“MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE? The night I went into Rapture with Eminem.”

Let’s get one thing straight before we go any further, shall we? I LOVE black people. In fact, some of my family are Blacks.

Now, considering this is supposed to be an anonymous blog, I realise that that last statement could be misconstrued as the musing of some patronising middle-class, middle-aged white man from somewhere like Northern Ireland where black people are very few and far between and where racism can sit easily alongside all the bigotry.

Then again, considering that the only people that know about this blog are friends and family, you will all be acutely aware that both those sentences work on so many levels. What can I say? It’s how I roll.

I do also realise however, that there is an (admittedly very slight) chance that you could have stumbled across this corner of cyberspace all on your own. In which case, welcome Dear Anonymous Reader, I congratulate you on your powers of fortitude and perseverance that saw you squirrel your way into this corner of the interweb, when we both know that there is so much more you could be doing with your precious online time.

Having said all this, strap yourselves in for a wee story about how it came to pass, that I, a middle-class, middle-aged white man with the surname Black from Northern Ireland (let all the frikkin’ cats out of the bag there, didn’t I?) ended up at an Eminem gig last night.

But before I do, let’s go back in time for a moment. Mid-1990, to be exact.

“Roads, Marty? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.” (Yep, gratuitous and completely unnecessary Back to the Future reference there)

In mid-1990 many things were happening in my life. For a start, I had just turned 18, a landmark event in anyone’s life. I was studying at a college in Belfast for a year and I was also working part-time. All incredibly adult pursuits, I’m sure you’d agree.

Musically, however, I was a mere child. Being the eldest of three meant that a lot of my musical taste was forged all on my own. A fact made all the more startlingly obvious by sharing with all three of you Readers that my first ever gig was Norwegian pop beat combo, Aha, at the Kings Hall, Belfast.

Moving swiftly on.

As swiftly, it has to be said, as my taste in music moved on. The next gig I went to less than a year after finding myself in joining in the cacophony of Northern Irish adolescents screaming “We want Aha! We want Aha! We want Aha!” was the gobfest that was New York thrash metal combo, Anthrax, performing in Bangor Leisure Centre.

Time stands still for no man, Marty. (Not even sure if that is a quote from Back to the Future but it feels like it should be, so let’s keep it in, shall we?)

Independently of my own forays into the Pandora’s Box of music that the world has to offer, I naturally had the musical tastes of my parents to influence me. And for them, I have to thank for the likes of The Beatles, Jethro Tull and Marc Bolan (mother) and Rolling Stones, The Animals, Bob Dylan (father) being on my musical radar from a very early age.

But music is a never-ending journey. Trends come and go. Indeed, the very first album that I bought was “Prince Charming” by Adam and the Ants and wherethe eff is he, these days?

So, like a human sponge, I started devouring all kinds of music and, upon reflection, I guess it was only a matter of time before this naïve, wee country boy from Northern Ireland made the progression from New York thrash metal to New York hip hop, in the form of Public Enemy.

Actually, thanks to “Bring the Noise”, a musical collaborationbetween the two bands, the leap from thrash to hip hop wasn’t as big as you might think.

And, so it came to pass that I found myself on a bus home from Belfast one day, nursing a vinyl (Google it, younger Readers) copy of the seminal Public Enemy album, “Fearof a Black Planet,” a brilliant choice for a first-time dip into the magical world of American Hip Hop, if ever there was.

To say I loved the album would be a rather bland description of how I felt about this piece of modern musical art and for weeks, I played the album to absolute death. Even now, as I type these words whilst listening to it for aul’ time’s sake, I have to say it is a timeless classic.

But, along with death and taxes, another thing that is certain is that the never-ending soundtrack of your life will grow and evolve as you follow on its journey and it wasn’t long before I was spending my hard-earned cash on the likes of Metallica, Megadeth and Sepultura, the last of which I am now listening to. Crunching Brazilian speed metal? Yes please.

As an interesting side-note to this indulgent Trip Down Memory Lane, my younger brother whole-heartedly embraced the world of rap, thanks in no small part to the aforementioned Fear of a Black Planet and I can safely say that he is now the whitest black man I know, to the point of wanting to name his first-born Tupac.

Seriously.

But I digress.

Let’s jump back into the DeLorean, Marty, and head Back to the Future to the year 2014 – a world that is sadly bereft of hoverboards, flying cars and self-tying laces. Although it seems that in the year 2015, we’ll all be able to enjoy at leastone of those innovations. What times we live in, eh?

And, to follow on in a similar vein, what times we live in when one of the biggest rap stars the world has ever seen is the poster boy for white trailer trash itself, none other than Marshal “Eminem” Mathers III.

Bet you never saw that one coming, Marty.

Yesterday evening, Eminem brought his Rapture Road Show juggernaut to my doorstep and it seemed only polite of me to go and join in the fun. Now normally Suncorp Stadium, or “The Colosseum” as I like to refer to it, is where I go to indulge in my other great love, watching sport, and it holds very many special memories for me.

On a slight tangent, a girl I was seeing briefly last year dumped me because of my love of sport saying, and I quote, “How can you waste so much of your life watching sport? There’s a whole big world out there with many experiences to enjoy, instead of wasting it watching sport.”

Well, excuse me!

Some of my finest experiences in life have been thanks to my passion for sport and in my recent history, Suncorp Stadium has played host to many of them. Grand Final wins, State of Origin wins, British and Irish Lions wins have all been born in this iconic stadium and I wouldn’t change it for the world. And all this in a stadium that is less than 3kms from where I live.

Every year Suncorp Stadium also plays host to some of the world’s largest music acts and in my time in Brisbane, the list includes Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Robbie Williams, Bon Jovi, Andre Rieu and, erm, Taylor Swift.

