Footloose

Well, we’re back. Belatedly. Slinking our way in the side entrance to the blogosphere, wiping our mouths, brushing away the crumbs, blowing the dust off the keyboard and wondering if anybody (a) noticed we were gone; and more pertinently, (b) will anyone notice that we are back?
As to excuses? God, I don’t know. There are a myriad of them but they can be basically summed up in the phrase ‘willful neglect’. I hadn’t meant the gap to grow so long and silent, then again neither, presumably, had J.D. Salinger.
As you can see the interval hasn’t done anything for my modesty either.
And it’s not like I didn’t have anything to write about; we had Ireland, the weather, the weather in Ireland, the weather in Ireland on a Saturday in August atop of Croagh Patrick; counties Dublin, Down, Kilkenny, Kerry, Cavan and Mayo; an All-Ireland hurling semi-final; Edinburgh; some epic surfing; Joshua Ferris; Kevin Powers; Top of the Lake... the list could go on.
But priorities people, priorities. What has really motivated me back into blogging mode was Cian’s gakugeikai last weekend.
The gakugeikai is what you would call ‘the school festival’ in less civilized parts of the world. But the linguistic comparison doesn’t do it cultural justice. It would be like comparing  the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra’s revered New Year’s Concert (this year to be conducted by the inestimable Daniel Barenboim), with last Friday’s edition of the Ryan Turbidy show. 
There were weeks of preparation, ‘preparation’ being a synonym for blood, sweat, and tears. Showing my age here, but in the original Footloose movie, there is a montage of Kevin Bacon, to the sound of ‘Never’ by Moving Pictures (which, even after all these years, can still get my blood stirring, though I think that may be due more to nostalgia for my lost youth than any particular love for the song. I saw the film in Celle, a small town in then West Germany [yes, both the film and I are that old], when I was 14 and at my most musically impressionable), and he’s dancing and jumping and twirling and basically leaping about like a mad young thing off his head on too much Club Orange (as my innocent 14 year old self thought at the time). You can see the clip here.

Cian watched it and thought it pathetic. (Liked the music though). What he and the rest of the 1st grade had to endure for ‘showtime’ was akin to the physical torment of those ship wreckers in Bangladesh, but to a steady 3/4 beat.
The result though, I think you will agree, was spectacular. It can be experienced in its complete, surround-screen, technicolor Busby Berkeley like splendor here, complete with delirious hand shaking from the camera man, overcome as he was by the sheer awesomeness of the spectacle he was recording.

Tour de Kilkenny

Not content with free-wheeling my way across the wilds of Connemara and skipping up and down Croagh Patrick, I have decided to further embrace my mid-life crisis by signing up for the Tour de Kilkenny this coming August bank holiday weekend.
And that would be the 110 kilometer Tour de Kilkenny.
It should prove... interesting. I haven't ridden a road bike since my utterly awesome black Raleigh racer which I last took for a spin in the late autumn of 1991. (After that I got my first provisional driving license and it was a case of 2 wheels good, 4 wheels faster).
In preparation for Gaelforce West I bought a second hand bike (sight unseen, on ebay), and I figured if I have the bike, I might as well put it to some use. Hence the 110 kms ride around some of the more scenic roads of southern Kilkenny.
The only slight snags to this otherwise brilliant plan are:
1: My bike is in a box in the back shed behind my sister's house in County Down where, yes indeed, the Mourne Mountains do sweep down to the sea.
I, as some of you may have gathered from this blog's faint scent of vinegared rice and sun-dried salmon, am not in County Down. This means that the earliest I will get to ride my bike for the first time is some 4 days before the Tour de Kilkenny (though that could well be 3 days before as I'm not too sure if there are any pedals on the bike. Must ask my sister to check).
2: I won't be fit enough to get beyond the Kilkenny ring road. I did go for a long ride on my mountain bike last weekend around Muroran and my God people, my arse. My sorry, sore, hairy arse. I am a jogger, not a cyclist. It felt like I had been terrorized by half of San Francisco. If this is what if feels like to be gay well, lads, you're welcome to it. No objections mind, just I won't be joining ye at the YMCA. No matter how much free beer you offer me (cf. my wide-eyed experiences in various bars along Oxford Street, Sydney, circa 1996).
Anyway, unfit, probably pedal-less but secure in my hetrosexuality, I hereby issue an invitation, nay challenge to you to join me in a spin around the black and amber roads. Further details are available at the following link:
http://www.marblecitycyclers.com/tour-de-kilkenny/

Australia 16 - Lions 41

Mumble, mumble ... well, ahem, done...mutter, mutter...
(sound of humble leek pie being eaten)
mumble, mumble ... Gatland et al happily adrift on the seven seas of Leigh... mutter, mutter...
(sound of humble leek pie being choked on)
mumble, mumble ... the score would have reached triple figures if BOD had been playing ... mutter, mutter ...
(humble leek pie abandoned)
mumble, mumble ... glad to see Sexton get his first cap for Wales though ... mutter, mutter....

