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The Palm in Dubai - originally modelled on a sliotar by a hurling-mad Arab

This week Resident Expert Ger Manas returns after a period away sampling the delights of the Gulf. Bad news for him is he might be going back.

I came back there the other day to the wind and the coul. I’d been out on holidays with the brother in law and his missus in them Gulf States. Yer man has a load of property interests out there that you could shake a stick at - not like here where he’s goin down the tubes faster than the Cork hurlin’ team.

He suggested meself and the wife go across to float about in one of them dhow jobs and see the craic up and down thon Creek. One day he had to go off to a meeting and I headed on on me own - by jaze I literally ended in the shit up the creek without a paddle. I got chattin to these two  young wans from Cork  about camogie  - players they were from one of the dacent clubs down there, were out in Dubai for a bit of ‘retail therapy’ as they called it. No sign of any husbands but I could guess they were probably sittin at home chewin the nails waitin’ on the VISA bill.

Anyhow, we were chattin about physical training for camogs - as you do. They got to askin me about tacklin drills. I was showin them this warm up we do in training that involves you keeping yourself between the sliotar and your opponent and controllin’ the ball. It requires good use of the arse and elbows and to be honest if a camogs got a good big backside on her, which to be honest less of them do these days with all that core training they do and all them support yokes they wear nowadays to stop excessive shudderin and wobblin, then the drill works a treat. I was showing these two yokes this drill outside a restaurant using a brush and a couple of mangoes I’d bought. I was shoutin to one of them “Back onto me, back on to me…” when one of them police fellas arrive. Jazes but he was the door hoor. Try explainin to one of them boys that I was talking camogie. Course that meant as much to him as if I’d be tellin him what pigs ate for breakfast - he got more and more revved - fornicatin he thought we were. I spoke slowly and louder and was saying “It’s great craic, the girls houl the stick in wan hand, the wrist action is important - they try to pull hard or get it up if they can.” One of the girls this stage tried to get offside but yer man’s friends had arrived in their car at this stage and were doin a wile bit of jabberin and pointin altogether.

I only found out later about them two wans that got put in gaol for getting it on down on the beach. At least they were supposed to be up to something. All I was at was demonstratin a trainin’ drill. After bit of explainin and that by the fella in the restaurant who was from Hackballscross direction the cop reluctantly decided to let me go but not before he gave me a wile bollicksing about “respect for young women”. The young wan Deirdre, she got it worse.

What’s all this got to do with the price of beans? Well, home I gets a few days later and our camogie captain rings me up. “Ger,” sez this wan “The girls were chattin and we’re for headin to play in an oul sevens competition and we were wonderin if you would go with us for the craic.”

“Where is it?” Sez I thinking she was maybe talking about the Kilmacuds or the competition over in Galsgow we went to once.

When she sez Dubai, I near dropped. “I’ll think about it sez I”.

It turned out that she had known one of the girls from playin’ colleges with her and yer wan had sent her a text message to tell she’d met me and the craic with the Arabian policeman. There was me havin’ visions of being some big turk’s bitch for six months and these women were crackin their holes laughin’ at me. Hoors. twas a kick in the hole they needed.

So there ye have  it - we’re for headin’ to Dubai if we can all afford it. The club committee’s tould the players they cannot fundraise in any way because of other developments in the club. I reckon its cos them bollixes never thought of it first but no matter. Someone asked me at the meeting what would happend if some sheikh took a shine to one of our players. Sez I “ye’d better buy a bigger field to fit a pile of camels in beside them cows, llamas and ostrich ye have. That daughter of yours woukld be worth a right few bastes.”

Anyway, to be honest I think them Arab boys would have their work cut out dealin with a camog in the house. Bad enough having to train them they’re that f*** unpredictable and hard to work with. Imagine living with one. Ye wouldn’t wish it on an Arab policeman!

Transportation for life - for eating all the pies

Despite their claims to be the greatest sporting nation on Earth, fears are growing that in fact Australia is becoming a bunch of lardasses.

Talking Balls research reveals that the nation of convicts, sheepstealers, sledgers, bush rangers and boomerangers has boosted its fizzy drink intake by a shocking 240% since 1970; its burger intake by 50% as well as pushing the envelope for inactivity. Plus the average size of a bag of Aussie chips has increased by a whopping great 66%. A far cry from the nation of elite athletes they would have you believe they are.

