Mountains of perspective

It's the smell of urine in the laneway in town, it stays in your nostrils and sticks to your shoes. The pungent aroma follows you for the day, the bad smell you can't shake off. It ruins your morning, even when the smell is gone, your mind tricks you into thinking it is still there.

The introspection starts, do I smell? Can my colleagues smell it? Do they think it is me? Fortunately, my day takes hold, the noxious fumes fade and the torment dissipates.

I wonder is homelessness like the smell of piss that never fades?

They wake up with it, it follows them through their day, it torments the mind. Do they wonder is everyone looking at them and thinking... "Homeless"?

"They" seems so harsh, so distant, we're worlds apart. Hang on, we share the same streets, the same biology and often the same conversations.

I once worked in the type of sandwich shop the Celtic Tiger was reared on. Brioche, focaccia, ciabatta... You know the sort. At the end of each day the wastage was massive. We could take what we wanted and dump what we didn't. One evening I took a few sandwiches for the homeless fella on the way home.

"From where? No thanks!" A man of principles when it came to the kind of sandwich he would eat. Beggars can be choosers it would seem... and why the hell not?!

More recently, at lunchtime, my mood drove me to a slightly, slimmed down version of the "Fat Philly Meal Deal". The crisps and coke didn't make it but the chicken fillet roll and potato wedges did. I strolled shamefully back to work, taking a right turn down a lane I knew was a favourite of the homeless.

"Can you spare some change bud?", I was asked. I mumbled and shuffled on, mimicking the scene played out a million times a day. The weight of guilt and potato wedges consumed me and I turned on my heels. I thrust the wedges in his direction and rather embarrassingly said "You need these more than I do."

In McDonalds one evening. Two young ladies, in the throes of a Thursay night out, chatted aimlessly with another young man. "Where are you off to tonight?", the ladies were asked. "We're not sure, probably to a few bars. How about yourself?" they lofted back with interest. "Back to my dog and the street, I'm homeless."

What can we do for the beggar who chooses, the man whose chips are down, the fella who doesn't look homeless and the thousands for whom the sky is their only roof?

Next weekend, myself and 30 colleagues will attempt to climb the highest peak in each of the four provinces of Ireland, in one weekend. Our goal is to raise at least €15,000 for The Simon communities across Ireland.

Needless to say, I bought my hiking boots yesterday and am relying on my five a side football, tag and occasional gym experiences to get me through this one. This is going to be tough.

We start on Friday with Carrauntoohil, followed by Mweelrea and Slieve Donard on Saturday and the ascent of Lugnaquilla on Sunday.

I don't know what we are doing but I do know there will be aches and pains, wind and rain, cuts and blisters.

We're doing this because we want to make a difference. Hopefully this feat will inspire you to dig deep and give what you can to help solve a problem that impacts way too many people.

Any donation is big and will have a real impact. Click here to help.

We all have our mountains to climb, thankfully our four are physical.

Mind what you say

It's a Wednesday night in a Dublin suburb, cold and wet. We're on a 5 a side football field. A once competitive game has erupted into a minor kerfuffle. An opposition player is heading for the sin bin and himself and his team mates aren't happy about it.

A muster of peacocks has appeared and filled out their jerseys for a spot of posturing.

Most of the team's vitriol is directed at the referee, the goalkeeper's face is red with rage. From the other end of the field, he roars insult after insult at the whistleblower. His team mates join in, they surround the referee... I'm standing with my back to the goalkeeper enjoying the spectacle.

All of a sudden... who says "all of a sudden", outside of Leaving Cert Irish?

Anyway, as quick as the wind, the goalkeeper decides that one of our players should also leave the pitch for an as yet undisclosed indiscretion. Our combustible protagonist pierces the air with this rather compelling argument, "He needs to go too ref, he has to go, he has to go too for, for eh... for AGRRO!"

We've all been there, when the anticaption of something great doesn't quite live up to the eventual outcome. That feeling, when you know the spotlight is on you and you fail to deliver.

This brought a smile to my face. So I turned around, more to check that this lad was smiling, as much as anything. He wasn't.

Our eyes met, the world stood still for a moment, rain drops suspended in mid air, awaiting the outcome of this most unromantic of midweek encounters. I felt awkward staring into this man's soul, so I grinned.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH YOU BALDY, FAT C$NT", he exclaimed. My grin disappeared and I rather meekly whispered in reply, "I didn't open my mouth".