Brian O'Driscoll

I could rant and rave all I want (as so many others justifiably have) about the (insert your choice of expletive here) inane decision by that (insert your multiple choices of expletives here) Warren Gatland, but what's done is done.
I am not too sure if there is a Welsh word for 'schadenfreude', but should the Australians win on Saturday, our cousins across the Irish Sea are going to find themselves alone and an adrift in a sea of it.
In the meantime, here is Hitler's reaction to the dropping, nay felling of BOD.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Deg1bQt1rzQ&feature=youtu.be

Hokkaido Bears GAA

Yes, you read that title correctly. When the history of the GAA in the 21st century comes to be written, the small town of Jouzankei will merit a mention. It was there last Sunday that Hokkaido's first GAA club emerged, blinking in the strong June sunshine, unsure of itself, but willing to have a go anyway. 24 of us turned out, most of us gaels lost to parishes and towns all across Ireland, finding ourselves the other side of the world kicking an 0'Neills ball around and grinning with the sheer incongruous delight of it all.
We hailed from Kildare, Donegal, Carlow, Galway, Kerry, Dublin, Clare, Down, America, England, Australia, Japan and places in between, and if some of us had kicked better balls in younger days, we made up for the wayward passes with our consistent enthusiasm. 15 minutes aside we played and for those of us on the wrong side of 40 they were some of the toughest 15 minutes we've wheezed our way through in a long, long time. Shouts of "let it go, let it go now!" and "watch yer house!" brought a nostalgic tear to the eye, as did the sight of so many puffing furiously on fags during the half time break.
Our aim is to have a fully fledged team up and, well, if not running, jogging gently by this time next year, with the hope of participating in the Asian GAA Gaelic Games competition come the following year.
And after that, Croke Park, the third Sunday in September when the inaugural Japan teams sweeps the competition on their debut.

Sports Day

Saturday, 5:00am
Am awoken by the sound of Cian scampering down the stairs and into the toilet for an exceedingly early morning 'poo'. Today is his undokai, his first in elementary school and the boy is literally shitting himself with excitement. However, outside the rain is pouring down. I tell Sanae not bother getting up as its bound to be cancelled.
Saturday, 5:30am
I'm just drifting back to sleep when Sanae's alarm goes off and the girl gets up. It's still pouring outside. I point this out to her. In Japanese. But no, until official confirmation is received, she is in full on preparation mode. Should you live long enough in Japan you become painfully aware that following the rules too often triumphs common sense.
Saturday, 6:00am
I am just crossing over that fine line between drowsy wakefulness and pleasant slumber when the phone rings. It is the school telling us the undokai has been officially cancelled. The rain continues to pour down. Cian has started singing the 'shake samba' to Sanae's mother who is staying with us for the weekend. I give up and get up.
Saturday, 11:30am
The rain ends, the clouds clear and the sun comes shining through. Low tide is just after midday, so I grab my Bruce Jones and head for the beach. In life, my friends, you just have to play the hand that's dealt you. And if that hand is an afternoon's worth of surfing, then them be the (left-hand) breaks.

Sunday, 5:30am
Sanae's alarm goes off. There's no rain this morning. She has to be up at the school ground to claim a viewing place.
Seriously.
Parents queue up to bag the best spots around the track. By rights this is the father's job but I claim cultural ignorance of such bizarre oriental customs. Sanae told me later that when she arrived there was already a queue of 20 people ahead of her. When the school principal let them into the ground they sprinted, yes sprinted, to stake out the prime viewing spots.
Sunday, 6:00am
There is the sudden onset of an artillery barrage. Or at least it sounds that way. In Japan schools notify parents and residents that 'sports day is a go' by letting off a series of deafening fireworks. At six in the morning. As several schools throughout Muroran were holding their undokais on the same day, this resulted in a barrage of early morning explosions across the city, not unlike, I suspect, Sarajevo circa 1994.
Sunday, 8:00am
The Takahashi members of the Gaynor-Takahashi family set off for the school, a good hour before events begin. I begin eating breakfast.
Sunday, 8:30am
I am still eating breakfast but have to field an exasperated call from Sanae as to why I'm not there yet. Because, I reasonably reply, things don't begin for another half hour and it's only going to take me about 8 minutes to walk up there. Reason, however, has no place on undokai day. Only emotions are welcome, especially those that run high.
Sunday, 8:52am
Arrive at the ground. They haven't even begun the speeches yet.
Sunday, 9:00am
Speeches begin.
Sunday, 9:16am
Four speakers later, the speeches end. I have no real idea what the School Principle, the head of the PTA, the representative from the city's Board of Education, and the local residents' association said, but I'm feeling pretty fired up all the same.
Sunday, 9:20
Events begin with some blood curling speeches from the leaders of the red and white teams respectively. Unlike back home, sports days in Japan are all about the collective rather than the individual. The entire school is divided up into red and white teams and results in the various activities go towards a points total. The team with the most points wins which ensures that individual glory is subsumed into the greater good. (If only some of the Clare hurlers could buy into this philosophy).
After the near hysterical rallying of the bán and dearg troops, 6 representatives of each team come forward and engaged in a dance off.
No, seriously.
A dance off.
I was so taken aback by the sheer Zoolander like awesomeness of it all that I forgot to take a video. And I will regret that till the day I die. It was like everybody was Kung Fu fighting, but to really, really bad Japanese pop music. Still, there kicks were indeed as fast as lightening. And yes, for some of us, it was a little bit frightening.
Huh!


