1. This is a random selection of a few daily entries from “The Fox and the Scorpion meet Cold Turkey” by Carl J
Ashley. The style is narrative, non-fiction, and focuses on a diary style account by the author, to primarily help
him through his irreverent experience of the tribulations of using a mindfulness meditation practice to deal with
addiction and depression. For more information, excerpts and audio clips, visit www.carljashley.com
Sunday 12 February 2012
Valentine’s Day looms.
Not sure how anyone can be doing with all that shite. In fairness though, love is perennial. Never goes out of
fashion.
Was it Einstein who said that there are two things which are infinite – the Universe and human stupidity -
though he wasn’t so sure about the first one?
Florists rack up the price of a bunch of roses, and everywhere a box of chocolates suddenly becomes the focal
point on the shelves in the shops. I quite like flowers and chocolates myself, but I remain unsure as to why a
crappy day in February would somehow come to symbolise Aphrodite, Cupid, Valentine, and so on, ad
nauseam.
It must be particularly irritating for single people to be reminded of either a missing loved one, or be made to
feel self-conscious about not having a loved one. For those of us who do have that special person in their life,
well, they are rewarded by being fleeced at the checkout.
Such are the delights of our consumerist society.
Actually, there was a question about the “Roman God of Love” when I was filming the live version of the
Fifteen-To-One show, which one of the contestants got wrong. Was it Eros? When I sat at home watching it on
telly, I found it easy to get those kind of questions right. However, when you are standing under bright studio
lighting with the cameras rolling, it is very easy for your mind to play tricks on you.
With something of a reputation for being a rather “high-brow” quiz show, Fifteen-To-One nonetheless became a
Channel Four staple for students, housewives, retired people, and the unemployed. Although not as popular as
Countdown, it commanded a serious following. I had been watching it for years, since I was a student, and I’d
made a promise to myself that I would go on it and give it a go, for the craic.
I’d had the morbid fear of appearing stupid by getting knocked out in the first round, but I need not have
worried. I was one of only two people who got both their opening questions correct to go through to the next
round with all their lives intact. I would get my leg seriously pulled if I didn’t make it through the opening
round, where you were asked two general knowledge questions. As it happened, only one or two of us perished,
and I gained in confidence.
I had come a long, long way to be there that day. From the auditions at Manchester University, to the official
invitation in the post a few weeks later, to the coach down to London, to the tube ride to where I stayed with JP
in Tufnell Park, to the train the following day to East Putney, followed by a half hour walk until I found the
studio.
Sitting in a make-up room, I then found myself having some stuff put on my face (to avoid glare), before I was
then rather rudely interrogated by the quizmaster. He had wanted to appear knowledgable but was rather put out
that he had, in fact, never heard of the town of Ashton-Under-Lyne in Lancashire.
The programme itself would not be aired for another couple of months, and although it was generally regarded
for the more intellectually inclined, it drew a mixed audience of male, female, old, and young. I knew there
would be a crowd of colleagues from First Choice in Salford, where I was a customer service advisor in the East
Med team. We all finished at four, and they would be piled into the canteen there to see me on telly.
Obviously, the reality is different from what we see on the television screen.

2. A half hour programme took two hours to record, not least because of all the mistakes which were made by the
presenter, who, on the version you see at home, comes across as a polished and intelligent professional. Now
I’m not saying he is not that, but his job was fairly simple, namely to ask questions and read them out properly.
You don’t get to see on the final version all the times he said a question wrong, or coughed, or sneezed, or
fluffed his lines. Indeed, I could not help feeling rather let down. This guy was certainly not the omnipotent
being which he so cleverly appeared to be!
It was all held together by the studio director, who, unsurprisingly, was a woman. She organised it all, but he
took the credit. That was her job, I guess. So, after numerous times of saying things again at her prompting, they
played some music and cut to the second round, which was called “question and nominate”. This consisted of
the random distribution of questions until only three contestants remained standing.
I was in good shape, and if memory serves me, I was number two, and one of the first in line. A couple of
contestants had perished already, there were about twelve of us left, and number one had just got the opening
question of round two incorrect.
So all eyes were now upon me.
In order to stay confident and calm, I had taken to rocking back and forth on my heels. I was well dressed, and
looked smart. Despite the dapper-chapper exterior, my heart was pounding beneath my rib cage. All eyes were
on me, plus the cameras! I was asked a geography question, and got it right.
Grand!
My mind wandered. I had got three out of three questions right, and I still had three lives left. All of a sudden, I
realised, I could seriously win this!
As people continued to sit down, having been eliminated to the sound of a buzzer, I looked around and saw that
there were only about seven or eight of us left. I had answered a question wrong and was still in fairly good
shape with two lives left. Then the guy I had been chatting to earlier in the make-up room, and who had come
down from Norwich, answered his question correctly about a river in Africa, the Zambezi. He then nominated
the guy who was at number six, an oldish-looking guy with bright eyes, of diminutive stature.
This chap had nominated me already, and I recall feeling rather miffed, when he got his question right and
nominated me again. Some people had not even been nominated once, and this would be my third question. That
old fecker had it in for me! I guess he figured I was a dangerous opponent.
I got my next question wrong, and kicked myself for not knowing it. It was an easy one – “What do you call it,
when somebody is cleared of a crime in a court of law?”
That left me with one life, and I was now hanging on. A couple of others were nominated, got questions wrong,
and were eliminated. Then someone got their question right, but chose to nominate me yet again!
What?!
Fighting with the notion that it was rather unfair to keep getting nominated, since I’d been asked about seven
questions already, getting five of them right, I was resolved to my fate.
That was the game.
I got my question wrong - something to do with Washington State University not being in Washington - and the
dreaded buzzer of elimination sounded.
Looking around, as I withdrew from the game, I could see five people still standing. So in effect, I had come
sixth out of fifteen.
Respectable enough.
Within a couple of minutes, it had been whittled down to three, and they took a break. I watched the final round
from the audience, which comprised of people who had turned up to be on the show they would be filming next.