He wasn't about to get bogged down in semantics and I wasn't about to explain the concept.

I eventually regained my composure... Water off a duck's fat I suppose! No more foie gras for me.

It's been a rough couple of weeks now that I think about it.

I was at the supermarket checkout, there were two close together, it was the line for baskets. I was greated by a lovely lady, more senior than I. She dilligently scanned my purchases, bagged them and, as the final item fell into the bag, she sat back and waved her hands in front of her face in an effort to cool herself down.

She looked me dead in the eye, she didn't but it sounds better, and said "It's very hot in here!" Quick as a flash I smiled and said "Sorry, that's probably because of me!"

Quicker than a flash, her colleague on the next till, of similar vintage, said "No it's not you, there's really bad air circulation in here."

All of a sudden I felt it get a lot hotter!

After Africa

From 7 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon the Chifundo Campus is alive with the sound of children. Smiles, laughter, shrieks and yells pierce the air. We could be in any playground in the western world, we're not. We're in the heart of Zomba, one of the poorest places on earth. Broken hose pipes form skipping ropes one minute and impromptu telephones the next as imagination runs wild. The girls clap their hands while singing songs and the boys leave dust in their wake tearing after one another. In the classroom their desire to learn is insatiable, they devour books and do not stop until they understand words like "rustle", "smokey" and "Belfast". They hang on our every word and some now pronounce "thumb" with a strong Wexford accent.

It's winter in Malawi, the clock strikes 6pm and the sun disappears. Cold air replaces the scorching heat of two hours previous. Darkness invades every space. The houses in their villages have no electricity, no heating, no running water... the kids disappear across their threshold where they stay until light returns. Childhood should be full of stimulants and sensory activities as they explore their world, here it's not. "Go inside and read, draw a picture, learn a song" or "Play outside with your brothers and sisters"... worthless statements once the sun goes down on these villages.

There are no psychologists or child experts on hand but it's hard not to wonder what impact this has? A prisoner knows why they are locked up each day, these children suffer the same fate because of the lottery of their circumstance.

We all have potential and generally we are afforded the opportunity to fulfil a large part of it.

Go right back to your earliest memory of school, take a look around the classroom. Pick out your classmates, the uniforms, the pictures on the walls, the coats hung neatly on their pegs, the nature table... Delete everything except the students and keep adding kids until 99 surround you. Bring in a teacher, watch him trip over students, forced to sit on the floor, as he makes his way to the blackboard. He begins his lesson and you strain to see beyond the cluster of heads in front of you, your ears betray you as they ignore the teacher and pick up the constant background noise. This is your reality, day after day you come to primary school.

Secondary school is your goal, to get there you need to achieve 60% in your English exam. Good luck!

The Chifundo Foundation takes some of the poorest children out of this situation and gives them a chance. Your donations send these kids to private schools, where they are taught in smaller groups, by better teachers. Their education will lead them to a job and break the cycle of poverty.

One boy can draw a full skeleton and name all the parts. His father earns €30 a month as a tailor who's regarded as too old fashioned to require his services.

One morning we called the children to class. They came running, all except one, he lay motionless in the shade of the tree. He did not have the energy to move from his perch. No wonder, he hadn't been fed since the previous afternoon.

There were 25 girls in our group, innocent, happy and intelligent. Without education, the dark shadow of prostitution looms large.

There is a boy of 12 who lives with his brother and sister, his parents are dead. His brother and sister are 4 and 6. He missed the first two days of class and on the third turned up in a shirt, trousers and shoes, doing his best.

A wonderful Belfast man set about gathering discarded kids football jerseys. Each day we handed out a new jersey to three deserving recipients, by the end of the two weeks they all had one. Now there are kids wearing football jerseys with Gotze, Alonso, Coutinho and one poor fella with Ibe on the back, daring to dream. Their gratitude was incredible, bowing before us as they received their gift with open arms.

In the morning we taught them English, in the afternoon we played sports with them. The way they stared, they way they listened, the way they marvelled... If nothing else the children of Chifundo know there is something beyond their village and education can get them there.

They don't know your name, what you look like or where you are from but these children know you exist. One day, because of what you have done for them, they will express their gratitude to you in person.