But, until last night, I had never been to a gig in the place. It seems strange to be saying that, considering how much time I have spent there over the past few years but it came to pass last night,  that I stood wide-eyed on the Hallowed Turf, staring around me in wonder at how my second home had been transformed into Eminem’s personal fiefdom.

It was a fantastic sight to behold.

There were several acts on the bill: M-Phazes, 360, Action Bronson, J Cole, Kendrick Lamar and finally, the main man himself but, considering the show started at 4pm on a school day and we all have to earn a crust to be able to pay for these nights out, my friends and I missed everyone else on the bill, opting for the more comfortable confines of The Paddo Tavern’s smoking section.

Reasonably priced, full strength drinks, an awesome smoking section, conversing in the company of good friends whilst sitting on comfortable seats are a hard thing to compete with for our attention and, with the exception of Kendrick Lamar, there wasn’t much desire from my friends and I to leave for Suncorp, just a few short minutes’ walk down the road.

To be fair, we did try and see Kendrick Lamar but considering the whole “herding cats” thing, trying to co-ordinate a group of pleasantly pissed, excited adults proved a task too much and, as we arrived into the stadium we heard the last couple of his songs as we were queuing for our drinks.

Sorry about that one, Kendrick.

And so, with enough alcohol in our systems to loosen up limbs and tongues, we picked our spot in amongst the Baggy Shorted Flat Brim Capped Brigade and settled in for the Main Event itself.

Now, rappers as a rule don’t do modesty. We all know that. And once you make it as one of the biggest fish in this Sea of Bling, all bets are off. The stage show itself had everything you would expect: dazzling lights, massive screens, bucket loads of energy. And fire, lots of fire.

The one thing that it did not have, however, was a decent sound set-up. Suffice to say, from where we were stood, the sound was shit, which is all the more strange, given that we were less than ten metres away from a massive speaker tower; although upon reflection, it was behind us blasting out towards the back of the stadium, which might account for the somewhat muffled tunes that we experienced. Still a surprise though, considering that Eminem’s style has always been based on his clear, crisp machine-gun delivery.

That whinge aside, Eminem delivered all that you could possibly want in his 90-minute, 26-song set including new songs ‘Survival’ and ‘Bezerk’, older anthems like ‘White America’ and ‘Stan,’ as well as a medley of his three biggest hits ‘My Name Is’, ‘The Real Slim Shady’ and ‘Without Me’.

Suffice to say, I still managed to get my wigger on with the rest of the crowd and everyone enjoyed the whole spectacle. I did note, however, that Eminem’s back-up rapper (no idea who he was) seemed to do a lot of the work. A regular thing in the world of rap, I was reliably informed by a mate.

Highlight of the evening for me – and for many others it seemed – was “Lose Yourself.” Top tune and to see the capacity crowd at Suncorp bouncing along to that epic track was a sight that will live long in the memory.

So, a big shout goes out to my man Eminem for coming to ma hood and rapping the shit out of it for me and my mates and about 45,000 others. A top night out!

Now, I hope you’ll all excuse me as I go off to shop for a flat brimmed cap.

Peace out.

February 2014, Brisbane.

If Carlsberg Did Weekends…. (Part 1)

Recently, a few mates and I were fortunate enough to spend a weekend away in Sydney. I use the word fortunate because – as it transpired – the weekend turned out to be one of the best short breaks that any of us had experienced in our lives and I feel suitably motivated to give a little summary of events as they transpired, if only for my own gratification and posterity. But if you’re that way inclined, then I invite you to sit back, relax and read my wee story from the trip. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: “If Carlsberg Did Weekends….” – Part 1

A few months ago, a couple of Aussie mates decided they were going to go to watch our local football team, Brisbane Roar, play against Western Sydney Wanders, in Sydney, on a Friday night and were going to make a weekend of it, taking in another game on the Saturday evening, Sydney FC versus Adelaide United, returning to Brisbane on the Sunday evening. Was anyone else interested?

Now, anyone who knows me will realise just how interested in a trip like this I would be, so I, along with another mate, signed up for a weekend that promised plenty of beer, banter and football.

It didn’t disappoint.

Going to an away match in Australia can be quite the daunting experience, considering the distances involved. Indeed, according to Google maps, a little under 1000 kms separates the two stadiums, so driving certainly wasn’t an option for such a short getaway. Flights were organised pronto, to take advantage of the $75 flights being offered by Virgin Australia.

Unfortunately, in my haste to book the flights, I made a rookie error and booked the wrong outbound flight, ensuring that I had to get up at 04:30 in the morning to catch the 06:00 flight. The rest of the boys had the relative lie-in of only having to make it to the airport for the 07:00 flight. I did enquire about rearranging the flights but the 280 dollars quoted to do so ensured that I didn’t do so. I love the guys but I don’t love them 280 dollars worth.

And anyway, with access to the business lounge, waiting for an hour in Sydney airport was certainly no great hardship to endure.

Both flights were uneventful and arrived on time. And no - I am not on commission.

So, it came to pass, that a little before 10am Sydney time, we were in a taxi making our way to our accommodation for the weekend – a lovely 2-bedroom serviced apartment in the Sydney suburb of Waterloo. This had been recommended to us by a friend from Northern Ireland who lives in the neighbourhood. I have to say that the accommodation was dead on, to use the Norn Iron vernacular. 

Modern, spacious and with great service thrown in for good measure. We were pleasantly surprised to be able to check-in when we arrived at 10:30 and, to be honest, over the course of the weekend, the staff made sure that everything we wanted, which admittedly wasn't too much, was catered for. I'd recommend them to anyone. And no - I am not on commission.

Despite our spacious and luxurious surrounds, it wasn’t long before we were getting the train, in the manner of excited teenagers, to Circular Quay, the world-iconic location of Sydney Harbour. 

