are now on my autumn reading list. What a difference a sunny personality can make to book sales.

Fiction can be more real than reality

My son has started reading John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas for the third time. The first time he read it was at home, and subsequently, much to his distress he has had to read it for school a few weeks later, and having changed schools recently he was even more distressed to find it back on the reading list this term. When he finished reading it the first time, he handed me the book and said quietly, “I don’t think you should read this Mummy, it doesn’t end well.” With that he went upstairs to bed, in a mood that could only really be described as deflated. I read the book myself, and by the time I finished it the next day, I understood why he was upset. Although when I questioned him about the ending, it became clear that he hadn’t really understood what had happened.

The novel, for anyone who hasn’t read it, is narrated by a nine year old boy, Bruno. He lives on the edge of Auschwitz where his father is the Commandant. He befriends a Jewish boy who is a prisoner on the other side of the fence. It is written with the childish innocence of someone who has no idea what is going on at the camp. However, as a adult reader, we know exactly what went on, so when Bruno sneaks into the camp and follows his friend into a gas chamber it is horrifying to read. And no, it doesn’t end well.

The book is really powerful because of the narration, which is not overly explicit and horrifying for the child reader, but does bring to life some of the awful history which they are now learning about in school. I had to explain the ending to my son, because, like Bruno and Schmuel, he had not realised that the room the boys had been herded into was a gas chamber. I can honestly say that I have never seen such a mixture of disbelief and revulsion on a child’s face. It is almost impossible to explain the holocaust. Facts and figures in the history books explain it in terms that are just too black and white. It is hard to grasp the fact that six million Jewish people perished during the war. The number is too large to comprehend, and the manner in which people died was so barbaric and inhumane that it feels as if we are talking about something that happened in the Dark Ages, and not something within the living memories of our grandparents.

However, through the medium of fiction we get into a relationship with the characters and care about what happens to them. And to care about what happens to two fictional little boys is part way to understanding and caring about what happened to the six million real people. It is a truly inspired choice of book for primary school children. The last book my son had to read for school dealt with the Irish Famine. And again, through the fictional family created by Marita Conlon-McKenna in Under the Hawthorn Tree he learned what it was like to live during such a harsh environment. I read a little of the book myself. It went something along the lines of Chapter 1 Dad leaves home to try and find a job elsewhere. Chapter 2 Baby dies. Chapter 3 Mum leaves home to find Dad/Food/Help. Chapter 4 the other kids cope with hunger, illness and predatory neighbours who are also starving. I didn’t get to finish it, but apparently it didn’t get much more cheerful, although it did have a marginally better ending. But the Famine was a truly dreadful era, and to deal with it in any other way would not have been honest.

I love studying history and it is one of the most important subjects on the curriculum, but I think that literature plays an equally important place in explaining past events in a way that draws out compassion and understanding. John Boyne’s novel has raised some controversy because of its inaccurate portrayal of events, however, this work of fiction is more likely to generate an emotional response to the atrocities, than a history book written for the same age group could. Simply learning facts and figures is not enough.

Maybe it is time to put Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner or A Thousand Splendid Suns, on the curriculum as a way of attempting to explain what is going on in Afghanistan.

In defence of Chick-Lit

This Booker prize winning book is definitely not chick-lit, but only because the author is a man.

There has been a flurry of activity in the media and the social networking sites with regard to criticism about the ratio of book reviews for male and female authors in the New York Times, a fact that is doubtless replicated in the UK broadsheets. Despite the apparent fact that more women than men buy novels, there are far more reviews of books written by men than women, and that is compounded by the fact that there are far more male reviewers than female. I guess that even though we are ten years into the 21st century there is still a lot of catching up to do in terms of literary equality. Whilst this situation might be annoying to some people, there are others who will think – so what? There are also others that would wholeheartedly approve. There are a surprising number of people who despise women’s literature, and more shockingly some of these people are women.

I will never forget the moment, a few years ago, when I met a woman at a party, who was roughly my age, had a similar job and seemed, superficially at least, a perfectly pleasant and normal person, and she liked reading so I thought she would be an interesting person to strike up a conversation with. Until she said with some venom,“I never read books written by women; they’re all rubbish.” I tackled her on this rather bizarre statement (after I had regained the power of speech) and wondered whether she was referring to just romantic literature. But no, she meant what she had said; she despised all literature by women, regardless of the genre. I think that pretty much ended the conversation.

I have heard this kind of comment depressingly frequently, more often by men, but sometimes other women have expressed similar sentiments. I find this kind of literary snobbishness and sexism rather bizarre. It’s not as if someone can be a better writer on the basis of their gender alone, and it is probably safe to say that anyone who has such a narrow minded view of literature cannot have genuinely read very much, so it is best just to feel sorry for them.

But even within fairly intellectual circles there is often a low regard for the genre of women’s literature that is often called chick-lit. Even some women writers are insulted when their novels are put into this category by reviewers. It is seen as demeaning, but I fail to see what the problem is with being assigned to this category of writers. They are amongst the most commercially successful writers, and have huge appeal to the types of people that buy the most books. So where is the problem? Oh yes, it might be the word commercial. That appears to be another slander upon the writer who wants to get serious. As if the idea of selling many of your books is seen as some kind of artistic sell-out and that the writer must give up any hope of credibility if they become popular. It reminds me of the conversations I had in my youth, with earnest young men (usually) who would complain about some band they used to love, back in the day before they sold their souls to a record label and hit the big time.

I like chick-lit. I don’t read it all the time, but it does add some light relief to a busy life. I think I enjoyed it most of all when I was studying for my degree. Sometimes, when you are studying gory subjects like funerary and burial archaeology, you need to turn to something just a little bit sweeter.

Anyway, just for the record I can think of quite a few male writers that could be confused with chick-lit authors, if the names were withheld - Nick Hornby, Tony Parsons, Mike Gayle or Roddy Doyle to name but a few. The usual defining ingredient in a chick-lit novel is the exploration of a relationship between a man and a woman.

On Chesil Beach anyone?