When you strip everything away, circumstance, hardship, geography, disease... children are children. Check out these kids being kids!

Into Africa

"Why are you doing it?” he asked, his eyes burning a hole in my conscience. I held his inquisitive gaze for a moment before I asked him to repeat the question. Not because I'd forgotten the question, I was simply buying some time as I figured out how best to respond.

It appeared as though I had done or was about to do something outrageous, probably cruel and most likely illegal. "No, genuinely, I want to know why you are doing this?” my interrogator probed deeper.

I went all Billie Piper in my response, “Because I want to!" Fingers crossed the life of wild debauchery and ill informed choices will not be my lot too. Actually, wild debauchery doesn't sound too bad.

Alas, my friend's question is valid... and has stayed with me for the six weeks since he pricked my conscience. Now, with less than a week to go, I wonder, "Why am I heading off to coach the children in Malawi football for a week in July?"

Don't worry Billie, I do want to, but there must be more to it... and there is, I think.

These children are poor, but then what does poor mean? They live in houses with mud for a floor, most cannot read or write. Among these children prostitution has robbed them of a mother. Their families may earn as little as fifty euro a month, yet petrol costs the same as it does here.

Yet they play, they play with anything and everything. Bits of wood, broken glass, machetes... a ball made of elastic bands. I want to see what they can do with their ball and given the opportunity what they could do with a size 4 regulation football. Will their eyes fill with wonder as they chase not one or two, or ten, but thirty brand new balls in a field? What will happen if we give these children the opportunity to experience something kids in our neighbourhoods take for granted?

Maybe nothing. Or maybe it will light a spark, not to become a footballer, but to realise what they have is not all they must have and that with a little help and a lot of effort change is possible.

I want to go so I can spend time with my friend. Our lives are busy and time is precious. Social encounters in our world revolve around weddings, birthdays, stags, nights out and a lot gets lost in the haze. He is one of my greatest friends; he sees no boundaries, no obstacles, no impossibles. He and his family gave birth to the Chifundo Foundation!

He's a teacher in a foreign land. I want to hear his stories from that land as he teaches the children of Chifundo how to play the tin whistle or sing a Beatles song. The man is one of the most deadly five a side players I have ever seen, I want to play football with him and with every touch reminisce of college days gone by. A week of memories to last us past the next wedding or stag is what I want.

I don't have much but I have more than I need. These children don't have anything and need much more than that. I'm no mathematician but it would appear I have something to give. If I was in need would these children come to my aid? They don't know I exist nor have the means. I know they exist and I have the means.

Why am I doing it? Because I can help do something that might make a difference, because I want to do something that might make a difference and most of all, because these children want someone who wants to make a difference. Or so I have been told...

"How much money do you give to charity each year?” my friend asked his parents. They totted it up and realised if they pooled their resources they could do something together. They asked a friend in Malawi what they could do with this money and the response was simple...education. The Chifundo Foundation started by sponsoring 5 children through primary school in 2007. To date they have helped in the education of nearly 50 of the poorest children in Malawi.

Read all about it here! There's a donate button just waiting to be clicked too, it's on the right hand side on desktop and all the way down the bottom on mobile.

How you doin' sweaty pie?

My internal thermometer has a favourite song. It goes something like this, "I'm gonna make you sweat, sweat till you can sweat no more..." and when I cry out, I know it's gonna make me sweat some more. Sweating has become as much a part of me as my accent (who am I kidding, I don't have an accent), my hair (who am I kidding...) and my impeccable dress sense.

It's been embarrassing, funny, frustrating, humiliating and at times alienating (not always a bad thing). I first recall my sweat ducts making a proper impact on my life during my Leaving Cert exams and ever since then I have lived with the knowledge an unquenchable water source was ready and willing to pour forward at any moment.

Looking back, every moment is laced with humour. At the time, not so much. I have learned to laugh or pass it off with a blase comment, although try being blase when the shirt you walked into the bar in has turned to a darker shade of blue from the light blue you started off with. Sometimes, there's nothing you can do other than squirm and frantically wipe your brow while pretending to fix your hair. Although try convincing someone you're fixing your hair when there's not much to fix.