Sitting there, in the Splendid Sydney Summer Sun (TM), sipping on cold beers whilst also drinking in the spectacular backdrop of Sydney Harbour, Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House, all was good in our world. Indeed, we spent so long in this wonderful environment that we all ended up with a bit of a roasting from the sun that day. We should have known better, of course, but boys will be boys.

Later that afternoon, with game-time fast approaching, we made our way to our home for the weekend to freshen up before taking ourselves off to the Western Sydney suburb of Parramatta, where, naturally enough, the Western Sydney Wanderers play their football. Two of the guys had already been to a game in Western Sydney and the game plan, according to them, was to go to a Bavarian Bier Café which was only a short walk from Pirtek Stadium. So that’s what we did.

The 10-minute walk from Parramatta Station was a memorable one. It seemed that everyone in Parramatta was wearing their red and blackstriped Wanderers shirt and – considering that Brisbane Roar play in a rather noticeable orange shirt – we stuck out like the proverbial thumb as we made our way to the café. 

In the past few weeks, there have been a few unsavoury incidents involving supporters associated with the Wanderers. There have been running battles with other teams’ supporters, including stabbing and beatings dealt out with baseball bats. Whilst well aware of the hyperbole that the Australian media perpetrates when it comes to "soccer hooliganism," it was hard not to think of these stories as we walked through the Parramatta heartland in our seemingly fluorescent Roar shirts. 

This was nothing, however, compared with what lay in wait for us at the Bavarian Bier Café. And no - I am not on commission.

As we approached the bar, it was evident that this was a popular pre-match pub with the Wanderers as we could see a few dozen of them wearing their shirts sitting in the bier garden at the front of the pub. There were also half a dozen police cars parked outside, which was a little disconcerting but reassuring at the same time. Always a good idea to drink in a pub near the local police station in times of uncertainty.

Walking into the pub, however, we were greeted with a narrow walkway down to the back of the pub where it opened up into another bier garden. Lined all along this walkway were dozens more Wanderers supporters. The four of us steeled ourselves for comment and ridicule but as we walked through the throng of red and black and, whilst many heads turned, nothing was said. 

I guess we didn’t look intimidating enough to even warrant a bit of sledging.

After running this 'gauntlet', we reached the bier garden at the back of the pub and noticed our first Roar shirts of the evening. A couple of young fellas sitting rather nervously in the corner trying their best to look like they belonged. Or invisible. Biers procured, we joined them to swell our numbers to a massive 6. 

A while later, a couple from Toowoomba who had decided to take in the game as part of a romantic break to Sydney (who says romance is dead?), joined us. Our numbers now stood at 8 but the Wanderers kept streaming in and the bar was soon a torrent of red and black, with a small island of orange stuck in the corner.

But then, a strange thing happened - well - perhaps not that strange, seeing as it had been pre-arranged.

A coachload of Roar supporters arrived at the bar and joined us in the bier garden. My mates knew some of them and I even knew one of them as well. (You know you've been in Australia for quite the time when you bump into someone you know, a thousand kilometres from where you live.)

All of a sudden, this meant that there were 20 - 30 Roar supporters in the bar. The banter was almost as plentiful as the drinks, leaving only the football itself and, with kick-off fast approaching, it was soon time to make the last leg of our journey from Suncorp Stadium, Brisbane to Pirtek Stadium, Parramatta – just a mere 5-minute walk.

Thanks to the crrrrrrazy idea of daylight saving, a concept which my adopted home state of Queensland steadfastly refuses to grasp, the conditions were glorious as we walked to the stadium for the seven thirty kick-off.

Along the way, we got chatting to some of the home supporters and I am happy to report that everyone – and I mean everyone – was very friendly to us. A far cry from the demons that the Australian press would have you believe support the Wanderers. Now, of course, I am not naïve enough to think that these demons don’t exist but my experience of the average Wanderers supporter that evening was that they were both passionate and knowledgeable about the Beautiful Game and their team. Which makes them alright by me.

A bizarre footnote to add at this stage was that when we arrived at the stadium, a single security guard, upon noticing our arrival, said to me "Shit - why didn't you guys phone ahead?" before proceeding to take us on a walk around pretty much the whole of the stadium through all the Wanderers supporters, so that we could go into another gate, which was basically almost the whole way 'round the stadium to where we had first arrived. At the time, I couldn’t understand the reasoning behind it – and now, in the cold light of day and with the benefit of hindsight, I STILL can’t understand the reasoning behind it.

The atmosphere generated by the WSW supporters is widely regarded as the best in the A-League competition. A combination of a compact stadium and a loyal and passionate fan base ensures that the vast majority of the supporters in the stadium join in to make for a great atmosphere. The capacity of the stadium is a shade under 25,000 and that evening, there were (if memory serves me well, which is highly unlikely) 16,403 supporters at the game.

I have to be honest, these numbers were a little less than I expected, thanks to the stories that perpetuate in Australia about how the number of season ticket holders were capped to allow for a small fraction tickets to be made available for "at the gate" supporters, as well as away supporters, so I was a little disappointed when I saw the empty seats but, credit where credit is due, the ones that were there gave it a great go, as this wee video clip proves:

(Apologies for the gratuitous language and the even more gratuitous close-up of myself around 39 seconds into the clip)

Needless to say, our pocket of away support made as much noise as we could and I woke up on Saturday morning with the sore throat and hoarse voice to prove it.

Oh - and we got on the telly!

The match itself was a tight enough affair, with Brisbane Roar scoring half-way through the first-half and then Western Sydney Wanderers applying a lot of pressure after the break which eventually resulted in them equalising in the 84^th minute. The game went on to finish 1-1 and upon reflection, it was probably a fair result and, considering we were top of the league, leading WSW in second place by 7 points going into the game, we were none too disappointed when the final whistle went and, judging by the way that our players and manager came to celebrate the result with us, it showed how much the draw meant to us all.