And Aussie rules club Carlton, home to the O hAilpin brothers, is taking its own drastic steps to punish overindulging players. They have threatened to humiliate players that return overweight or unfit for the first pre-season training session. Yes, Blues players have been warned by coach Brett Ratten to keep in shape on their two-month holiday, with punishment awaiting those who fail.

The playing list has been split into groups of three, and if one player returns out of condition all three will be forced to train with VFL affiliate Northern Bullants. Only when the player returns to the required fitness levels will the group be allowed back to Carlton training. Carlton did not conduct fitness sessions during the break and has been let down in recent years by a number of individuals. Carlton vice-captain Nick Stevens has admitted to returning to pre-season training overweight in 2006 and ‘08.

It is understood that during his recent trip home to Corcaigh, Setanta had to lay off Ma O hAilpin’s cooking. None of those fry ups with loads of Clonakilty Black Pudding, half a dozen Rashers and Hodgins traditional Cork sausages. No, it was up every morning at 4.00am to run over round the ring of Kerry, up past the Cliffs of Moher and down through Limerick junction with the brother and Donal Óg.

Come a long way - moves afoot to bring back Old Style Playing Gear?

The good lassies of the Camogie Association have invited folk in all units of the assoication to give their feeedback back on An Treoraí Oifigiúil. Now there’s asking for trouble. For the uninitiated, that is the Rulebook of the Camogie Association - it covers rulings on issues on and off the pitch, playing rules and other items that contribute to the running of Ireland’s premier sport for women, other than avoiding drunk men of course.

The official spiel tells us that ”a small sub-group of Ardcomhairle has been tasked with examining An Treoraí Oifigiúil with a view to updating the Camogie Associations’ Constitution and the non-playing Rules if necessary.  As part of this examination we would welcome input from all units of the Association.”

So here’s your chance to influence the next version of the rulebook. Is it explicit enough on players uniforms? Should thongs be banned or skorts be skorter? Should camogs switch to beach volleyball attire - surely a crowd puller for those early winter games? What about restrictions on player use of sun shimmer due to its Sunny Delight influence on TV coverage? Maybe more high profile marketing of good looking players and tightening up on the après match antics that are inevitable when more than two drunk camogs get together? What about a trip for the Camogie All Stars, the poor relations of gaeldom? All these questions burn, burn, burn.

Consideration of the rule book seems to be flavour of the month with a strong caucus in the GAA also calling for an overhaul of disiplinary rule to avoid some of the shambolic decisions witnessed in recent years as a result of the DRA. What ever happened Paddy Bradley’s suspension anyone? We digress.

But back to the camogie association. Feedback on An Treoraí Oifigiúil is all well and good - to Talking Balls it is an effective enough document if implemented and used properly by Camogie Officialdom. And that’s a big IF - “If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too”. It is the people charged with implementing the rules that the challenge lies with - do they understand the rules? Have they read them? Do they abide by them? Do they know what they’re talking about?. We’ll say no more at this stage.

Talking Balls encourages our sisters in camogiedom to participate in this initiative and also to book your places on the reconvened club convention in Croker when it is rescheduled early in 2009. That is the only possible way to help the organisation move forward. Easy to complain, better to do something about it.

Mná na hÉireann Abú!

“porcelain slender grip on the hurl…”

The goings on over the last year have made one particular coach ask not what he has done for his club but what his camogs have done for his blood pressure.

It all started one evening in a local bar. Our man had made the near fatal mistake of agreeing to coach the club camogie team for one night and one night only. The previous management setup had walked having had some success and succumbed to a better offer elsewhere. Less said the better.

Our coach’s one night in May was a pleasant enough experience but he soon discovered that coaching a bunch of girls aged 16-23 with one or two other ladies of advancing years was not the homely situation he thought it would be. Behind the matronly skirts of camogie there was an edge. A real edge. To the uninitiated camogie virgin coach this is a game played by unfit larger ladies that would be better sticking to the sofa and Sex in the City. Not so my friend discovered. Not so.

