For shame

Most mornings I get up at six o'clock. I turn on our digital radio (to restate: 2013's best buy by a long way) and catch the last hour of the John Creedon show. This is followed by the Late Debate which I take or leave. If the introduction includes terms like 'arts funding', or 'headage payments' then I know its time to change over to WDAS "Philly's best R&B and classic soul station" and get my groove on for the day.
However, last week proved to be pretty much soul-free. First up was Wednesday's program about the consultancy fees paid by Irish Water, followed by Thursday's astonish revelations about the retirement package made to the previous CEO of the Central Remedial Clinic (CMC).
From my geographical (8,600 kilometers) and temporal (15 years and counting) distance it increasingly seems to me that when certain Irish people reach the upper levels of society a blinding sense of entitlement sets in. They fall prey to a form of delusional solipsism, thinking they deserve the monetary rewards now coming their way. At most they are lucky, some are cunning, and a few like Paul Kiely are purposefully deceitful.
Added to this quality is a solid stance of impunity, a sort of assumed gombeen privilege that absolves them of concepts like ethical behavior and morality. How else to explain the head of the CMC using public donations to enlarge his pension? How could he possibly conceive of this as morally justifiable? A 730,000 euro pension pay off a significant part of which was financed by contributions from the public who thought the money was going to help people with disabilities. Is there some sort of moral trip-switch on the back of Kiely's [thick] neck that he flipped to 'off' once he sat down in the CEO's chair at the CMC?
Similarly egregious was the 50 million Euro of public money spent on consultancy fees by Irish Water. That's 10 million a year for each of the past five years of austerity. 10 million a year would have fixed a lot of water pipes, improved treatment plants, and may well have prevented parasitic outbreaks like the one that happened in Galway city a couple of years back. In 2010 the Irish Independent estimated that 1.3 million people were drinking unsafe water because 290 water treatment plants in the country needed to be upgraded (you can read the full article here).
You can buy the Irish Independent for €2.
Which raises the question of what the other €49,999,998 of consultancy fees was actually spent on?
Presumably it was such a question that Audrey Carville, the presenter of the Late Debate, wished to pose to the government. However, nobody from the government showed up. Not a single representative from either Fine Gael or Labour would appear on the programme. A stark albeit silent admission that they knew they were being called on to defend the indefensible. So why bother? Because they are our public representatives, not merely government or political party representatives, and in a functioning democracy they should account for themselves and their behavior. Not to do so is both political cowardice and an affront to what a democratic society is supposed to embody.

Sochi beckons

 The Winter Olympics are a mere two weeks away. Unfortunately they are being held in Mother Russia who still has the Hoppo Yonto bridled and yoked to her territorial breast, and I think I have pretty much exhausted that metaphor by now. While the term "the Winter Olympics" at most provokes a "The wha?" back home, here in Japan they take the occasion pretty seriously. Lots of media coverage, countdown calendar, wonderfully inane Olympic theme song (you can listen to it hear), and the sports news is dominated by 'ski jumping', 'figure skating' and 'curling'. Japan tends to be quite good at the, how do I put this, more effete events where judges and a lot of glittering sequin are involved. They tend to do less well in the swaggering and machismo competitions like alpine skiing, the nordic combined, and the one with guns. Cian though is planning to change all that. As the previous post showed he is already a shoe-in for gold in the luge (or 'death by sled' as it is also known), and he plans to add to that with gold in the alpine downhill.
We spent this morning at Danpara Ski-jo which ranks up there with the Streif course at Hahnenkamm in Austria as the most demanding and dangerous course on the downhill World Cup circuit. Not that you'd think that the way Cian effortless skied it. The boy knows no fear. Or how to carve a nice, sinuous s-turn. He goes downhill, he goes down fast, and you'd better get the hell out of his way.

Swoosh!!!

This is one of those blogs where recorded action speak so much louder than typed words. Or rather, where visceral, heart-pounding, adrenalin fueled action shrieks so much louder than words.
We had 10 cm of snow last night and today the temperature never got above - 4 celsius. In other words, ideal weather to bust out the sleds and make another bid for the Tenjin-cho (frozen) land speed record. Readers easily frightened by those of us who, in the immortal words of one Mr. Jon Bon Jovi, like living on a prayer, may want to refrain from watching. As may well those of you who suffer from car sickness.
First up is our 'crash and roll' episode.

 Followed by our 'near collision'.

Not content with the 'need for speed', Cian went airborne. Kind of.

And finally, pushing the envelope.