Leaving the stadium, once again the conversations I had with the WSW supporters were enjoyable. There were compliments from both sets of supporters as to how well the other team played and most agreed that the draw was a fair result. All very pleasant and all very amicable. 

Still – we weren’t naïve enough to think that a pub-crawl ‘round Parramatta would have been a sensible thing to do, so we made our way back to the train station and made our way back to our adopted home for the evening.

It’s worth noting at this stage, however, that it wasn’t all plain sailing though...

Whilst at the train station, waiting on our train, we did meet a loud, obnoxious supporter and I am a little embarrassed to report that it was a Roar-supporting female who 'won' that award from the evening. And then, upon disembarking at the other end, events took a rather surreal twist, when one of my mates had his Roar scarf stolen out of his back pocket by a little street-rat kid who had followed us off the train, nicked the scarf, and then ferreted his way back onto the train as the doors closed shut again. It was all over in a flash and there was nothing we could do about it, apart from learn from the experience. It served as a timely reminder that we shouldn’t let our guard down too much. Country bumpkins from Queensland that we were.

When we got back to our apartment, one by one the guys went to bed, suitably happy with our lot in life and it wasn’t long before I did the same. After all – at least one of us had been up since the crack of dawn and we had another big day ahead of us. 

But, as I went to  bed that evening, I was oblivious as to just how big things were to turn out.

TO BE CONTINUED...

PHOTO DIARY OF A DUPUYTREN'S CONTRACTURE SUFFERER

Hello There, Stalkbookers!

I trust you are keeping well and not feeling too squeamish because this wee story is not for the faint of heart.

As some of you already know, two and a half weeks ago, I had corrective surgery on my left hand. This was to fix an issue that I have been living with since around the age of twenty and it is known as Dupuytren’s Contracture. (Named after the doctor who first did some research into it)

More about the ailment can be seen here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dupuytren's_contracture

It is a condition that mainly affects white, Northern Europeans and because of this it is sometimes referred to as “The Vikings Disease”, which I must admit sounds pretty cool, even if the ailment itself was not.

In fact, a few years ago, I went for a medical as part of a job application here in Oz and the doctor told me that the “disease” had been traced back to 3 villages in Norway. I have never heard this or read this anywhere, so I can’t verify this to be the case. And shortly afterwards he got me to strip to my undies and do squat thrusts whilst he stood behind me (seriously), so I’m certainly not certain of the legitimacy of this.

Basically, it is where the fingers gradually bend towards the palm and cannot be fully extended (straightened.) It never caused me too much pain but with time, it got gradually worse. It normally only occurs in the latter stages of life in your 60’s and 70’s but thanks to the fact that I had two separate instances where I broke the finger in one hand and badly dislocated a finger in my right hand* and, coupled with the fact that I have a particularly extreme case of it, accelerated the onset of the problem.

* - More of this incident I recalled with great gusto in an article on my blog. Believe me; the sheer stupidity of this incident has to be read to be believed. http://belgiumisboring.blogspot.com.au/2005/06/insomiac-writes.html

Anyway, as I say, I've lived with it for 20 years and about 10 years ago in Belgium I got my right hand operated on. 10 years later and it was the turn of my left hand to get seen to.

And seen to it surely was.

This is what it looked like, a few minutes before surgery. (Apologies for the blurriness of the picture but I was a little stressed at the time!)

Not a pretty sight!

I was in the operating theatre for over 5 hours and, after two skin grafts and approximately 85 stitches later; I was set free in the world, or at least to my hospital bed, where this photo was taken whilst under the influence of some great drugs.

The past 2 weeks have been all about ensuring that the grafts take well. Then, on Monday I went for my post-op consultation and the results were promising. At least according to my surgeon, they were – from where I was looking, I reckoned my hand was something more suited to Frankenstein’s monster.

So, on Monday about half of the stiches were taken out and I was given a much more mobile (and rather sexy) splint:

Yesterday, the other half of the stitches were removed.

StalkBookers, I am here to tell you all right now, that I was not a brave soldier when it came to this process. 85 stiches being removed from ones hand and fingers was an exhausting and excruciating experience. And that was just for the physio that removed them.

So now – here I am at my keyboard “kind of” typing with two hands. I now have a process of 3-4 months rehabilitation but I am happy to report that the journey has begun and I am well on my way to recovery.

Oh – and before I go – this is what my hand looks like now:

Not perfectly straight, granted but it was never going to be, thanks to the years of stretching that the tendons were subjected to but at least now I can get dressed in the morning without poking my own eye out.

Thanks for listening.

NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH ALERT!!! Do not read on if you’re of a squeamish disposition. 

Ladies and Gentlemen – I give you my Frankenstein hand uncovered in all its naked glory:

Guess who's back?!

These words come to you with a soundtrack (at least in my head) of some bastard child of Eminem teasing “Guess who’s back?” with AC/DC screaming ‘Back in Black.’ If only I could afford the royalties, then I might have been able to transform this into some kind of multi-media experience that we could all wonder at. As it is, we just have these words to try and paint the picture.

No pressure there, then.

“I’m a frustrasted writer!” I would knowingly say with a shrug of the shoulders in a kind of “what ya gonna do?” kind of way.

“I don’t have the time!” I would knowingly say with a shrug of the shoulders in a kind of “what ya gonna do?” kind of way.

“I don’t know what to write!” I would knowingly say with a shrug of the shoulders in a kind of “what ya gonna do?” kind of way.

Well, enough of the kidology, tonight as I chase the flashing cursor across the white screen, I am back writing and to be honest, I do not have a clue what I am going to write about. And that is ok.