3. To my annoyance, although he was pretty clever, the old geezer at number six, who had been picking on me,
won it out and came first.
All in all, my maiden television appearance was a great experience!
When the programme was televised, I asked the missus to record it, which she did on our video recorder. The
kids were only babies, so it would have been before we left England for Ireland, and the idea was to record it for
them to be able to watch it when they were a little bit older. These days, in a world of Blu-ray and DVD, I have
no idea where that nostalgic video tape might be.
The funny thing was, when we eventually found the tape and got around to watching it, it was discovered that
upon pressing fast-forward or rewind, I looked like a proper eejit, rocking backwards and forwards all over the
place!
Finally, the question that haunted me ever since, the easy one I got wrong?
“Acquittal,” had been the fecking answer!
Wednesday 7 March 2012
Zip a dee do-da, zip a dee-yay. Happy Wednesday!
I start my first proper yoga training today, which could be interesting. Together with footy on a Thursday, it
might well help to shift the excess around the midriff! The press-ups have dropped off a bit. Whereas I was
banging out fifty every day, I’m now at about thirty, and I can feel the extra weight I’m lifting!
Eyes like piss holes in the snow today, after baby’s antics at 4 a.m. What exactly she was screaming at, or for,
was difficult to establish. But suffice to say, the little miss kept us up all night and I now have two red rings
where my eyes used to be …
Met an Indian guy yesterday whilst knocking doors in Dooradoyle. The conversation went from boilers to food
in no time! It turned out he knew a few of the lads on the Munster cricket circuit. So this guy said he was
moving to a house with oil heating, but needed to get someone approved by the gas board to connect the gas hob
for him. Maybe there was a job in it for one of the lads.
That’s knocking on doors for you. One minute, all quiet, then, next minute, you meet someone, make a
connection. When I asked him where he was actually from, and he said South India, near Madras, I guessed I
knew his eyes would light up when I told him that I was fond of Idlis and Dosas, renowned South Indian
cuisine.
When he said he was Tamil, and that they spoke the oldest language known to man, that reminded me of our
honeymoon in Sri Lanka. When he told me that he had actually played cricket for Limerick, I could not resist
but tell him about our trip to Kandy, where we saw famous Sri Lankan cricketer Murali, sensationally break the
world record in front of his home crowd.
Now that was something else!
It had been the clichéd trip of a lifetime. From Colombo, the capital city, where we had the incongruent
experience of witnessing a fully laden Christmas tree although the weather was blazing hot, we had headed
north to the elephant sanctuary in Pinnawale. From there, we had headed towards the breathtaking tourist
attraction at Sigiriya rock, overnighting in beautiful forest-dwelling accommodation in Habarane, near the
ancient capital of Anuradhapura.
After a couple of days on the road together, we had gotten to know our guide a bit better. He was a young father,
and owning a car meant he could get work. We were evidently his ticket to earning a few quid, and he was our
ticket to having a good time. And thus a symbiotic relationship emerged. I had gently persuaded him into
teaching me conversational Sinhalese, so that I could hold my own in a bit of banter with any locals, and we
implored him to help us pull off a pre-planned visit to meet with a family we sponsor through a Dublin-based
charity.

4. I had been delighted when our tour guide had confirmed that he would indeed be able to depart from the official
itinerary with us. We appreciated his efforts in liaising with the charity staff in Colombo to locate our intended
destination. When we first got involved, we found the people at Childfund to be really helpful, and highly
professional. Not only that, but we found the local staff, both in Colombo and Polonnaruwa, were absolutely
brilliant in helping us realise our dream of meeting our sponsored child.
It had all started many years earlier, when we had received a flyer through the door. Explaining that for a little
monthly donation, we could sponsor a child, allowing for them to receive materials to help them with reading,
writing, and so on, the focus on education and creativity. I had said to the missus that no matter how bad things
got for us, no matter what our circumstances, surely we could always find ourselves in a position to do at least a
bit of something to help others. And she agreed. Although there were tick boxes on the form, so that you could
specify if you preferred to sponsor a boy or girl, in Africa, South America, Asia etc, I deliberately left all the
fields blank, so that fate should pair us up with whomsoever we could potentially help. As it happened, we were
matched with a family who have a daughter just a little older than our eldest. And we learned she would attend a
children’s project in Polonnaruwa, in the North-East of Sri Lanka, where they needed help to raise money for
resources and materials.
It meant a lot to us to be able to do that, and I have no problem in admitting that it was indeed part of our
rationale behind choosing Sri Lanka as a honeymoon destination, despite the warning from the travel agent that
it was unsafe to go there. We had budgeted for a fortnight in South Africa, but in the end we made the right
choice. It was a magical time. We booked ten days in all, five days touring around the country and five days
based in a hotel on the south coast. Needless to say, we did not heed the warning. In fact, it had potentially made
us even more determined to go. The cricket had been just an additional bonus, a side-show which made the trip
even more exciting.
For years we had been in touch via written correspondence, and we still keep in touch via letters and cards to
this day. The focus of our correspondence, namely Shashikala, would regularly write and send pictures and
cards. Charity staff would translate the letters from Sinhalese into English, and vice-versa for them, when I
wrote. Often times, we would receive beautifully hand-made lovely cards, wishing us a happy Christmas. The
detail and intricacy of them would be striking ; Shashikala clearly has a talent for arts and crafts. They even
include progress reports these days, and a colour printed newsletter. She is not a young child any more, rather, a
young lady, since at a year older than our eldest daughter, she must be thirteen or fourteen by now.
Who knows, maybe the charity might like to fly us out to Sri Lanka again. Sometimes they focus on individual
cases for the purpose of a video or a television broadcast, to promote the organisation. That would be mighty, to
take part in something like that. Who knows, maybe we might be invited to have the opportunity to go back
there one day, perhaps an anniversary, like ten, fifteen or twenty years on, to meet them all again? It would be a
good idea, and we could raise much appreciated funds.
In all honesty, I was most disheartened to discover that our sponsored family, who like us at the time, numbered
five (two adults, three kids) were all residing in a single room dwelling. That had sparked phone calls to
Colombo to find out exactly where the money we had been sending, had gone. When we met the office workers
at the project office, they explained that the money from all the sponsors was pooled and appropriated to several
different projects which they were working on concurrently. To us, our sponsored family were a priority. To
them, they were one of several families they could help. The wall of the project staff office yielded bar charts,
pie charts and flow diagrams to the same effect. I understood what they were saying, but since I was caught up
in the emotion of the occasion, that didn’t quite cut it with me, and I was not only furious, but keen to promote
direct action.
We had not been sending an absolute fortune, but what we had sent over the years, when converted into Sri
Lankan dollars, would surely have been enough to ensure this family were not eating, sleeping and washing in
the same room. We were not allowed to give them cash gifts but we did bring presents. Clearly, they were not
being treated as a priority by their own people. Even more striking, when we met the project staff, was the
revelation that in the thirty year history of the charity, we were the first ever visitors from Ireland. It was a hard
enough place to find, and a long, long way from the capital city, remote in every sense. But first ever? Wow, the
honour was ours.
Dismissing protocol, and the very obvious class boundaries which were in place, we invited the children of our
sponsored family to tuck into the sweet treats which had been put out on the table in a lovely spread. Shashikala