Running and praying

 So there I am at nine o'clock in the morning on New Year's day (and yes U2 fans, all is quiet) on the north side of Obihiro train station, stretching. Draped around my shivering torso is a sky blue sash with "北方領土返還を祈願する" written on it, the jist of which is essentially "Give us back our islands you Russian feckers". It is a proclamation of pride, a demand for restitution; another year just begun and still our beloved Hoppo Yonto, off the east coast of Hokkaido, remains yolked to the bridle of mother Russia (yes, I know, excellent metaphor).
There are 45 of us gathered outside the train station for the Obihiro Enjoyable Running Club's annual new year's day marathon. We are a motley looking bunch of day-glo clad runners ranging in age from a 10 year old girl to a couple of old men who, if not quite knocking on heaven's door, seem to be at least standing on the porch in front of it. As I said we are stretching as there is nothing better for your body than to stretch your still sleep stiff muscles in sub zero temperatures.
It is feckin freezing. The oversized thermometer beside us reads minus 4. I am vaguely waving my arms about and leaning to and fro a bit for fear if I do any actual stretching my hamstrings might literally snap in two.
Not for the last time I wonder what I was thinking.
We finish the stretches. The club's chairman/director of running/small guy in the funny wool hat and ear muffs (who for brevity's sake I will henceforth refer to as 'Bob') stands in front of us and commences speaking. It is a heartfelt speech, full of pathos about how another year has passed and the islands are bridled and yoked, etc. and let 2014 be the year when Japan can finally reclaim its geographical own. At least that's what I think he said. I am kind of bowing along in all the right places but like most of my fellow athletes I am really wondering when I can start the running as it is still feckin freezing out here.
Apparently years ago Bob used to give these blood curling speeches, nay declarations of imminent war, denouncing those no-good thieving Russian sons-of-bitches. Then some of said sons-of-bitches actually turned up at one of the marathons and he had to tone down the war mongering rhetoric as they turned out to be quite nice comrades once you looked past the geo-politics.
Bob finishes his speech. We are led through to the station to the south entrance. The plaza in front of the south entrance is bathed in early morning sunlight and is actually quite pleasant. We are all wondering of course why the good feck we had to do our stretches on the cold, shadowed north side of the station, but there is no time to fling angry snowballs at Bob as we are off.
Our six kilometre course is an inverted U shape that will take us via three of Obihiro's numerous shrines before coming back to the station. Which should be nice as shrines in Japan on new year's day are lively bustling places and it will be pleasant to soak up some of the atmosphere as we jog past.
Even though we have officially started it has to be said that we are not really running very fast. Not really running at all. It's more like a slow shuffle, moving just enough to suffer from wind chill but not enough to warm one's body. We make our ponderous way east for a couple of blocks and then have to double back when it's discovered we have gone too far. Obihiro is laid out in a grid like pattern with straight lined streets north-south and east-west, so it takes a bit of effort to get lost in the city. But we're managing it all the same. Back at the station some of the 'veterans' had proudly proclaimed that it was their 14th year in a row running this course but their keeping pretty quiet now.
We find the street leading to Tokachi shrine and pick up the pace. Only to be brought to a halt by a set of red traffic lights. There is no traffic. In fact there isn't a car to be seen in any direction this early on new year's day. Yet we wait, for this is Japan and this is what we do and what we don't do will only make us stronger.
Or some such.
The lights turn green and off we set again only to come to another red light a block later. Thus a stuttering stop-start pattern begins. This particular road has a lot of traffic lights and all of them are staggered to turn red just as you reach them. So instead of constant running we are doing a successive series of block length jogs with 2 minute breaks. For the Bob Dylan contingent this is ideal as it lengthens their mortality that little bit more but for the rest of us its aggrevating. And cold.
We finally reach Tokachi shrine and there is already a sizeable crowd milling around, praying for good fortune and burning the relics of the year past in a small bonfire. I had assumed that we would just jog on by but no, we go in and join the queue in front of the main hall, offer a token donation, clap our hands twice, bow, and beseech the gods to grant our wishes. In my case it is to get a bloody move on as I am now really feckin freezing. For feck's sake.
The gods don't listen to me. They never do. Instead I have to wait until the other forty four blue sashed Hoppo Yonto activists each pray for the Russians to get off their islands. And to tidy up the place again before they do so.
Off we go again. Some of us younger, sprightlier types who, due to our lean, svelte, fat free bodies are particularly susceptible to the cold (a problem neither Sanae nor Cian suffer from) shift up the gears and inject a bit of pace into the proceedings, door knockers be damned. For all of three minutes as we round a corner and find ourselves at the next shrine. This is not as busy as the previous place but there are still enough people present to from a queue. Which we join. More praying. More shivering. Still the Russians are on the islands.
Although unspoken there is an emergent feeling of mutiny among some of us. We signed up for a run, a quick, refreshing 6 km jog around Obihiro and its sights on the first day of the year. We did not sign up for a political pilgrimage.
A small group of us set off in a hurry for the final shrine but then have to slow down when we belatedly realize that none of us know where it is. We are tempted to make a beeline for the station which we can see beckoning off in the distance. But then we think of the Hoppo Yonto and reluctantly wait for the others to catch up.
At the final shrine a significant number of us don't bother praying; if the gods haven't heard us by now, they're probably not listening. That or they are Russian. Instead we stand around for a respectable 20 seconds or so before galloping off towards the station. And gallop we do. At quite the clip. For the first time all morning I feel like we are actually running, properly pounding the pavements. Still though, we stop for each and every red light despite the lack of traffic.
We get back to the station nearly two hours after we started. That's two hours to run 6 kilometres. Even Sanae could run faster than that. Well, okay, maybe not Sanae, but Cian would certainly be quicker. Bob appears and thanks me for my participation and hopes to see me again next year. I politely reply, "maybe". What I really want to say is "not a feckin chance in hell, pal". In Russian.
I would like to end by saying that despite all the hardships the morning's running and praying had left me both physically and spiritually refreshed, but all it left me was cold, agnostic and with an ungodly desire for a cup of tea and a choco old-fashioned from Mr. Donuts.