It just feels good to be back and banging out words on the screen. Who knows where I’m going with this? And – let’s be honest here – who cares? I know I don’t and I also know the chances of anybody else reading these words are pretty slim, so let’s go for it, shall we?

In a previous life, I used to write a monthly column in my home newspaper, The Ballyclare Gazette, detailing various random musings about my life in Australia and comparing with my life back home in “Norn Iron.”

It even had a tag line: “From Ballyclare to Down Under, it’s a long, long way from here to there”

Snazzy, eh?

I missed home and for me at the time, the articles provided a link for me to all that I missed. No really, I did. Back in the days when I used to be “A Writer” and arrogantly believed that people would be interested in what I had to say, that’s what I did.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely loved doing the articles and on trips home, people who weren’t even friends or family were polite enough to say that they actually enjoyed my articles.

But that was a long time ago. Then things changed…..

On a trip home a few years ago, whilst I was still writing the articles, my brother, my Australian girlfriend and I were viciously attacked by a gang of teenage savages who, for some reason took a dislike to us being on their turf - the same turf that I came from and had been romanticising about through my monthly articles.

To keep the random Eminem references going, “Snap back to reality”

As I lay in the foetal position with the punches, the kicks and the verbal assault raining down on me, in the middle of the road, not 200 metres from where I grew up, I can remember very little, apart from the incredible embarrassment that my girlfriend had to witness the ugly underbelly of my home town.

Like some twisted version of The Wizard of Oz, the curtain had been pulled back and my home town was exposed for the cruel, vicious and violent, narrow-minded, red-neck town that it had become (and perhaps always was?)

Except – I know that it is not how the town is. Yes, it is no different from anywhere else on the planet, with a small, ugly minority lurking waiting to pounce on the weaker. Admittedly, when you have a gang of almost 20 people willing to indulge in such ultra-violence, they will always be able to find the weak; big, bad, brave, lowlifes that they are.

The reality is, the rest of that night, we spent 5 hours in hospital as I was stitched back together and my family, my girlfriend and I, tried to make the best of the rest of our ‘holiday.’

The following day was my late father’s birthday and we tried our best to avoid the broken, battered and bruised elephant in the corner of the room that was me and partied as we had always planned we would. Even to the point of me (once again) murdering ‘Mack the Knife’ at the Sporties Bar Karaoke Night.

A few days later, we headed back to Australia, via Amsterdam, where incidentally I had to get the stitches removed in Schiphol airport. Believe me – a night out in Amsterdam with a face like I had is not something that anyone should have to endure. Also, as part of our ‘dream’ holiday, we had a stopover in Taipei planned and the photographs of me taken during those 48 hours are haunting images that I will forever have to live with.

But enough about that, for I really do not want to go down there and it is certainly is not a topic that I want to write about, especially after such a long absence. Believe me, I tried to write about the assault a couple of times from some “The pen is mightier than the sword” moral high ground but my heart just wasn’t in it. In fact, I am honest enough to admit that when I did try to put it all down in words, I broke down in tears and was unable to continue. Right there and then, my passion for writing left me.

But now the passion is back (Black is Back!) and I am happy to embrace it once again, for it is something that has always been a source of happiness for me. I have to admit that I look back on my writing with a lot of pride (and copious amounts of cringe, it has to be said.) 

Even now, after all these years, I occasionally indulge myself by reading my blogs (www.belgiumisboring.blogspot.comand www.australiaisoz-some.blogspot.com) and think to myself “Yep, you created those!” Even after I shuffle off this mortal coil, my internet footprint will be a testimony to my writing.

Whether that is a good or a bad thing is irrelevant….

Thanks for listening.

Guess who's back?!

These words come to you with a soundtrack (at least in my head) of some bastard child of Eminem teasing “Guess who’s back?” with AC/DC screaming ‘Back in Black.’ If only I could afford the royalties, then I might have been able to transform this into some kind of multi-media experience that we could all wonder at. As it is, we just have these words to try and paint the picture.

No pressure there, then.

“I’m a frustrasted writer!” I would knowingly say with a shrug of the shoulders in a kind of “what ya gonna do?” kind of way.

“I don’t have the time!” I would knowingly say with a shrug of the shoulders in a kind of “what ya gonna do?” kind of way.

“I don’t know what to write!” I would knowingly say with a shrug of the shoulders in a kind of “what ya gonna do?” kind of way.

Well, enough of the kidology, tonight as I chase the flashing cursor across the white screen, I am back writing and to be honest, I do not have a clue what I am going to write about. And that is ok.

It just feels good to be back and banging out words on the screen. Who knows where I’m going with this? And – let’s be honest here – who cares? I know I don’t and I also know the chances of anybody else reading these words are pretty slim, so let’s go for it, shall we?

In a previous life, I used to write a monthly column in my home newspaper, The Ballyclare Gazette, detailing various random musings about my life in Australia and comparing with my life back home in “Norn Iron.”

It even had a tag line: “From Ballyclare to Down Under, it’s a long, long way from here to there”

Snazzy, eh?

I missed home and for me at the time, the articles provided a link for me to all that I missed. No really, I did. Back in the days when I used to be “A Writer” and arrogantly believed that people would be interested in what I had to say, that’s what I did.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely loved doing the articles and on trips home, people who weren’t even friends or family were polite enough to say that they actually enjoyed my articles.

But that was a long time ago. Then things changed…..

On a trip home a few years ago, whilst I was still writing the articles, my brother, my Australian girlfriend and I were viciously attacked by a gang of teenage savages who, for some reason took a dislike to us being on their turf - the same turf that I came from and had been romanticising about through my monthly articles.