5. has both a younger brother, and younger sister, and they looked hungry, like they could have done with a good
meal. We were having none of the royalty lark. It was difficult to understand, for us, the way they were trying to
treat us like we were upper class, because we were pale-skinned, and sent money. Although they meant well, the
project staff were like middle class, because they had office jobs, computers and air-con. And our sponsored
family were lower class, because they were poor and had no way of escaping the cycle of poverty. Frustratingly,
this seemed like a very well-entrenched caste or class system, dating back at least to the times of colonial
imperialism.
At one point, we were even requested to sit at the table they had prepared, and leave our friends at a table in
another room! I guess to them, it was just a cultural thing, but it was something which horrified us. Putting the
sword to their antiquated and seemingly British protocols, we entreated them all to take tea with us and eat the
sweet cakes. Despite looking uncertain, my wife and I managed to persuade them it was okay, so they obliged
us. Maybe it was my working class Mancunian roots, or the student socialist in me, but I was adamant that our
sponsored family be treated in no less a manner than us! Looking surprised, and somewhat guilty, as the project
staff looked on rather admonishingly, we all sat together at the same table, sharing stories and smiles.
Thereafter, we took some photographs and said our goodbyes. The last I heard, was that they had been built a
house, and were just waiting for a roof to go on it, which was a positive development indeed. I would
recommend anyone to get involved, if they are interested in helping to make a small difference. Our meeting
was truly a magical event. Very emotional. Very heart-warming. As I had brought all of Shashikala’s
correspondence with me, so too had Anusha, her mother, brought a folder with all of my correspondence to
them.
I learned that they had also planted a jack plant in my honour, which was apparently coming on very well.
Despite the language barrier, which we overcame thanks to our tour guide, who was an able translator, we
managed basic conversation. However, words fail to capture what we experienced that day. I just kept looking
over at Shashikala, and smiling. She kept looking back, with a sparkle in her eyes, returning the smile. Words
were not necessary, to convey what our visit meant. To see their hope and faith in us, and their gratitude that we
had made the effort to make the 11,000 mile round trip, to visit them in the flesh, was touching and humbling.
At one point, the missus was in floods of tears, and nearly got me started!
Upon leaving Polonnaruwa, we headed straight for Kandy, in the heart of the country. Located in a hilly and
mountainous region of central Sri Lanka, we felt it might be possible to try and catch a bit of the cricket. There
was a series of test matches happening at the time, between England and Sri Lanka, and practically everyone in
the country was glued to a television set, following the action ball-by-ball. I had made contact via a few emails
before we left Ireland, with a Sri Lankan tour operator based in England, who had given me his phone number
and assured me to call him if indeed we were going to make it there and were still looking for tickets for the
game. When we arrived in a hot and busy Kandy, I was keen yet apprehensive. It seemed very unlikely that we
would actually be able to meet him, and go, but, I was determined to try and make it happen.
After dropping our bags into the hotel we would stay in that night, noting the sign on the wall of our room
which advised us to ensure the windows were locked in order to keep out the monkeys, our guide followed up
on his excellent gesture with facilitating us to meet with Shashikala and her family, by ringing my contact from
his mobile. After a rushed and incomprehensible conversation, it was arranged for us to hotfoot it down to the
Asgiriya cricket ground!
The weather was dry and hot, the roads were dusty, and as we swung around in the back of a tuk-tuk, we clung
on for all we were worth. A veritable white-knuckle ride. Now somewhat accustomed to the crazy manner on
the roads, we winced in anticipation of a disaster as about seven vehicles all converged on one tiny gap in the
traffic. If it was bad for us, trying to dodge cars, it was even worse for the cyclists, trying to dodge the cars and
the tuk-tuks! Evidently, there was a great sense of urgency to get to the game, and not just because history was
being made.
That, tinged with the tangible uncertainty that we were relying upon someone we did not know, to help us
arrange a meeting with someone else we did not know, in a place we did not know, made it all the more
thrilling.