Our man entered a world that was deeply wondrous and strange but highly, highly enjoyable. After his one night love affair with the game he parked the subject and concentrated on the senior hurlers - a dedicated bunch that were determined to mark their passing with at least some achievement. But onwards to that night in the bar, the uncompromising camogie captain, centre back and a county star in her own right, as persuasive in her conversation as in her tackling marked him for attention. He was convinced, reluctantly, but with a hint of enthusiasm to coach the camogs for one year only.

Well, one year has passed into three. Coaching is as much about the coach learning as the players learning. So what has he learned? That camogs train their asses off. That they work as hard as any fellas he’s ever worked with. That the turnouts at training tend to be better. That they have an insatiable lust for many things, but mainly to learn and get better. That they can sledge with the best and that’s only their own teammates. At times in training he has to walk away shocked at the chat of young ladies but laughing all the same. And their skorts? A thing of wonder. Feminine, shapely and doing justice to the physiques they take the care to look after. When they lift and shape to strike it is a thing of rare beauty - much better than kicking the larger ball. Porcelain slender grip on the hurl, the wrists flick and sliotar travels. Absolute grace under pressure.

And our man has discovered that when they play, camogs play to win. And win they do, and boys do they enjoy it.

But that was three years ago, this is now. And he’s still there. Some sport with this camogie. Forget football, this is the real thing.

The Old School Hurler celebrates every victory like it’s his last

This article first appeared in the All Ireland Hurling Final programme. By request, we reproduce it here in full.

The tale of the Returning Old School Hurler, like the story of the man who’d been abducted by aliens only to come back to earth, is a tale worth telling.

In a club far away from the heartland of the Déise and the Cats lives our man. A Legend perhaps. The Returning Old School Hurler may have emigrated, succumbed to a fragrant or, more likely, nagging wife, or over-depended on the drink. Now he’s returned, pressed backed into service, reluctantly, with a gnawing in the pit of his now-larger-gut.

Our man, as someone that could ‘hurl a bit’ is asked to put his shoulder to the wheel one last time, to help a posse of precocious young Turks find their own feet at senior level. His role? To pull hard, early and often; to show example; to demonstrate his guile and to dispense restorative justice to liberty-takers, if required of course. The latter achieved with as much subtlety and aplomb as the deft flicks by which he lifts and clears the ball from a melee of players on the edge of his own square.

In his day Lucozade was something brought to hospital; on a coul day a t-shirt worn under your jersey - not one of these skintight affairs that looked like something guys would wear to a nightclub called the Pink Paradiso. The balls too seemed lighter these days - in the mists of time poccing a water-logged sliotar over the bar late on to seal victory was a valuable life-skill, requiring wrists of iron and the swing of Thor to heft the hurley. And what of the hurley itself?

He returns to his mother’s garage to retrieve his sticks - linseed oiled and sprung, long, and elegant, with narrow grips of bare ash, sweeping down in curves sweetly-grained to a supremely crafted bas with honed blade. When he pulled them from his bag, the dressing room fell to silence, staring in wonder - bananas temporarily unchewed and Energise undrank. Our man pondering the unexpected interest, but saying nothing - as usual. Short shorts, too tight for comfort, a badge-faded battle-worn jersey - barely legible: County Final 1989.

On the field he raised a greying eyebrow - the young Turks’ hurls like malnourished saplings beside his own - colourfully gripped but armlength short it seemed to him. Not for the Returning Old School Hurler - his hands dipped in rosin, sliotar seized from the air with the speed of a cobra strike. The 37″ hurley? He could hook a man across the road twas that long, but could he wield it? Oh yes. In style. With panache. In any situation.

Gradually the younger players knew - they were in the presence of a higher being. When he trained, they watched. When he played, they played. And when he finally spoke, they listened.

Old School. Twas as if he’d never been away you know.

They come from a Land Down Under

Dame Edna, Sydney Opera House, Steve Irwin, Kylie Minogue, big f***in kangaroos, Ricky Nixon, David Campese? What have they all got in common?

Well, they’re Bloody Australians, that’s what. To celebrate our lads’ latest bushwhackin’ with those big hoors in their overtight tank tops, we’re giving away a free Ozzy Rules t-shirt for the whole of October along with any order we get online or by telephone. What credit crunch?