To keep the random Eminem references going, “Snap back to reality”

As I lay in the foetal position with the punches, the kicks and the verbal assault raining down on me, in the middle of the road, not 200 metres from where I grew up, I can remember very little, apart from the incredible embarrassment that my girlfriend had to witness the ugly underbelly of my home town.

Like some twisted version of The Wizard of Oz, the curtain had been pulled back and my home town was exposed for the cruel, vicious and violent, narrow-minded, red-neck town that it had become (and perhaps always was?)

Except – I know that it is not how the town is. Yes, it is no different from anywhere else on the planet, with a small, ugly minority lurking waiting to pounce on the weaker. Admittedly, when you have a gang of almost 20 people willing to indulge in such ultra-violence, they will always be able to find the weak; big, bad, brave, lowlifes that they are.

The reality is, the rest of that night, we spent 5 hours in hospital as I was stitched back together and my family, my girlfriend and I, tried to make the best of the rest of our ‘holiday.’

The following day was my late father’s birthday and we tried our best to avoid the broken, battered and bruised elephant in the corner of the room that was me and partied as we had always planned we would. Even to the point of me (once again) murdering ‘Mack the Knife’ at the Sporties Bar Karaoke Night.

A few days later, we headed back to Australia, via Amsterdam, where incidentally I had to get the stitches removed in Schiphol airport. Believe me – a night out in Amsterdam with a face like I had is not something that anyone should have to endure. Also, as part of our ‘dream’ holiday, we had a stopover in Taipei planned and the photographs of me taken during those 48 hours are haunting images that I will forever have to live with.

But enough about that, for I really do not want to go down there and it is certainly is not a topic that I want to write about, especially after such a long absence. Believe me, I tried to write about the assault a couple of times from some “The pen is mightier than the sword” moral high ground but my heart just wasn’t in it. In fact, I am honest enough to admit that when I did try to put it all down in words, I broke down in tears and was unable to continue. Right there and then, my passion for writing left me.

But now the passion is back (Black is Back!) and I am happy to embrace it once again, for it is something that has always been a source of happiness for me. I have to admit that I look back on my writing with a lot of pride (and copious amounts of cringe, it has to be said.) 

Even now, after all these years, I occasionally indulge myself by reading my blogs (www.belgiumisboring.blogspot.com and www.australiaisoz-some.blogspot.com) and think to myself “Yep, you created those!” Even after I shuffle off this mortal coil, my internet footprint will be a testimony to my writing.

Whether that is a good or a bad thing is irrelevant….

Thanks for listening.

Have yourself a very Therapy? Christmas!

Folks, I'd like to share a piece of writing that has recently been published. A few weeks ago, as a member of the Therapy? fan-club, I was approached to contribute to a book that was being put together to celebrate the band's 20th anniversary.

Only too happy to write stories (although you wouldn't think it if you were a frequent visitor to this website) and being a huge fan of the band, I sat down and attempted to write again. It felt good to be chasing the cursor across the screen once more.

So, in its entirety, please find below my contribution to the book "We're Here To The End Too", a book written by Therapy? fans and available from the following website:

http://www.blurb.com/books/1660152

I hope you enjoy my trip down memory lane, even if the photos are a little grainy....

Have yourselves a very Therapy? Christmas!

My first exposure to Therapy? was back in 1992.

I was 20 at the time and in my second year at Coleraine University. One of my class-mates, Joe, who hailed from Dublin came into class one day wearing a black T-Shirt, with the word “Therapy?” emblazoned across it with a rather strange looking grinning face below it.

I remember looking at it as he walked into class wondering what the hell it was all about. Was he making a statement? Was he asking a question? I surmised it had something to do with a band but seeing as the guy was a lot more ‘emo’ than myself, as I was someone who just liked his music loud and heavy, it was all a wee bit strange and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by showing my ignorance on the matter, so I let it slide.

Strangely enough my next experience of Therapy? came from my uncle JB just a few weeks later. My father and I went to pick him up from the airport just before Christmas of 1992 and on the drive back to our home town of Ballyclare, in county Antrim, Northern Ireland, he asked me had I heard any of the music “that the young Cairns fella from Ballyclare and his band-mates from Larne” were playing. Not for the first, nor the last time, uncle JB had displayed a far superior knowledge of the goings on in our home town than we were ever privy to – in spite of the fact that he spent the last third of his life living in London. As it turned out, uncle JB was close friends with Andy’s parents and he had found out about the band from them.

I guess Ballyclare’s that kind of town....

My interest was piqued - what with the band’s lead singer hailing from my home town making inroads into the music scene. Like most of us as kids growing up, I’d spent many a private moment singing and playing air-guitar in front of the bedroom mirror but here was someone from Ballyclare, of all places, actually living the dream. I knew who Andy Cairns was – he was only a few years older than me and Ballyclare is not that big a place. I had memories of him and his mates hanging out in the river park at the foot of the town. As we played football, they sat nearby consuming their alcohol carry-outs. It’s strange to think of now, but by the time I was old enough to indulge in that particular recreational past-time myself, Andy and the rest of the band were well on their way to becoming the Therapy? that we all know and love today.

That day, I headed down to Bert McCormick’s Record Store in Ballyclare Main Street and purchased the album “Nurse” on cassette (remember those?) and rushed home to give it a play. Not having a clue what kind of music I was letting myself in for, I was actually a little surprised to find out that it was something I really enjoyed. The noise was different to anything I had in my collection - the unique style of drumming, heavy bass, the scorching lead guitar all accompanying the dark lyrics, the album had a very industrial sound with “Teethgrinder” being a stand-out track for me. My love of all things Therapy? had been born.