6. Clearly, logic dictated that it was highly unlikely that we would be able to pull it off, and, as a random and
impetuous cacophony of horns blared and tooted in anguish, as cyclists and motorcyclists darted for cover from
the onrushing taxis and automobiles, we swung, gasping for breath, around another uphill bend.
MADNESS!
Unfortunately, even though it was mid-afternoon on the final day’s play, the bad news was that our contact was
still looking for full-price on the cost of the match tickets. Which was clearly a bit of a liberty. But, the good
news was, that we had managed to find the stadium, make it past the security guards and police, and our man
had three tickets available and was coming to meet us! Result!
It certainly ate into the budget forking out for three full-price tickets but I felt it was worth it and it felt like an
appropriate gesture to say thanks to our guide by getting him a ticket. It would hardly have been cool to leave
him waiting for us outside the ground, but his efforts in helping us to make it to Polonnaruwa to visit Shashikala
and family meant I had the opportunity to return the compliment. Within minutes, we had taken our seats, and I
took a deep breath as I surveyed the crowd with wonder, relief and admiration – it was almost a full house!
England were batting to save the game, and just to confirm to me that I had indeed arrived at the right time, at
the right place, there were even two or three big Manchester City flags in evidence amongst the stands and
proudly on display! We were not the only Blues on tour!
The missus groaned that it was boring but even she had to accept that it was a special day, a special occasion,
and after such a hair-raising ride on the streets of Kandy in our tuk-tuk, that the relative calm in the shade of the
stadium was welcome indeed. With tongue firmly in cheek, I had to remind her what better honeymoon present
than seeing the England cricket team!?
As Matt Prior crashed an off-drive to the boundary a glance at the scoreboard revealed that all was not lost. If
they could get to tea without losing another wicket, there was a chance we might even win the game and reach
the total set, before the close of play. It was unlikely, but it was possible!
Looking back, it was a remarkable game actually.
England had somehow surrendered a decent first innings lead of 100 runs. A spirited second innings by the hosts
had seen them declare on 442-8 leaving England an unlikely target of exactly 350 runs to win. We were around
220-6 by tea, the final session on the final day’s play loomed, and all three results, win, lose or draw, were still
possible. Bell and Prior had put on a decent partnership in excess of 100 runs, and the longer they could stay
together, the bigger the possibility of attaining the unlikely target.
The home crowd was excited, the natives were restless, and this tourist was still in awe as the Barmy Army
trumpeter let out a volley of notes to the drunken cheers of the travelling support. It was awesome. I was in my
element, absolutely loving it. Not since being in the midst of the West Indies supporters at Old Trafford, as a
kid, had I sampled such an atmosphere in the crowd at a Test match. In fact, not since that day, now I come to
think of it, had I actually been at another test match.
Everyone was hooked, and the tension increased with every ball that we survived. Growing in confidence, Prior
surged to his fifty, and I remember thinking that he was good enough to get into the England team as a batsman,
such was his technique, regardless of his duties with the wicket-keeping gloves. Another majestic shot, this time
a cover drive by Bell, and with a pint in hand, I posed for a photo opportunity in front of the huge flag of St.
George with “M.C.F.C. Levenshulme” emblazoned across it. The Barmy Army were in full song, this time the
trumpeter keenly heralding the cheers of the English supporters with his own unique, abridged version of the
Johnny Cash song “Ring of Fire”, which was hilarious and had us in raptures of laughter as well as excitement.
Crash! Another boundary from Prior and all of a sudden we could do it.
Hope mingled with disbelief!
No way! Were we really going to do it?
Come on England!

7. Our guide and host had ingratiated himself with some local supporters and was enjoying the atmosphere too.
Grateful for the ticket I had bought for him, I was happy to look on and see him genuinely enjoying himself. All
of a sudden, he was enjoying himself a bit more as the partnership was broken and the home crowd broke out in
huge fervour as Murali bowled Prior.
Shite! 248-7 and we were back in trouble. 100 runs to win, a couple of hours left to bat and three wickets
remaining. Still, whilst Belly was still at the crease, all hope was not lost and all three results were still possible.
What drama!
Boom! 249-8 and Murali had bowled Bell, with only a single run added. The Sri Lankans on the field and in the
crowd went totally crazy, having removed England’s last hope!
After an hour and a half of painstaking batting, intelligent and diligent run-accumulating and deft and swift
attacking strokeplay, within two overs of spin magic, we had gone from hope to nope.
However, it was impossible to be angry or annoyed. Disappointed maybe, but delighted for the home fans
around us, who by now were positively delirious! Dancing with whoops of delight and unbridled passion, they
set off in a spontaneous conga singing the praises of their hometown hero and Kandy native, Sri Lankan spin
bowler and new world record holder, Muttiah Muralitharan. What a guy!
Bang! Now it was 253-9 and England were definitely gone. Murali had claimed his third wicket in quick
succession and we were truly amazed at his achievement. What a cricketer! Always smiling and very modest, he
was a true great and super ambassador for the game. Game over, just like that!
What a way to make history, breaking the world record in your home town, on your home ground and in front of
your home fans.
Our driver and buddy was lost somewhere in the crowd, and partying to the max, all big white teeth grinning
from ear to ear – and who could blame him!
Wednesday 4 April 2012
A familiar depression has arrived, and is sitting on my shoulders.
I have a heavy heart and I feel down. Only this time, it is not fuelled by having two bottles of wine the night
before!
My head kinda just hangs.
I feel lacking in inspiration.
Seeing the kids and being with them perks me up a bit but there is no escaping from the fact that my marriage is
over, if I don’t find work.
I have spent more time applying online for jobs but it’s not really what I want. I’m useless at working for
anyone other than myself. I’ve had jobs and lost them. I just can’t help myself from either being honest,
speaking my mind, upsetting someone by not sucking up to them, or just becoming unmotivated and
disinterested by being with the same people in the same routine. Needless to say, they probably found me to be a
bit arrogant and weird.
Time after time, I seem to end up in this situation.
They are advertising the job I was let go from, the Monday before last Christmas. Signing people up for
electricity discounts, and working for a crowd in Dublin. 21K basic, plus commissions, plus fuel card. Not bad
for door-to-door. It sure looks good on paper, but I need to face up to the reality that I’m only kidding myself if I
think I would want another sales job, especially another door-to-door position. Surely I have learned my lesson
by now!!!

