Monthly Archives: June 2011

Sometimes You’ve Gotta Slaughter a Few Sacred Cows

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Today I got two bits of sad news in quick succession. I’ll leave the second for again but the first made me sad.

Bob Allard, former Reprographics Manager at the University and a guy with whom I worked closely died last week. He had cancer. I only heard the previous week he was unwell, but as is often the case I didn’t realise how unwell he was.

Bob and I had as much in common as a Muslim and a pork processor. He was as English as could be. He referred repeatedly to going to Londonderry. As a former RAF man he was loyally British. He proudly talked of the visit by Her Majesty for the campus back when it was still the plain old NUU.

His background in the armed forces made him quite certain that black was black and white was white. Never the twain did meet. I know of staff in the University that would rather not do something than incur the wrath of Bob. He was unreconstructed old school. Big time.

Although he was the Reprographics Manager, he had another name for himself and a badge made up to match. Logo Cop. He was charged with maintaining the integrity of the University of Ulster’s logo following its introduction and subsequent roll out. He had a device that he would whip out at the slightest provocation to view the dot spread of the logo and would robustly point out any errors in sizing or printing. He could give chapter and verse on the logo, frequently did and it didn’t matter whether it was the Vice-Chancellor or a secretary, Bob made exceptions for no-one.

Once we commisssioned a VAT consultant to come in and advise us how to claim back VAT, what was exempt etc. With this guy, Bill was his name,the first ten minutes were free and then he charged by the fifteen minute block. And boy did he know how to charge. As a former VAT inspector now gamekeeper turned poacher his advice was excellent. Expensive but excellent. He was also prone to bullshit about two other topics. Manchester United and Golf. He met his match though.

When he came to see us in my office, Bob was ready for him. After the pleasantries were completed (very quickly I might add) Bob whipped out his list of pre-prepared questions followed by a dictaphone which he placed on the meeting table. As the meeting began he proceeded to interrogate Mr VATman – in detail! Not only did he get VFM for his paid for slot, he also covered a fair bit of our ground in the free ten minute slot. The meeting didn’t last long at all. And it was all there on tape too so there could be no confusion and we could listen again to the specific points at our leisure. I think we recovered about twenty grand.

He was a canny wee bollocks. Old school, difficult, cussed and contrary. He also however had a good sense of humour, although he was quite sexist in a Sid James sort of way (to whom he also bore a slight resemblance). He wore driving gloves when driving and it was easy for us to imagine him in his flying gear, up there taking pictures.

He had previously served in the RAF as a photographer and on his wall hung a picture of an RAF Spitfire. He had been given the picture as a gift by a Polish airman who’s life he had saved. He was vague on the details but the picture had special significance to him.

Once when his office was relocated to the Cavehill building – in effect the graveyard of the University – he suffered a break in and was visibly distraught when he learned the burglars had stolen his Spitfire photograph amongst other things. It was of immense sentimental value and he was deeply upset at its loss. The people that stole it of course had no idea of its value and no doubt dumped it somewhere unaware of the stress they caused. It was never recovered.

Bob finished his time at the University and enjoyed a number of years retirement, doing some work for the RAF on its history in the North West.

Although we had little in common we worked on a good many projects together and he was a loyal and dedicated colleague whose work and opinion I and others valued. Those who knew what he did knew it could only work if done Bob’s way. Otherwise, it was the highway. His name still brings a smile among those of us that worked with him.

Not About the Bike

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OK. I’ve done it. The first cycle. My legs, in particular my thighs have settled down but they were like jelly. My arse, possibly my perineum is quite painful but not as bad as I thought. 22.5 miles on the first day out. Not a bad start and I’m pleased that I was able to do it.

McLarnon first raised this as a possibility with me on one of the overnights with the camogie squad. In the back of my mind I probably always knew that reluctantly I would try it. 100 or 50 miles to raise funds for Eoghan Rua. But more than that a challenge to myself to get fit, to lose weight. To do something else that would give me a personal and physical challenge. I ask the players to do the extraordinary. My hope is that this time it will be my turn.

And, at the end of it what? A sense of achievement. I know from winning things the moment of victory is fleeting but the overwhelming satisfaction afterwards lasts an eternity. That moment when the whistle goes, experienced a few times this last year. A drug yes, but after that something else sets in.

Anyway, before I get to that stage I have to get to that stage.

I have wrestled with the matter of buying a bike, To buy or not to buy. Funds are tight with me, I have a tax bill to pay and it is the summer. Children have to be entertained, the usual expenses. I decided to go for it and try and get a bike that would get me thru the summer and beyond. I didn’t want the hassle of someone else’s machine or a reconditioned machine. Something that I can stand or fall with.