A few evenings later, I ended up doing a pub quiz in the Square Bar in Ballyclare with my father and uncle JB. The other members of our team? None other than Andy Cairn’s mother and father. They told me that Andy was back in town and in the Ballyboe - another pub in our home town - if I wanted to pop in and say hello but I declined not knowing what I would have said to the guy without sounding too much of an eejit. Ballyclare’s that kind of a town as well.

Along the journey with Therapy? I am proud to say that I bought every album, a few EPs and several T-Shirts. I loved listening to their music and it was with great excitement that I greeted the release of a new Therapy? album. Some albums were of course better than others and line-ups changed, fall-outs with record labels ensued, but deep down, you knew that these guys were in it for the long-haul. I was also very proud of the fact that they were “local lads made good.” After graduating, my career and life took me away from Northern Ireland but I have always been proud to hail from our wee misunderstood corner of the world and would get great enjoyment from people back home being successful and telling anyone who cared to listen – or didn’t for that matter – about the fact that Therapy? and I were from the same neck of the woods. Even if Michael and Fyfe were “harbour rats” from up the road in Larne(!)

With Therapy?, I had a band whose music I loved and I could proudly say that they were from my home country. A country that for far too long stared into the abyss, could perhaps rise again and with the likes of Therapy? and later, Ash, we had bands that were spreading some joy from our war-torn country throughout the world. I’m not making any grand political statement here – I’m just saying as a native of Northern Ireland, it was great to have a band that played great balls to the wall music delivered with an infectious enthusiasm that has never waned - even after 20 years in the most hard-nosed of businesses.

In the early years, I saw Therapy? a couple of times in Belfast but after graduating, I ended up leaving Northern Ireland to live and work in Belgium. It wasn’t planned – it just kind of happened. I got the occasional trip home and it was during a trip from Northern Ireland back to Belgium that I bumped into Therapy? whilst waiting at the gate for a flight from Heathrow to Brussels.

Travelling with a female colleague at the time, I excitedly pointed out the band to her but she had no idea who I was talking about. I explained to her but she seemed a little non-plussed about it all. She suggested that we went over to say hello but, well, we’re not really like that back home are we? So I decided to leave it (we were after all, on the same flight – where could they go?) and if there was an opportunity to say hello to the band in the arrivals hall while we were all waiting on our luggage, then I would do so.

In Brussels Arrivals, I saw the band waiting at the luggage carousel, so I took my opportunity to say hello to the band. Somewhat surprised to hear my accent in Brussels airport, Andy asked “where the fuck is that accent from?” and when I told him I was from a certain part of Ballyclare, he replied with “Seriously?! I used to deliver newspapers round that way. So what are you doing here in Belgium?” So, we got chatting and passed a few minutes as we waited on the arrival of our luggage.

During the conversation it transpired that the band were playing in a small town about 40 minutes from where I was living and he invited us along to the gig. Andy then called the tour manager, Rog, asking that my colleague and I be put on the VIP guest list, saying that we could also meet them after the gig and have a few “Lucozades” back stage. The Lucozades turned out to be bottles of Grolsch in a tin bath full of ice. Rock and Roll decadence or what?!

I have to say we had a great time at the gig and the Belgian crowd loved Therapy? (something that I was to witness a few more times during my stay in Belgium over those years). My colleague was a convert and she had an absolute ball of a night, including her rather less than subtle attempts to woo Michael. (I hope he’s gotten over that one!) My memories of the night are a little hazy, but I do recall trying to convince Andy to invest a little bit of money into our local football team, Ballyclare Comrades, much to the derision of Michael. With him being from nearby Larne and therefore a ‘Harbour Rat’, he was more than ready to take the piss out of Andy and I for being “Sheep Shaggers”.

As the rock and roll lifestyle was coming to an end for my colleague and me, I mentioned to Andy that I was planning to take my wee brother, Darren, himself a recent addition to the Therapy? fan club to their Christmas gig at the Ulster Hall in Belfast in a few months time. Once again Andy got Rog to ensure that we would get on the VIP list and also back stage for their Christmas Party. As Rog was typing up “Jonny Black plus guest” on his laptop under Ulster Hall, Belfast, Dec 27^th Andy said goodbye to us, adding “If you enjoyed yourself tonight, Jonny, you’ll have great craic back in Belfast at Christmas time!”

I couldn’t wait.

Having told all and sundry about my exploits with the lads from Therapy?, I was finding it difficult to keep it a secret from my wee brother that he had it all to look forward to in a couple of months time. Only 14, he was finding his way in the world of music and with two older brothers, some of our musical tastes was starting to rub off on the youngest with Therapy? being one of his favourites. To say he envied the “Hanging out with Rock Stars, Therapy?” story would be understating it. Perhaps even going as far as to think his IT geek brother was a little bit cool after all...

Somehow, I managed to keep the secret until Christmas Day itself. Opening his present, which was a rather fine looking Therapy? T-Shirt I explained to him that he would need it in a couple of day’s time because he too would get to hang out back stage with Therapy? The look of unbridled joy on his face is something that I will remember forever.

Two days later and we headed off to the Ulster Hall early, with my wee brother beside himself with excitement. It was a cold, wet and windy evening and there were plenty of people already standing outside the venue huddling against the elements waiting for the doors to open.

Not such a wait for us, of course, because we were on the guest list.

So, grinning like Wayne and Garth out of Wayne’s World, we walked past the crowd to the front door of the Ulster Hall, where, when told by security to join the back of the queue, I proudly informed them that we were, in fact, down in the VIP guest list. Checking his clip board of names, we soon discovered that we weren’t, in fact, on the guest list at all.

My brother’s face crumpled in despair and anguish whilst a few at the front of the queue who had heard what had just happened, started to snigger. “Looks like you’re going to have to queue just like the rest of us” somebody wisecracked behind us.

I was dying.