8. Perhaps I should take the hint and find something entirely different. I’m a quick learner and I was always good
at languages. When we went to Sri Lanka and Turkey, I picked up the local lingo within days. I excelled at
French and German in school, and I picked up Spanish in Limerick of all places. Apparently I was born under
the sign of Mercury, indicating a natural disposition or strength in communications. I would also be interested in
teaching or counselling. I have a fairly sensitive nature and like to help people. Whether I like it or not, I’m a
cerebretonic.
As TP himself quite correctly observed, “Manual labour wouldn’t be your thing, Carl.”
Indeed.
I was never big on pride. At least I never thought I was. But we have been here before, facing the dole queue,
and getting stripped of whatever self-respect one has left.
I suffered a rather demeaning interview with Social Services yesterday. The lady seemed nice at first but then
she let her ego come out. I was not too impressed at all. I was helpful and polite, until her attitude pissed me off.
I know it must be hard for them, but cooperation turned into her getting all snotty, for no reason other than my
requesting clarification. Apparently, I have to undergo a means test, and that involves submitting my wife’s
bank statements, which I felt was none of their business. She could see that she had upset me. To be spoken to in
such a condescending manner, because they don’t want to have to process a claim for a miserly fifty quid a
week in benefits. How sad. How silly of me, to let it get to me.
Did you hear the one about the guy who lost his job at the helium factory? He left because he didn’t want to be
spoken to like that …
Life’s too short to feel sorry for oneself right? Inner change is the key.
As David Icke said in his marathon six-hour show at Wembley, “If you always do what you always done, then
you’ll always get what you always got. If you do the same old thing, don’t be surprised when you get the same
old results!”
Quite.
So, I need to snap out of this rut, and bounce back. Bouncebackability, that’s the key. It’s not how many times
you get knocked down, it’s all about getting back up again.
My CV is okay. Not great, but not shite. I only want to make my wife and kids proud of me, not be stuck at
home whilst she goes out to work to pay our mortgage. It’s killing me softly, in a way, and if I continue to allow
it to be this way, I become powerless, which in turn starts affecting my confidence.
Whilst I was knocking on doors, I noticed how many blokes were at home in the day time. As opposed to say,
when I was knocking on doors five years ago. Clearly, unemployment is part of a wider problem, and men are
the ones suffering the most. Especially from alcoholism and depression, which are obviously related to
unemployment, poverty and in some cases, crime.
The machinations of a complex ego that result in the “poor me” and the “feel sorry for me” mindset, are no good
at all. Not for anybody, let alone this non-smoking, “recovering alcoholic”.
So how can I get to Canada? The websites are all there, it’s just a case of filtering through all the meaningless
stuff to get to the crux of the matter. To apply online or in person at the British Embassy in Dublin seems to be
the best shot.
A relevant contact number or contact email address would be a good place to start, but in my experience, these
organisations have no intention of nominating anybody to accept any kind of responsibility. It is the opposite,
they pretend to be able to help, but in fact hide behind the badge of the organisation they are representing. Then
you have to wait. Clearly, they do not bust their balls around the clock to deal with the public. I hope I am
proved to be wrong!
Some company called Worldbridge apparently handle the visa applications for the UK Border Agency, and they
are a division of a company called Computer Services Corp, with a registered address in Budapest, Hungary. It

9. costs €1.75 per minute to call them, apparently, or you can try another number, an Irish one. Only their website
warns you that you can expect a charge of $14. To make a phone call.
Prospects are grim here in Ireland, there is no two ways about it. Okay, I have a small bit of money saved, but
that was for spending money in Spain at the end of April, the trip to Malaga with the Clare Cricket Team. It all
feels a bit silly now of course, having my wife struggling here to pay our mortgage whilst her unemployed
husband buggers off for a weekend jollie to Spain. I had the money for it whilst I was working, and out of my
wages I paid the instalments for the air fare and the board. Really and truly, I feel as though it should be me
paying to send my wife to Spain for the weekend, even if she does maintain that she positively hates cricket!
Providence and faith in a divine belief in the Universe unfolding as it should are a little thin on the ground at the
moment, it is safe to say.
I have mopped and hoovered all day in the house and I must admit I feel a bit better for having got stuck into the
endless domestic chores. Unless I get a job soon though, she will be helping me pack my bags …
Monday 14 May 2012
Wow.
Actually, I’m not sure if “Wow” covers what we went through yesterday.
Miracles do happen!
God is a Blue!
Zabadabbadoo!!!
We were absolutely dead and buried.
Totally gone. Sayonara. Au revoir. Toodle pip.
Just like against Gillingham. Just like being eight points behind with six games to go this season, after we lost at
Arsenal, and United were 1-100 to win the title.
We were totally written off.
Yet, I believed.
I’ve been saying for weeks and telling anyone who would listen, that it would come down to the last kick of the
last game of the season, in the most dramatic way possible.
And it did.
Curiously, however, I recall the over-riding feeling that I could still not believe what I was seeing, even as my
own prophecy unfolded before my very own eyes.
Speechless. Totally gobsmacked.
What a day, and what a story. What a result!
An altercation and off-the-ball incident involving a former City player, who was shown a straight red card after
the ref consulted the linesman, meant that a protracted delay ensued with about half an hour of the match to go.
Rangers had already equalised, to make it 1-1, five or ten minutes into the second half, cancelling out the
somewhat fortuitous opener from City’s lion-hearted defender, Pablo Zabaleta. As he was being escorted from
the pitch for his own safety, bad-boy kicked off with almost everyone he could, on the way. He elbowed Tevez
in the face, then elbowed Aguero in the ribs, before antagonising City captain Vincent Kompany.