It took a while for both the crowd and competitors to calm down after that display of expert timing, but then it was on with the games.

And the highlights were:

(1) Musical: the 'Shake Samba' was finally revealed in all its legs-and-arms-akimbo-purple-pom-pom glory. I have previously blogged about Cian's nascent talent as this century's Nureyev, but to see it begin to bloom into its full carnival like splendour... I tell ya, he'd kick Michael Flatley's arse any day of the week.

 (2) The tug of war. Despite Cian's hackle raising roar of defiance - a sort of one man Haka - the white team were out muscled by the communist Reds. Too much individualism, not enough collective state socialism was Sanae's take on it.



 

(3) The 60 metre dash. I think the dancing took a lot out of him. That or his body was still caught up in the samba rhythm. How else to explain his unique 'windscreen wipers in heavy downpour' sprinting style.



(3) Thankfully by the time of the relay race he had managed to get his arms back under control. Ahh the relay. For sheer, heart stopping drama the only comparison I can make is with the '94 All Ireland Hurling Final between Offaly and Limerick. This race had everything - a seesawing change in positions throughout, deft baton passes, spills, falls, amazing turns of speed, and a photo finish.
You can, if you can take the tension, watch it in its entirety here.
11:30
And it's all over. At least for Cian and the rest of first class. The rest of the school has to plough on until half two, but after the relay everything else was just anti-climax. Emotionally we scaled the heights and then the sparse, wind blown tundra stretched before us and, well, I have no idea where I am trying to go with this analogy.

 

"We choose to build this human pyramid here today and do other things. Not because they are easy, but because we are Japanese".

Gaelforce West

So what are you doing on Saturday, August 17^th?

Nothing. Really? Well how about this: you and me, we rock on down to Glassilaun beach. Yeah Glassilaun, out west, way out west. Synge country, Playboy of the Western World and all that. It’s there on the road out beyond Leenane, this side of Newfoundland. 

Anyway, they’re organizing a bit of a run there, 10km I make, no, no, 14km there after telling me, all along the coast. Smashing scenery, you have the Mweelrea mountains sweeping down to the sea, you have the shore, the sand, the stones, the, eh, sheep, you know the whole John Hinde postcard thing.

So what do you say? 14km, a gentle jog along some of the most glorious, God-given scenery this island has to offer followed by pints in Gaynors in Leenaun.

Oh, hang on, there’s more apparently. A kayak section. After the run, you jump in a kayak and paddle across the fjord there. Ahh that’s lovely. Then we can double back for the pints in Leenaun.

What, hush down there, let the man speak. There’s more. Well, now. Right, it seems after the kayak there’s another bit of an auld jog up to the delphi road. Apparently its a bit boggy in places. That said there’s a wonderful wee restaurant up in Delphi that does a lovely bowl of soup. We could aim for that then - we’d need it I’d say, to be honest with you. And thus, suitably fortified we can head south back down the road for the scoops.

What?! Say again... there’s more. What? Go away. Really? A bike section. Right, yeah, I’m with you, go on. How far, like? Good jaysus, how many. 33 feckin kilometres. That’s a fair auld pedal all the same now. As far as Croagh Patrick you say. Ahh sure, if you have the weather for it and it’s lovely country to be up on the back of a bike. Plus there’s a great pub up in Murrisk that does this smashing seafood chowder. Not to mention the pints. 

So what do you say? You up for it? Course you are?

Ahh lads, don’t be telling me there’s more. There is ... what?

You what?

You feckin what?!

Your telling me, serious like, that we have to run up and down Croagh Patrick after dismounting from the bike.

That’s a big ask now. Especially after the bike. But I suppose we’ll put up and shut up. But then it’s down to Murrisk for the victuals. And let that be the end of it.

What?

It’s not what?

The end of it. You’re telling me there’s more. How much more?

12 kilometres on the bike on the back road into Westport. Why? Cause the race finishes there. Fair enough. I’ll probably be finished long before that, but I’ll give it a bit of d’auld Stephen Roche and freewheel across the finish line.

I can’t, can I. Why not? You have to leap off the rothar and run the last kilometre to the line. Run you say. Crawling would be ore like it. Probably pitifully crawling too. 

And then we’re finished? Are you sure? No swimming out and around Clew Bay or anything like that. 

Fine, grand then. We’re finished, so it’s a shower (optional), a bite to eat and off to Matt Molloys for a feed of pints. 

So you still up for it? Course you are. 

I’ll see you all then on Glassilaun beach on the morning of the 17^th. 

You can enter here.

And yes, I already have.