“There must be some mistake – I was hanging out with the band back stage in Belgium a couple of months ago and Andy Cairns invited us to the gig tonight. I even saw their tour manager, Rog typing it into his laptop!” I pleaded with security. I knew I was name-dropping but I had to get my brother into the gig at all costs.

“Come on through to the lobby and we’ll see if we can get Rog to come out and verify this”

I’m not sure if it was festive spirit, my pleading, or my brother’s face of despair that swung it, but at least we were in out of the cold, all be it not knowing what was going to happen next.

Soon after, the rest of the punters started filing into the gig, with a few of the ones at the front taking great enjoyment in the two “VIPs” that were standing there looking like a couple of guys who have had the air deflated out of them. After what seemed like an eternity, I suddenly noticed Andy’s parents walking into the venue. Nothing ventured, nothing gained I thought, so I shamelessly approached them and explained the situation to them. Andy’s father, sympathising with our predicament, promised to go and find Rog to see if he could sort it all out for us. And off he went into the venue along with the streams of people going to the sold-out Christmas gig. With local acts Joyrider and Ash also set to play, this was going to be a big show, and after having been waiting here for over an hour, it was looking increasingly likely that the best present I had ever given my brother was being cruelly taken away from him by events out of my control.

As I was contemplating this, a rather flustered Rog came out into the lobby with Andy’s father in tow. Much to our delight, he recognised me and apologising profusely, he explained that his laptop had crashed and that he had lost a lot of information on it as a result. Of course we were allowed into the gig and of course we were welcome to party back stage with the band. The party with Therapy? was back on and I got a relieved hug from my brother.

The concert itself was a cracker. Joyrider opened the proceedings well and Ash – who were already starting to make inroads into the music world themselves – started firing up the crowd in time for the main act to take centre stage.

Obviously enjoying performing in front of their home crowd, the lads from Therapy? performed a great show that night with everyone in the audience adding to the atmosphere. There was even an impromptu performance from Skin (of Skunk Anansie fame) who appeared on stage for one song and then stage dived into the crowd afterwards.

Merry Christmas Northern Ireland!

Afterwards, we went back stage where there was a great atmosphere with all the performers mingling with friends, family and fans alike and when Andy noticed me, he was nice enough to come up to ask me how Belgium was treating me. My brother, obviously impressed with my rock ‘n’ roll circle of friends, took the opportunity to have his photo taken with Andy.

After chatting briefly with the rest of the band and enjoying a couple of complimentary cans of Harp, we left the party to continue on into the night. After all – Darren was too young to drink and I had enjoyed a late night one on one session with the band in Belgium a couple of months previously.

As we headed out into the cold, Belfast night a very excited wee brother, told me it was the best Christmas present he’d ever had. And I believed him.

Thanks Andy, Michael and Fyfe, as well as Andy’s father and Rog the tour manager for a very special Christmas party that will live long in my brother’s and my memory for the rest of our lives.

I could talk about the time I went to see you support the Rolling Stones, or even the several times I saw you at the Rock Werchter festival in Belgium (indeed at one stage only some band called REM(!) had played that festival more times than yourselves).

Or even the time that I saw you in Antwerp at the club known as Petrol, where, upon noticing my Northern Ireland flag and discovering I was the guy from Ballyclare you announced to the crowd that, in the same way some towns are twinned with others, “Ballyclare was in a suicide pact with Amsterdam”

Then there was the time that I brought my girlfriend, an Australian girl who had never heard of Therapy? to go watch you on our first date. Needless to say we are still together and I am now living in Brisbane with her. (BTW – any tours of Australia planned?!)

But they’re all stories for another time. Perhaps I’ll dust them out for the 40^th Anniversary!

Thanks Therapy? for all the good times and looking forward to many more.

World Cup Sweepstake 2010: It's a Wrap!

Well folks,

The dust has settled on the World Cup with a final that befitted the rest of the tournament: littered with fouls, play-acting, whingeing footballers, and leaving the referee with no option but to hand out cards like it was Christmas.

Now, I’m no professional footballer, what with the closest I got being a Sunday afternoon over 20 years ago where, along with a few mates, we broke into Dixon Park, the home of Ballyclare Comrades FC and played headers and volleys for a couple of hours until the village idiot saw us and phoned the police.

But what I do know is that the 120 minutes of football that a third of the world’s population tuned in to watch was an awful advert for the game that we all love so much.

From comedy villain Mark van Bommel and his tackles that were so late they could have been from a different time zone to de Jong opening a can of whoopass Jackie Chan style on Alonso, the Oranje successfully managed to break up the Spanish pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass rhythm which meant that a lot of the HD super slo-mo replays were filled with images of growling Orangemen and whingeing Spaniards. Hardly the advert for the beautiful game that Jules Rimet envisaged all those years ago.

Then, with the clock winding down and the game looking like it was inevitably going to be decided by the dreaded penalty shoot-out (BTW – did you know the man who introduced the penalty kick into football was from Northern Ireland?) until, with 4 minutes left of extra time, up stepped Iniesta to crash home a volley which crushed the hopes of the Orangemen but must surely have been well-received by neutrals the world over.

Spain are the World Cup winners for the first time, the Netherlands are left as losing finalists for the third time. Which incidentally, won me 140 dollars for a cheeky 20 dollar bet that I placed a few weeks ago on Spain to win the tournament. Which just about covers all the other bets / sweeps that I've taken part in....

In the weekend’s other game (which was actually probably one of the better games of the tournament), Germany took third spot after beating Uruguay 3-2.

All of which leaves us with the sweepstake results:

1^st Natalie (Spain) 150 AUD

2^nd Ross (Netherlands) 90 AUD

3^rd Yoppy (Germany) 50 AUD

4^th Andrew (Uruguay) 30 AUD

Yours in Football.