I was on work experience with a local radio station. I was working with the promotions team doing events. I was 16. I was self conscious. There were girls. I was having trouble hiding the sweat patches. These kind of conditions hone resourcefulness in young males. I decided that the best approach was to wear a t shirt over my t shirt. Genius. Until the extra layer caused my body temperature to rise, resulting in the inevitable. I couldn't take off a layer because that would leave me back at a wetter square one, so the obvious solution was to add a layer. I remember wearing eight t shirts one day. I looked like I was built like a brick shit house, with all the hygiene of one too.

Sport opens the flood gates. Two minutes into any game and I will be drenched. It just starts and doesn't stop. It could be the coldest day, lashing rain with intermittent snow storms and I will still sweat. Brilliant when you head up for a corner and the opposition defender gets a little too close and then immediately recoils in horror. "Holy f^ck, what the f&ck is wrong with you?!" is one of my favourite reactions, "Hard work, you should try it!", is my favourite response, if we're winning. That is of course if I am playing football against men.

Tag rugby against a mixture of men and women... a little different. It's generally a non-contact sport, but contact is inevitable. When my t shirt feels like it has just come out of the wash, the girl I run into will not thank me. Generally she will be polite and won't say anything... verbally that is. She will, however, communicate. Her face contorts slowly, she grimaces for about five seconds and her eyes burn through me. We're never gonna be friends, which is great because it's harder to grab my tag while avoiding droplets of projectile sweat!

The slightest changes in temperature have an astronomical impact. My previous employers had two offices. I worked in the freezing one and often made the trip over to the sauna version. One morning I arrived in the office to set up my laptop. The unthinkable happened, I couldn't find a socket for my machine. I began to panic. I was on all fours, fumbling around on the floor. I couldn't get the image of my crack on show for all to see out of my head. I got myself into a wild frenzy, imagining my emergence from the undergrowth being met by every colleague I had ever met staring at me.

Obviously this didn't happen, but I was in such a tizzy my sweat glands reacted like never before. My hair was soaked through, my shirt was stuck to my back, my crack was probably being eroded by the river of sweat pouring south. I was literally having a meltdown, when up pops the resident comic "Are you alright there, I didn't think showers were forecast?". I'd almost convinced myself it was barely noticeable.

Recently I was called to a meeting to have some new responsibilities and changes to my job explained. Nothing to worry about just a few more obligations. This is how it panned out:

Manager: How is your current workload?
Me: Fine, manageable, I'm not under too much stress.
My thoughts: Wow, it's warmer in here than I thought.
Manager: Obviously with the recent changes you will need to take on extra workload.
Me: That's no bother
My thoughts: Am I sweating? Ah for f*ck sake, this is awkward
Manager: So we will need you to blah... blah..
Me: ....
My thoughts: What is going on?! I'm not even listening, a drop of sweat just jumped from my forehead onto the desk.
Manager: Is that going to be a problem?
Me: I can't think why it would be
My thoughts: Is what going to be a problem?! Oh shit I haven't been listening!
My thoughts: Of course you haven't been, you're covered in sweat and probably turning pale, stop wiping your face! Wipe your face for God's sake! Don't make eye contact.
My thoughts: Just make reference to it with a joke and be done with it
Manager: So are you happy with all those changes?
Me: Yeah, sounds good.
My thoughts: She better send a mail detailing what we have just been talking about because I have been fighting an internal tsunami.

Mass... I used to dread the sign of the peace. A teenagers limp handshake is made all the more pathetic when a good grip is nigh impossible.

I once had to leave an interview I was sweating that much. I wasn't being interviewed, I wasn't even the one leading the interview. I dropped out for a glass of water and spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom with my shirt under the hand dryer!

So next time I walk into a room, subtly ratch up the radiator a couple of notches, sit back and enjoy the show. Shamu ain't got nothing on this splash zone! Just make sure you have enough of those yellow "slippery when wet" signs at the ready.

An engine, a search engine and an adventure

Myself and Google were in a happy place last night, as I left my tablet beside my bed I said, 'your destination is on the left', we both chuckled. 

Google is like a good friend, it really knows how to wreck your head but it'll be there for you when you need it. This morning we headed off on normal terrain, quickly followed by a slight left onto random farmland, nothing new there. The next left brought unchartered territory. I was now cycling up what could only be described as a cross between a dirt track and a stream. 