10. That lad will be lucky to play football again. I was at City matches on several occasions, when Stuart Pearce
was the manager, and he was clearly the biggest ego in the dressing room. Never any more than an average
player, he seemed to think he was a great deal better than he was. We used to groan when he jogged forty yards
to take indifferent corners, and although he took the penalties as well, he will always be remembered as a player
with a troubled mind, I’m afraid to say. He was given great support when he was at City, until the club could no
longer tolerate his vicious temper and racist attacks, one of which allegedly left team-mate Ousmane Dabo
apparently requiring facial reconstruction.
Rehabilitated my arse!
Then, another shock.
The wind was well and truly taken out of our sails. Q.P.R. had the brazen temerity to score a second goal after
hitting us on the break. We were dominating possession, and looking for the winner, but with all ten men behind
the ball our opponents were holding out and playing for time. All of a sudden, a mistake at the back let in
Armand Traore, and he legged it down the wing before teeing up Jamie Mackie superbly, and bang! All of a
sudden that left us 2-1 down, thanks to a diving header from a great cross. It was a good goal, in fairness, but
difficult to accept, since our opponents had only had two attempts on goal in the whole game, and scored twice!
Oops.
With the numpties winning at Sunderland, we now needed a miracle.
Things were not going our way, and time was slipping away.
Things were not going our way at all.
Cue frustration. Cue despair.
After we had dared to believe this day would be ours. Our turn. Our season. Us, as champions. All gone.
Disappeared. The frustration was palpable. The disappointment real. Typical City. Who else could snatch defeat
from the jaws of victory? Oh and ever so painfully ironic. As the cameras panned around the ground, we looked
up at the big screen with our heads hanging heavily. City fans at the ground looked on in anguish. Disbelief.
Maybe it was just as well we didn’t go. What a terrible shame.
To come this far and fail to do it. Rags would take the piss out of us forever.
Whatever we did, we just could not seem to score. It was as if there was a magic spell on that Q.P.R. goal.
Mancini brought on Dzeko first, then Mario, but our attempts to make the extra man count were in vain, and our
frustrations heightened as chance after chance went begging. Every shot was blocked by a defender, or saved by
the excellent Paddy Kenny.
Mark Hughes cut an interesting figure striding around on the touchline. The QPR fans were celebrating the news
that had filtered through from the Britannia, where Stoke had equalised to make it 2-2 with Bolton, meaning that
Bolton would go down and QPR would be safe, whatever happened in our match. Perhaps that could be
significant.
Hughes was the man who kind of started the City revolution. Although he was ultimately dismissed for not
bringing the results on the pitch, he did try to stick it to our neighbours in the derbies. And of course, he was the
man who signed captain fantastic, Vincent Kompany. Not to mention the brave and super Pablo Zabaleta, who
opened the scoring for us, and has been so effective down the right flank that he has kept the irrepressible Micah
Richards out of the starting eleven of late.
Ex-blues Sean Wright-Phillips and Nedum Onuoha played their part in exacerbating City frustrations and
holding us at bay before the fourth official raised his electronic scoreboard to show that there were five minutes
remaining. Not one goal needed, but two.
Fuck. Surely we were goosed.
This would require a miracle of epic proportions.

11. Some smug bandwagon rags in the pub looked over at us with a mixture of scorn and amusement. They were
pointing at us and smirking.
Our party numbered about eleven. Rosie, Orla, Collette, Saoirse, Sam’s older son, Sam’s older son’s girlfriend,
Sam’s missus, Sam’s younger son, Sam, Kai and me. Sat with my silly laser-blue wig, which we got in Florida.
Looking like a right tit. We all looked at each other, and clearly feeling pretty glum and despondent. Our party
had been well and truly pooped.
Whatever happened to “City ‘til I die”?
We were miserable, watching our dreams evaporate before us, and we imagined the humiliation which beckoned
from our rivals as our title aspirations slipped away.
Surely we were doomed.
I watched on in hope, as we advanced yet again.
Another chance.
Another save.
Another groan.
Another corner.
Then, with a minute into the five additional minutes of time, Bosnian Dzeko rose powerfully to nod in David
Silva’s cross! As the players raced to retrieve the ball, with the scoreline at 2-2, we quietly clenched our fists,
gritted our teeth, and allowed ourselves to remember Gillingham all over again.
This was back on.
If we had time to do it then, we had time to do it now.
And by God, we actually did.
Silva yet again sprung from midfield in possession, and linked up well with Balotelli in the box, the latter
managing somehow to divert the ball into the path of Sergio Aguero. Feinting his shot and touching it past the
defender, all in one quick motion, the ball was suddenly there to be hit.
And by God did it stay hit.
Creaming it with his instep, the moment City fans had only dreamt of, finally arrived.
Before the ball had even nestled into the net, we were going wild.
Disbelief.
In an outpouring of grief, relief, elation, passion and wild, raw emotion, we all went completely and utterly
mental.
OH. MY. GOD.
Cue scenes of wild celebration and utter joy.
As long as I live, I will never forget that feeling of utter disbelief, as we witnessed the miracle.
Drinks were spilled, glasses were smashed, bodies piled in everywhere. There was screaming, roaring, shouting.
The United supporters slinked away quietly as even the neutrals joined us in going bananas. I got a damaged

12. knee and a fat-lip, after finding myself in the middle of a sixteen deep man hug, after a bunch of Arsenal fans
who were in the pub had all piled in on top of us.
Words failed me.
Shaking my head in disbelief, all I could register was shock. Shock and joy.
Did that just really happen?
I hugged the missus and the kids in turn and we cried, hugged and cheered in unabashed delirium.
Then I sat there in shock, just shaking my head for goodness knows how long.
Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is how to win a title!
Phew!
Not a single Blue would have minded waiting 44 years for that to happen.
All of the mismanagement, the relegations, the ups and downs, the dramas, all the Manchester derbies we lost in
the nineties, all of it forgotten in an instant dose of unreality.
Unbelievable. Sheer brilliance.
Agony. Then ecstasy.
Some Sunderland fans had even started doing the Poznan as news filtered through to the Stadium of Light that
we had done it.
Q.P.R. fans and players could be seen joining in with the City celebrations.
As we paused for a second, to reflect on what had happened, we realised that something special for the neutral,
and for football, had happened here too.
This wasn’t just about taking the piss out of United.
This wasn’t just about us.
This wasn’t just for City fans.
This was bigger than that.
This was God, showing the world of football, that miracles can and do happen. If you are open to the idea, then
you can see God in all walks of like, from the mundane to the spectacular. Well, for us, and for many others, this
was truly spectacular.
Even the neutrals watching, had gone crazy like us!
People already seemed to have a sense of a defining moment in time.
“Where were you when City won the League?”
From being relegated to Division Two to Premier League champions!
Catching my breath, what had happened finally started to sink in.
But before anything else, we realised that little Saoirse had done an explosion in her nappy and that we would
have to go home and change her completely, or throw her into the bath. And so we hastily made plans to leave.
I hugged my Limerick writer buddy and his family, proclaiming emotionally, “I’ll remember this day for the rest
of my life!” and to anyone else who would listen,“I’ve been waiting for this day all of my life!”