Yes indeed, it’s that time of the year again - summer’s over, club championship starts. SFA to look forward to until Christmas EXCEPT for the International Rules. As the days get shorter and the nights get longer we all look forward to a bit of action down under. Can Sean Cav and his mates turn the tables or will the Aussies take the heads off them again the way Ozzy bit the head off that Bat. Just ask Philly Jordan!

If you’re planning to head Down Under make sure you take precautions. . . One young lady from these shores interested in following the lads to Oz last time, took a tour round the outback between games. She hooked up with a rough and ready fella with the kinda desperate look in his eye she’d last seen in Wesht Kerry.

Off they went, back to his place. Having powdered her nose and whatnot for the big night ahead, she emerged from the bog to find him stripped and ready for the throw-in, all the furniture piled up in the corner. “I’ve never been with a woman before,” sez Bruce, “but if it’s anything like a kangaroo, I’m gonna need all the room I can get.”

The Gooch - no problem with his bodily fluids

According to recent research carried out by Lucozade Sport, GAA players sweat more than them overpaid fancy dan poseurs in soccer. GAA players lose a dripping great 1.25 litres of sweat per match whereas the nancy-poofter-boys of soccer only lose a pathetic 1.1 litre.

And GAA men beat soccer hands down in the amount of liquid they consume at training. GAA players guzzled up to three litres of fluid whilst training, with a mean fluid intake during a training session of 760 ml. Professional soccer players have been reported to consume a measly 303ml to 971ml.

The survey also revealed that 25% of players reporting to GAA training were already in a dehydrated state. The research did not include data taken from Tyrone or Kerry players following the recent All Ireland Final.

The research suggests that more than one quarter of all GAA players did not consume adequate fluids in the period leading up to training. In each squad tested, the range of dehydrated players varied from 10% to 33% suggesting some players take to the water like ducks, whilst others duck it altogether.

84.4%, or 211 of 250 players tested, experienced some degree of dehydration and loss in body mass during training itself. However, 98.8% of players managed to maintain adequate hydration status during the training session indicating that the majority of players voluntarily drink adequate fluids to replace sweat losses. We are interested to know who the 39 lazy hoors that experienced no dehydration. Were these fellas like disinterested U-12s sent out by their da’s to play, interested more in picking flowers and leisurely booting the ball the road they were facing?

Talking Balls can also verify that in its own research study conducted over the weekend of 20/21/22 September, Lucozade Sport was proven when tested as an effective hangover cure. Many thanks to Lucozade Sport and Wilson Hartnell Public Relations for their kind sponsorship of Talking Balls research study. Please note: No animals were harmed during the course of this research.

Kerry supporters. In denial. Anything at all in common with the DUP?

Since the All Ireland Football Final the GAA has shown just what a broad church it is. In fact, going by recent coverage the GAA appeals to more people than ever. For instance for the local person there’s the ongoing club and parish rivalry; for the County fanatic theres the rivalry with the neighbouring shower of B*****ds up the road. For the man looking the international sporting dimension there’s Nickey’s great Australian folly. And, for political dinosaurs there is the cross border dimension. It is the sign of a truly innovative, forward looking and flexible institution that it can be all things to all men. Long may it continue.

Now there’s that Gregory Campbell. What a great Minister for Sport he is - he’s willing to tolerate abuse from his own side and the other - in fact Gregory Campbell is so open minded that he doesn’t mind who he offends. He knows all too well the trouble GAA clubs have encountered - the glass sprinkled on pitches, the graffiti, the abuse - but he has offered great encouragement and leadership. He has also identified a particular new angle on the GAA agenda which the rest of us were all too dumb to notice. Us morons.

Yes, in offering heartfelt and hearty congratulations Gregory set aside any anti-Tyrone bias he might have hailing from Derry (Ardmore I think would be his nearest club) and welcomed the success of Mickey Harte’s men unequivocally. Sez the bould Gregory:

“I passed on my best wishes to Co Tyrone GAA football team which obviously is a Northern Ireland team in their victory over Co Kerry GAA Team from the Republic of Ireland in the GAA football final. It is a factual position that Tyrone is a county in Northern Ireland and Kerry is a county in the Republic of Ireland . This year’s GAA final amounted to an ‘international’ event. In any international tournament involving a team from Northern Ireland competing with a team from another country, I normally support the team representing Northern Ireland.”