I went to Claudy Cycles, on the recommendation of Paddy McColgan. I like Paddy’s world view. Country chic hick, he is grounded, pragmatic and most of all knows that an arsehole in lycra is an arsehole in lycra whatever way you look at him.

So, Brian @ Claudy Cycles successfully sold me a silver bike. I know nothing about the make, model or even the number of gears. It is silver, the Silver Tassie I will call it. The seat he tells me isn’t too bad. “You will not be the judge of that my friend” I thought inloud ‘My arse will.’ I also purchased a puncture repair kit;  helmet; a pair of cycle shorts.

On the latter Brian informed me ‘They are brave and tight round the balls.” Sounded like just the job. He also threw in a bottle of free screenwash and, availing of the 10% discount negotiated by Paddy McColgan the total bill was £270.  With Brian too, we discussed the possibility of further work. Might be worth pursuing there based on my experiences with a  few other small businesses and leveraging the contacts that I have. We’ll see.

Having read a leaflet circulated within the club by Sean McGoldrick and provided by uber nutrition enthusiast Declan Mullan which recommended the right things to eat in advance of a match, I decided to prepare for the following morning’s inaugural outing with a Spanish Sizzler medium pizza from Dominos washed down by a bottle of Wolf Blass Merlot.

Excited at the prospect of the next morning’s outing I fell fast asleep on the sofa after this generous repast and woke on the sofa at quarter past three in the morning, lights on. After climbing into bed I conked out waking again early to prepare for the 8:30 rendezvous at the Orange Hall where the day’s 20 Mile trek was to begin.

The first dilemma of the day was whether to wear underpants under my newly purchased cycling shorts. Chafing was my worry. Having puzzled this for a while I decided not to cycle commando ‘What if they split’ which is a fair enough question considering the size of my arse.  Angela went off to Tesco to buy food for the children while I climbed into the rest of my garb. Trainers, ankle socks, icebreaker top and yellow luminous waterproof, my shades and helmet. When she returned Tesco were out of Vaseline (a canny echo of the article I wrote for Talking Balls last week. Unlike the protagonist in that story I went for Angela’s emulsifying ointment rather than other forms of lubricant.)

Duly lubed up to the max to avoid aforementioned chafing, I stuck a Nature’s Crunch bar in my pocket, sank a half litre of Lucozade Sport Lite and a banana. I also brought my phone in case of a crash, emotional or physical and a puncture repair kit. Having no rack for a water bottle I tucked a carton of juice in a pocket and off I sailed. Angela of course found the whole ensemble hysterical and took pictures of me meandering  off.

Having had a bit of banter, off we went down the Mill Road. The brakes were an early concern and I genuinely felt I would fall off going down the first hill which ended on a corner round a roundabout. I was pleasantly surprised when BMcL informed me we had completed 5 miles or so. The only real problems occurred when we encountered the first hill. My heart, shocked into action was pounding out of my chest and my left leg started to misfire. No pain, just no power. Over a few more hills including Drumslade on the way home I found a severe lack of power in my leg. Its fine when pedalling down hill, even when driving her on uphill when the body screams stop, the heads busting and pounding but you just keep on going. On that occasion there is no place for diplomacy with fellow travellers. They need to move on to let me tackle my own personal demons.  Could I keep in the seat and keep the bike moving no matter how low the gear. The granny gear BMcL called it. I’m some granny in that case. The etiquette appears to be if you are struggling the person doing the blethering moves on. Cunning apparently is bad for this, I will have to tell him not to talk to me in that case.

Aside from Dermot having a few minor technical problems the time passed fairly uneventfully. I struggled up Drumslade Paddy last, but I stayed in the fuckin saddle and I stayed on the fuckin bike which was more than I expected. The padded cycle shorts appeared to have eased the big ass burden but I was till dripping sweat half an hour after a shower and my heartrate took a while to settle. Next time I need to work the bike more, more pedalling less freewheeling and find a few good gears.  At least there is a next time. Bring it on.

Broken Things

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My iPhone. Water got in. Now a dog.

Washing Machine. Has sounded like a helicopter taking off for months. Now it’s just fubar.

Leo’s remote control plane. One second flight propellor cracked. Thankfully no passengers were lost or injured.

My memory. Struggling for words. This happened before. Very strange.

Sorcha’s green ceramic elephant she made in Westport. She broke its head off and it sits on the desk now decapitated accusing me.

The Car radio. Volume button is fubar.

Car seatbelts have become idiosyncratic.