13. And so we made our excuses and left Halpins, scene of the most joyous of times. I fecking love that pub! The
vast majority of the punters were clearly enjoying the occasion of City’s magnificent achievement.
All my life I’d been singing “City, City, best team in the land and all the world,” which although technically
grammatically improper, always struck me as a highly optimistic if not sarcastic anthem.
For the first time in my lifetime, it was true.
I won’t bat an eyelid if we never win anything ever again after that.
Forty-four years of suffering overturned in four ecstatic minutes.
Gobsmacked isn’t the word. Utterly fecking speechless!
Utter disbelief !!!
Grown men could be seen crying their eyes out. Just stood there crying. Openly weeping in public, wandering
around aimlessly with their City tops on, as they struggled to come to terms with what they had just seen.
As the obligatory pitch invasion was televised, and the pundits waxed lyrical, the players were going crazy too.
Such an outpouring of emotion!
I will never forget the day we won the title ; the greatest day ever.
We had all gone completely bananas. And then I went mute.
Blue Heaven. Blue delirium. Blue Moon..
Saturday 5 May 2012
On another note altogether, we had a lovely evening last night and I feel absolutely no hangover or headache
from the lovely Crianza wine which we were drinking with a meal of steak, gourmet pasta, and salad. I even
actually just went to bed, despite the fact I had a glass of wine left.
That same really smooth, velvety, warm and rich wine with the complex taste of oak-aged cask barrels and
beautiful Spanish sun. All in a glass of wine.
And just left behind, without a care. Does this mean I am cured?
In the past, before I stopped drinking habitually and without mindfulness, I would have unhesitatingly downed
the lot, not wanting to waste any. But I suppose that was when I was motivated by fear of loss and negative
thinking.
Obviously, it is too early to say if I’m cured. It’s only been a week or so shy of four months. However, it was
certainly much nicer to enjoy the wine with the following conditions:
1) In company i.e. not on my own
2) At the weekend, i.e. when I’m not working the following morning.
3) As part of a celebration, no matter how humble the achievement.
For me, these conditions are very important, if I am to succeed.
Drinking on my own, on, say, a Tuesday night, and for no reason other than “I felt like it”, was why I identified
or felt that I had a problem in the first place.
I have no problem if I’m with my lovely wife, sharing a glass of vino with a meal, and celebrating being offered
a job. Right?

14. Same behaviour, different intention. Same action, different mindset.
This is the awakening. Or the realisation, which has come from not drinking. This is perhaps, one could say, the
lesson I had to go through my drink problem to learn.
Maybe I’m being harsh on myself. Maybe I take things too seriously. I don’t know what your thoughts or
feelings might be, or if you would feel that you had let yourself down, if you’d had a couple of drinks after
going without for so long. But I never set out to never ever drink again. I believe I’m right in saying that the
chief problem which I had, was not the drink, but my attitude towards it. Or in other words, my mind.
I also feel it’s too soon to say whether I am cured or not. Admittedly, I felt whilst I was drinking the lovely
wine, that I would quite happily be able to drink the lot and get really hammered if I wanted to.
Hmmm. How to explain. Let me say firstly, that I have no idea where this idea comes from. As in the notion that
appears in my mind, to want to clean the lot. To go a bit crazy. And not be mindful of the consequences. It used
to happen quite often. Too often. To coin a phrase from a Bunnymen song, I often sought to “Do it clean.”
Certainly, the notion of not caring about any consequences, and wanting to just “get smashed” is an antithesis to
my new philosophy of practicing mindfulness and doing everything in moderation. It could also be described as
a self-destruct button which delights in presenting itself and which gets a weird kick out of being pressed.
At a risk of coming over as a parsimonious, sanctimonious bastard, I must point out that this new me is as
strange to me as to anybody else. I just used to do what I felt like doing. Unrestricted, uninhibited. Yet then
again, I was also evidently not facing up to my problems. Whence this desire to drink everything in sight? Is it
genetic? Is it naturally occurring? Is it there in all of us? Or is this affliction just limited to alcoholics and
pissheads?
I recall George Best getting publicly criticised for undergoing surgery to have a new liver but then still not being
able to stop himself from a lifetime’s habit of hitting the drink. I didn’t know him personally, so I could not
comment on that aspect of his life, but what a cracking footballer he was. Very gifted, sublime skills, and a
tough man to ride all those dirty tackles in the days when footy was a man’s game long before the sanitised
modern version with soft rules and overpaid primadonnas.
In fact, this abandon, and inability to stop drinking once I had started, used to happen all the time, now I come to
think on it. I used to press that self-destruct button without really thinking, instead of realising that I had a
choice.
Or do I?
Perhaps I am still delusional, and only kidding myself. Is it the illusion of choice?
All of which reminds me of a tale. Was it an Aesop’s Fable? It was a story which my dad once told me, and the
source of the title given to this narrative. It went along the following lines:
Once upon a time there was a Scorpion, who wanted to cross a river.
He looked around and saw no way of crossing, until he saw a Fox, who came into the clearing by the riverside.
Trusting his powers of persuasion, the Scorpion approached the Fox, and enquired if he was crossing the river.
“That I am,” confirmed the Fox.
“Good sir, would you be as good as to give me a ride across the river, on your shoulder, or back, since I cannot
swim, and I need to cross to the other side?” he asked.
Scratching his nose, the Fox looked intrigued.
“Dear Scorpion,” he continued,
“Everybody knows that you have a poisonous sting in your tail. It would be as good as signing my own death
warrant if I were to oblige you,” pointed out the Fox.
“Indeed, sir,” concurred the Scorpion.
“You have great intelligence,” he declared, knowing that the Fox liked to be admired,
“And that is why I would expect you to know,” he continued,
“That if you were to be as kind as to help me, and I as foolish as to sting you, then you would drown.
Consequently so would I, and that wouldn’t do!”
“Hmm, I see,” acknowledged the Fox