My hiking holiday was just about to start and I was very inappropriately dressed. We powered on through and arrived back in Carcassonne to the warmth of the hotel Ibis budget hotel.

What started off as a cracked idea grew legs, then wings and eventually wheels and became a reality. A sometimes grim but mostly a challenging, rewarding, sweaty reality. One that made me realize you don't have to be particularly organized to succeed, sometimes desire will get you there.

I used to think you could say what you liked about the French, but their English has gotten a lot better!

I was beeped at three times on my trip, once for popping out into the road before the oncoming vehicle thought safe to do so and twice when bent over at the side of the road. Obviously my arse is of greater concern to passing traffic than anything else!

My water bottle has 'you're stronger than you think' written on it. 

This journey came to pass because my final destination had no public transport links, rent a car they said. Massive train station at said destination I see, oops!

Let's end with a little medley...

One bad boy with the power to Larroque you, blowing your mind so you gotta get into five, what you waiting four, if you wanna three... Hundred kilometers in four days!

His palms are sweaty, knee weak, two bags are heavy, there's sun cream on his sweater already, his mom's P 20. He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and sweaty. He keeps on forgetting what Google wrote down, the whole cars go so loud. It opens its mouth but the words won't come out, GPS is broken now, no joking now. Lose yourself.

And I'm glad I crashed the wedding, it's better than regretting. I could have been a loser kid and ran away and hid. But memories last forever and the sun burn will get better, so I'm glad I crashed the wedding.

I just get on the bike and spin it and whether you like to admit it, this actually worked out quite well.

Keep on rolling baby!

You can't spell bride without ride!

Before we start, the church and venue were incredibly stunning, bettered only by the immaculate bride. Well worth the hair brained idea to see her smile light up the night!

The morning after the night before and reality slowly begins to descend on room 206 hotel Ibis, Montauban. My mouth is dry, my head feels sore and my room is strewn with clothes. My own clothes before the red tops among you go into overdrive! Oh and I've missed breakfast.

I said my goodbyes to my new wedding pals and bid France's version of Basil and Sybil adieu. 100 km of sun soaked, French countryside lay ahead of me. Preparation was fast becoming my middle name, as my tablet was charged to within an inch of its battery obsessed life. I wasn't going to be left high and dry this time.

And so it proved, as myself and Google reprised our roles of mutual appreciation. Soaring along perfectly laid national roads and purpose built cycle tracks. Obviously there were a few random requests to head into farmer Francois' sunflower field, which I generously acquiesced to and by Bing, Google was spot on!

As the wheels continued to turn and I moved deeper into the unknown, two things struck me. France is closed on Sundays and I was rapidly running out of water. The effects of which were made more stark by the previous night's festivities.

Shade was at a premium and I would slow to soak up the cool air when it did appear. On one occasion, not only did I slow, but I took it one step further and brought myself to a full stop. That's probably a contradiction in terms but once you hear what happened next you'll forget about it.

I'd hopped off the bike and was chewing on a few cola bottles, the Haribo variety, not the glass kind, when seemingly out of nowhere I heard a rustle at my feet. I glanced down expecting to see a bird but instead I was greeted by a snake, nothing new on a cycle one night venture, but this one was devoid of any Lycra!

He took one look at me and slithered of into the bush, figuring from the smell he'd come across something well past is sell by date.

Once back on the bike I soon realized my water levels were dangerously low, short of taking off my clothes and ringing the sweat into my bottles I was running out of ideas. Flying through villages I began craning my neck to try and spot outdoor taps, with no luck at all. Then I passed a man in his garden who looked like just the man to help a thirsty thirty something. 

I diverted into his driveway and followed up my request to fill my bottles of water with 'I didn't realize everything in France closed on Sundays', cue 'oh you're not from here?' I didn't have to be asked twice to play the Ireland card and magically my bottles were full to the brim with lemon flavored water. I was so grateful, this man breathed new life into my final 20 km.

Before I left I wanted to make sure he knew how appreciative I was, but as I write, it just sounds creepy. You can be the judge. I asked if I could give him my number, in case he is ever in Ireland and I'd get him something stronger than water. If it was Antoinette, the rural French beauty longing to escape to Dublin, the snake and the dehydration made me do it Your Honour! 

I arrived back in my campsite and slipped into my trigano, safe in the knowledge my adventure had only 40 km left to run.