The bin in the kitchen – no longer ingenious the way it slides out on pulleys. Fubar.

Trampoline safety net needs fixed.

One hen. Gone. Deceased? Or did it just get fed up and fuck off?

Enthusiasm for coaching. Low ebb. Need to summon something from somewhere.

Follow Me on Facebook? Why Should I?

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(Piece Written for the Marketing Institute of Ireland blog)

The Different Faces of Facebook

This time a year ago I was struggling to see the actual value of Facebook. Over a year that has changed, there is no doubt it has something for everyone and particularly small businesses if you can give it appropriate time and attention, and understand its many different marketing hats. That’s an important IF. Read More

I Wrote it Down Here Somewhere

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(Piece Written for the Marketing Institute of Ireland blog)

Can you explain in writing what your business does? Really? Can you describe it in say, thirty words? If you met a stranger in an elevator and she asked you what you do, could you tell her before the doors re-opened? Read More

iPain iN the aRse

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My iPhone iS behaviNg badly. After beiNg iN my iPocket last week iN the iPissing raiN, iT iS showiNg a contiNuiNg error message telliNg me that thiS iPhone iS not optiMized wiTh this deviCe. So the iPhone gets damp iT gets useless. iMpressiVe.

To add iNsult to iNjury, the iPhone wonk iSpoke to @ apple tells me they can fix iT yes they can but iT wiLl cost iN the regiOn of £140. Problem is concurrently Angela dropped her iPhone and iT has a cracked screen. iFeel liKe telliNg apple to go iPhuck themselves to be honest.

But whiSht. . . TheiR iS some boy iN Derry apparently wiLl do repaiRs more cheaply. iWill give hiM a shout.

iN the meantiMe here’s today’s marketiNg tiP.

iF you want somethiNg to sell, just stiCk a small iNfront of iT. No matter how crap iT iS. Used to be you stuck a sliCe of liMe anythiNg would sell. Now just the iWill do.

The Good, the Bad, & the Ugly

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(I submitted this piece for a professional blog I contribute to. They said it wasn’t weighty enough, too light. So I’ll tell you what, you guys can have it instead.)

Do your marketing materials depress you? Truthfully? Do they?

When you see them do you cringe with embarrassment? Has the initial self-satisfaction and smugness gradually dissipated with the realisation it was all a horrible mistake. Are your Marcomms materials a victory of imagination over marketing purpose? Are they any use at all? Really now. Be honest.

I once worked in a marketing department and an internal client described a piece of work we had commissioned and managed as looking like an old wine catalogue. And you know what? He was right. I was too close to it. And beguiled by an enthusiastic designer I bought into her hogwash. Bigger fool me.

When you’re out and about do you covet your neighbour’s brochure more than their goods? Do you visit their website late at night, longing for the day when yours will be as achingly stylish. The brilliant copy. The superb photography. The way it all just looks and feels and sits together. Their Facebook page with all their likes. The funky wee videos that suck you in and make you laugh. Those ideas you had but never had time to follow though. Here before you in technicolour, working  in ways you could only hope for.

And what about that big typo that just appeared in your brochure as soon as you opened the box from the printer? You swear it wasn’t there when you signed off that last proof. But, when you check back… when you check back. There it is. There it is. And what’s worse, you fixed something beside it. Suddenly. Slowly. Sickeningly. You realise. You caused it.

It reminds you of heading out on a hot date when a huge carbuncle appears on your nose staring back at you from the mirror telling you “you have no chance tonight my friend”.

And just like the big spot on your nose, you have to talk about it. You’re obsessed with it. Maybe if you tell people they will tell you it’s OK. You go through every grammatical contortion you can think of. It’s maybe not a mistake if you read it this way. Maybe. Everyone tells you no-one will notice but you know in your heart of heart they will.

And when some smart busybody does notice, you smart too. The stuff you spent so long discussing with the designer. You trusted them. You believed everything they said about your brand looking good.

But. And it was a big but. Did you read through it properly? That day when the proofs came in just as you were running out the door. “They’ll be alright you thought to yourself”. You’d been through the material a dozen times. But. You forgot about the one wee thing you changed screwed things up elsewhere.

And if you have a boss. What will they say? Bad enough working for them but on this one they gave you your own head. And look what happened.  All that faith in you. You let them down. The budget gone. Would you have to pay for it yourself. Pay for it with your job maybe. Imagine telling your mum you’d been sacked because you hadn’t checked your work. It would be like homework time all over again.

That sleepless night, sick in your guts. Will I get the sack? What will happen? Should I come clean or not? And when they find out, will it be an understanding arm around the shoulder or a swift kick in the rear. . .