15. “Thus I appreciate your concern,” elaborated the Scorpion
“However I can assure you, that I will not sting you, on account of it being practically suicidal.”
The Fox raised his eyebrow. Confronted by such logic, it was evident that it would be very stupid of the
Scorpion to sting him and kill them both. Flattered by the Scorpion’s persuasive charm, he agreed to take his
willing companion, and it wasn’t long before they set off upstream.
The scorpion continued to praise the Fox,
“You are indeed a very strong swimmer,” he complimented,
“I could not have chosen a better companion,” he added.
The Fox was about to smile when he felt the Scorpion’s tail sink into the back of his neck, and as he felt the
poison careering through his veins, he cried to the Scorpion,
“Look at what you have done! You will kill me, and I will drown, and so too will you,” he remarked with
indignation, regretting his decision to believe the Scorpion.
“Why?” he gasped, before the poison took effect.
“It is in my nature,” confessed the Scorpion.
“No matter how much I want to change that, I cannot help myself but to do it,” he declared.
And with that, the Fox sank down to the bottom of the river, and the Scorpion drowned too.
Alrighty then. Hardly a nice cheerful story there, but the meaning is clear. The moral of the story is essentially
that a leopard cannot and does not change its spots.
Perhaps it’s only a matter of time before this alcoholic, like the Scorpion, returns to the drink. I’d like to think
not. I’d like to think that fifteen weeks off the fags and the booze has empowered me and strengthened my
resolve!
I just got down and knocked out thirty-five press ups there. Not bad, but I’m getting heavier and need more
practice. The days of just bashing out fifty are gone!
Missing just one yoga session made a big difference too, and I was woefully unfit playing football on Thursday.
Again, I’m not getting any younger, but taking small steps is the best way forward.
Every marathon begins with a few steps somewhere …
Wednesday 20 June 2012
I met another fella who only opened his window when I called at the door. On account of the fact I never, ever,
made a sale through a window, I usually joke with the punter and make a comment like “Is the door broken?”,
just to break the ice. But on this occasion, I saw a haggard-looking elderly gentlemen and decided that would
not be appropriate, for fear of it being disrespectful to him.
Thus, I duly went over to his window and we got chatting. He had seen better days. When I asked him how he
was, he replied:
“Well, I’ve got prostrate cancer, you see.”
I waited for him to continue.
“And arthritis, and angina, and diabetes,” he added.
My lips widened, as I was about to smile in anticipation of the delivery of his one-liner,
“But apart from that, I’m grand,” he concluded.
We both chuckled and his eyes tried to sparkle, but they were grey and dull. And his arm was covered in
blotches. Actually, he was gruesome to behold. But I did not want to judge him. Everyone has some value and a
story to tell, regardless of who they are. It made me think that this was God’s way of showing me what I would
possibly become, if I hadn’t been prepared to jack in the smokes. Or what I could expect to become, if I started
again.
“How on earth did you get yourself into that state?” I enquired.
He paused for a moment, and probably wondered himself.
“Alcohol, mainly,” he concluded. And I had to respect his honesty.

16. “First the man takes the drink, then the drink takes the man,” I added, making out I had some wisdom regarding
the subject. He nodded in acknowledgement.
Judging by the rancid smell pouring out of the window, it was clear that he was trying to smoke himself to
death. Although I didn’t know him, I seemed to grasp immediately that he had given up on modern medicine,
doctors and hospitals, and the like. He then seemed to sense that I knew, or just picked up on my thoughts.
“I don’t go out much at all now,” he continued ruefully, seemingly aware of how absurd his situation was.
It was a nice, dry day out and people were in good form. Yet he was sat in a dark, smelly room with his
television and his cigarettes for company.
God help that poor fella. I wonder how many kids would actually start smoking, if they saw how this man was
living.
He was well and truly fucked. And the booze and the fags hadn’t helped him one bit. I made my excuses and
left, every bit grateful to him for making me feel that I had managed to save myself from a fate like his.
I reflected that life is all about making choices.
I headed down to the seafront and reflected on the irony of seeing how calm the ocean was. I don’t think I ever
saw the sea so calm. Hardly a ripple. So huge and vast, yet moving with its gentle sway …
I reflected again. This time on how lucky I am.
Giving up the fags and the booze (with the one or two lapses!) has given me a new lease of life. I get up early in
the morning, I am writing a book, I love doing the yoga, I have a new-found respect for my body, I got a new
job, which is tough but well-paid, and I have a loving wife and four happy and healthy children. I have my
health, I have my peace of mind, and a couple of my footy bets came in there, one four-match accumulator and
one five match accumulator, winning me about two hundred quid. City won the league for the first time in my
life and England are winning in the footy. An attitude for gratitude fills my senses.
Does it get any better than this?
I am alive. I am aware. I am grateful and I am humble. I say my prayers and I like to do my chants. I’m a good
kid really, but I flirted with being a bad boy. I have gambling debts and a credit union loan which paid for my
half of our honeymoon, but I won’t complain. To others I’m sure my life is very boring. Whilst it may have
filled the void in my younger days, taking drugs, hustling, gambling, getting wasted and partying until all hours
just don’t do it for me any more!
I’m young at heart but I suppose I’ve eventually grown up. Well, a bit, anyway. Nah actually I haven’t. Being
grown up is over-rated. Sometimes I feel like I’m a kid pretending to be a grown up. All that grown up stuff
sucks, and I’m no good at it.