Note that Gregory religiously supports Raonaithe Glaschu, that well-known team from the ‘North’.

It is hope that in terms of reciprocation and as a mark of gratitude to Gregory for his open support for the Red Hands, that Tyrone fans will reciprocate and get behind Northern Ireland’s team in forthcoming matches as they too take on international opposition. Support, lads but not as we know it!!

Some Miners make it, just like their canaries

On the back of Tyrone’s Minor/Senior All Ireland double there has been a lot of guff about the future of Tyrone football. The so-called experts reckon that of any successful All Ireland Minor team, as few as maybe three or four will make it through to represent the county at senior level. A cursory glance at teamsheets of yore throws up a whiff of nostalgia and raises the inevitable question what happened to your man? Talking Balls investigates.

We spoke to one goalkeeper from a successful minor side in the eighties. He had saved last minute penalties and dived at the feet of more goalsharks that Jacques Cousteau.

“I went off to England to play soccer. They signed me up and like a fool, off I went, my head full of nonsense. I was homesick and lonely, I missed the club but I stuck it out. I didn’t want to be labelled a failure. I played in the Hiace Pick Up trophy but it was nothin’ like Croke Park in September. I had WAGs chasin’ me, I had the car and the house but them boys were only interested in the money. Out kissing the badge, sure they kissed a different one every year.” He’s back coaching with his local GAA club and boy does he love it.

One fella we tracked down to a welder’s yard up North. He had played no 11 on a sprightly Ulster team that looked set to wipe out all that stood in its path, our guy the man of the moment. It all went through him and he was tipped for great things as a senior.

Not so. “I stepped on a nail two weeks after the All Ireland semi final and had to be hospitalised with blood poisoning. When I was in there I met a nurse from the Phillipines called Rosanna. She was giving me a bed bath one night and sure enough when our eyes met across the bedpan it was love at first sight . We toured the world and had nine weans. Now I’m out kicking football with the same boys in our over forties team. Sure it’s deadly altogether.”

Down the wesht we came across a big lad who towered his way through an All Ireland campaign. He had long since succumbed to the demon drink, a haunted look in his eyes when we spoke. The first pints thrust under his nose by backslappers. He didn’t like the taste much but pretty soon attracted the sobriquet George for the amount of women and pints he went through. Where did it all go wrong we asked him. His answer? “It didn’t.”

A number of young fellas we met over the last week had won All Ireland medals at minor, under 21 and senior. What is it that makes these lads different? Is it the talent? Is it the hard work? The skill level? The fitness? A mixture of all the above? Whatever.

For everyone, life follows a different path. Not worse, just different.

Disclaimer: Any similarity to real life players is purely intentional.

Eva Mendes. Seán Óg’s Rebel Belle

Mars have relaunched their iconic ’Mars a Day Helps You Work Rest and Play’ campaign with a little help from their friends in the GAA and other sports. 

The PR blurb from Mars tells Talking Balls that every sports star had a different way of relaxing the night before the-game, with many of the younger stars using i-pods and DVD’s. Former Munster Rugby Captain Anthony Foley rather unusually stated he relaxed by “walking to and back from his local-petrol station”. Looper.

Former Cork star turned pundit, Tomas Mulcahy stated that Cork hurlers used to relax the night before an All-Ireland by-spending a night together at the dogs in Shelbourne Park! Rather predictably hurling machine Seán Óg Ó hAilpín relaxed by “performing stretches listening-to my i-pod”.

And while most people stated that their ideal way of spending down time was - holidaying with loved ones, some were brave enough to admit their real-fantasy.

Joe Canning admitted that should he lead Galway to All-Ireland-success, a holiday in the Caribbean with Halle Berry would be his ideal way-to relax, while Seán Óg whom many thought only used his balls for pucking, revealed that Eva Mendes on any Island in the Pacific would make his day. Pucking about, under the setting sun. Bliss.

Watching Eva bend, lift and shape to strike would cause any hurler to straighten up his stick.