Next time. . . How to avoid this visit to heartache hotel. Some dos and doughnuts.

Going Down Like The Titanic

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That's a big boat.

100 years ago this week, The Titanic slid down a well lubricated Harland and Wolff slipway into infamy.

You know the story. On its maiden voyage Leonardo di Caprio and Kate Winslet, fell in love, had a soft focus back seat love affair in a car stowed in the hold, where she went down before The Titanic did. They danced an Oirish jig, and felt the wind in their hair on the prow as Celine Dion sang that awful song.

Then, to the relief of the audience the bloody ship sank. Winslet drowned before taking her clothes off and doing it in a few more movies, whilst Di Caprio came ashore in Boston, where he later starred in The Departed.

Meanwhile back in Belfast this week, the same slipway, now minus the 20 tonnes of tallow lubricant, was packed with the great and the good eager to celebrate ‘a major achievement for Belfast.’

The newly inaugurated Mayor of Belfast, Niall O Donnghaile, acclaimed the City’s achievement in building the ship. That in itself is an achievement. Mr O Donnghaile’s forefathers would not have had the opportunity to set foot in the shipyard let alone stand there and speak.

Anyhow, what continues to amaze me is the relish with which The Titanic is hailed as some sort of monumental triumph for Belfast.

It sank.

1,517 people perished when the liner hit an iceberg at 11.40pm on 14 April 1912 and sank less than three hours later.

Fatal flaws in its construction and a lack of lifeboats contributed to the huge loss of life. The majority of deaths were caused by hypothermia in the -2 °C water where death could occur in as little as 15 minutes.

Next year an iconic £97 million Titanic building dedicated to remembering the ill-fated ship will open, expecting to attract 400,000 visitors annually. It will feature nine galleries telling the story of the Titanic, the Belfast shipyard and early 20th Century life in the City.

Perhaps Leonardo di Caprio and Kate Winslet will attend the official opening, she might keep her clothes on and hopefully the whole thing will go down this time without any further loss of life.

Left Handed Hurleys Responsible for Decline in Hurling says Research

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THERE’S NO DOUBT that hurlers can get most animated at any talk of adjusting their equipment. There’s been debate of late concerning the soon to be mandatory use of hurling helmets at all ages and levels, and sure a while back the issue of players wishing to use their own balls was much reported.

Now, research carried out by one of Ireland’s leading universities has uncovered clear evidence that the majority of hurleys manufactured in Ireland over the last twenty years have in fact been what are known as ‘left-handed hurleys’.

It is believed the error dates back to a secret directive issued by the Powers that Be in the early eighties that pointed out increased concerns over health and safety due to overhead pulling and the gradual decrease in ground hurling. Amongst other recommendations, the seventies think-tank believed that the introduction of helmets would in part alleviate the problem. But, in addition, they wished to regulate the size of the bas on the hurl.

After much research, a sample of the ideal hurley was sent to every hurley maker in Ireland with clear instructions on future stick production. In those days, unlike today when you can’t go round a corner without someone carving away on their caman, there were much fewer men (and women) crafting the ash and therefore regulation was much easier.

Unfortunately, the hurls chosen as the original of the species and therefore the protoype for future iomanadors, and from which the vast majority of hurls in Ireland have since descended, were a batch made specially for the famous ciotóg hurler Jimmy Doyle of Thurles Sarsfields and Tipp.

He specified to his hurley maker, Pat Óg Leahy that the heel of the hurl should have a slightly elevated angle on one side, all the better to cut the ball (in the manner of Joe Canning et al nowadays) and also a small indent was planed into the bas to enable easier carrying of the ball whilst soloing.

In addition the protruding bit on the handle was carved longer than normal as yer man occasionally was bothered by an itch and he found a good scratch with the butt of his stick eased the discomfort. Even nowadays an observant viewer can watch the way hurlers and Camogs alike rest on the convenient handle of the stick during breaks in coaching, teamtalks, the national anthem and the like.

Sources have revealed they will be issuing new guidelines on hurleys to ensure that in future more right-handed sticks are produced the length and breadth of the country.

It is believed this innovation will help the promotion of hurling countrywide and may indeed increase further the volume of scores from sideline balls and generally help the weaker counties develop.

Readers are therefore encouraged to check at home, in the garage, under the stairs, in the shed, and in the fertilizer bag and remove all left-handed hurls for destruction immediately.

We would caution that you burn hurleys one at a time due to the combustible nature of ash. You don’t want to be scorching the thatch now do you?