Au cours de l’hiver du printemps en 2008/2009, j’en avais assez de l’Occident. Après 22 ans de résidence en Irlande, voyageant partout dans Europe et passant les étés aux États-Unis, la vie que j’avais vécue jusqu’à ce moment était trop ordinaire, trop familier pour moi. Des personnes que je connaissais et avec qui me tenais étaient semblables les uns aux autres. Sympa, oui, mais tous similaires.

Je me souviens où cela a commencé. J’étais dans la bibliothèque un jour d’avril, essayant d’écrire ma thèse. Je découvrais l’angoisse de la page blanche (une chose à laquelle je deviendrais bien habitué). Alors, j’ai rangé mes livres et j’ai commencé à rechercher mes options pour l’été, après avoir obtenu mon diplôme. Un autre été sous le soleil en Californie était hors de question. Trop facile, trop familier.

Pour une raison quelconque, je voulais aller en Afrique. Mais je voulais aussi faire quelque chose qui me préparerait pour ma mâitrise, qui devait commencer en Octobre. Une mâitrise en journalisme, un domaine mourrant.

Google était mon ami. « Stages de journalisme en Afrique », j’ai écrit. Après moins d’une demi heure, j’avais trouvé un stage au Ghana. Ghana! Pourquoi pas? Mon joueur de soccer coup de cœur, Tony Yeboah, était Ghanéen. Ils parlent l’anglais au Ghana. Le Ghana, c’est paisible. Il y a des plages au Ghana. Alors, c’est le Ghana. Je ne savais pas alors, mais ce pays magnifique en Afrique de l’Ouest deviendrait une énorme partie de ma vie.

Deux mois plus tard je suis arrivé à Accra, la capitale du Ghana, chez moi pour les trois prochains mois. Mon logement était une petite maison au milieu d’une école, dirigée par Madame Gertrude, qui vivait aussi à la maison. Gertrude, une veuve avec beaucoup de fierté dans son travail, sa maison et sa famille, était dans la soixantaine. Quand elle est morte d’un cancer un an plus tard, j’ai marché vers la mer près de ma maison en Irlande et je pleurais pendant une heure environ. J’ai promis que je reviendrais à la voir un jour, et je n’ai jamais fait. J’aimais cette femme.

Pour le premier mois, je travaillais pour un journal local qui s’appelait The National Trust. Le chef et éditeur, Theo, était dingue. Il était parti en exil volontaire en Allemagne pour éviter un régime militaire dans les années 1980, et je pense que cela a conduit à un sentiment permanent de paranoïa en lui. Son héros était Robert Mugabe, le dirigeant du Zimbabwe.

La première fois que le journal avons imprimé, nous étions dans le bureau lorsque l’électricité a cessé de fonctionner. Alors, il n’était pas possible d’imprimer les journaux. Nous avons dû attendre quelques jours de plus.

Après un mois avec Theo et le groupe, j’ai commencé à travailler pour The Ghanaian Times, un grand quotidien. L’atmosphère était beaucoup plus formelle que celui chez The National Trust. Je devais porter une chemise et un pantalon et assister à des conférences de presse. Je transpirais assez cet été pour créer un nouvel océan.

Je travaillais du lundi au jeudi chaque semaine, donc chaque fin de semaine je suis allé multiple régions du pays. Mon dieu, se souvenir maintenant les lieux et les gens que j’ai vus à l’époque, ça me fait sourire.

L’été suivant, je regardais la coupe du monde, le match du Ghana contre les États-Unis. Quand K-P Boateng a marqué un but après moins de cinq minutes, j’étais fou de joie. Je ne pouvais pas m’empêcher d’être en amour avec le pays et ses habitants, même après douze mois.

Last week I was in a downtown supermarket buying a six-pack of beer. The supermarket is about to close down and was selling its stock at a discount. Many of the items you might expect to find in a supermarket were all gone.

Including cigarettes.

There was a middle-aged man standing at the check-out who just couldn’t get his head around the fact this supermarket didn’t have any cigarettes.

‘Mais c’est un supermarché, comment se fait que vous n’avez pas des cigarettes?’

‘Parce que ce supermarché est sur ​​le point de fermer. Après février, il y aura pas un supermarché ici.’

‘Mais c’est un supermarché! Vous devriez stocker des cigarettes!’

After this went back and forth a few times like the harmonic motion of someone pressing on a spring and being surprised each time that it actually springs back, I chimed in. As the person next in line, I was getting frustrated. I wanted to buy my beer and get to my friend’s place.

‘Monsieur, il y a plusieurs dépanneurs dans ce coin oú vous pouvez acheter des cigarettes.’

I then listed the various stores within a one minute walk where he could buy his smokes. At this point, I should note that the check-out girl’s first language was clearly not French. I would guess she was either from out of province or a West Island anglophone, but she spoke French, albeit with an accent. At no point did she attempt to engage the man in any language other than French.

When I spoke, the man didn’t react to the fact that I was helping him find his precious cigarettes. Instead, he said ‘Grâce à Dieu, quelqu’un qui peut parler français correctement. Un vrai Québécois!’ (Thank God, someone who can speak French properly. A true Québécois!) He said it without a hint of sarcasm.

What? Two things here:

– I am not ‘un vrai québécois’. I’ve lived here for two years in total. Hopefully one day I can call myself a real Quebecer, but I have a feeling that this is a decision and a label that is made for me, rather than one I make for myself.

– The girl’s French was at least as good as mine, probably better.

At first I ignored the comment and said to the man (in French) that I was actually heading towards the métro station and could show him a store on the way, but he was on a roll. Maybe he needed some nicotine to calm down.

‘Je suis si heureux d’être servi en français par un vrai Québécois!’

Once again — what? At this point I had to tell him that I’m from from Ireland. Additionally, I clearly don’t sound like a local. Furthermore, I wasn’t there to serve — I wanted to buy beer. Lastly, the man had been served in French by the girl in the first place. That last bit is important.

‘Je ne suis pas québécois, je viens d’Irlande et j’habitais là-bas jusq’à j’avais 24 ans. J’ai démenagé ici il y a trois ans. Voulez-vous que je vous dise où trouver des cigarettes ou pas?’

The man frowned and told me that I could learn French all I want, but because I’m from another place I’ll never be a true local — un vrai québécois.

I ignored it, nodded at the girl, rolled my eyes, bought my beer and got out. Just as I was heading to the door, the man shouted . . .

‘Hey monsieur, hey monsieur! Connais-tu endroit oú je pourrais acheter des cigarettes?’

Well, having stomped all over my good will and told me I’ll never fit in . . . No.

We’re now hearing from on top that French, and only French, is acceptable in retail in Montreal, but when other clients patronise me and others for attempting to speak it, we’re left thinking — why should we bother? Debates about whether employees should use the bilingual expression “Bonjour/Hi” when greeting customers in Montreal are completely absurd and are a monumental waste of time, money and energy.

Instead of thinking ‘who is un vrai québécois?’ or ‘where can I buy cigarettes?’ the man (and the government) could have been thinking —

‘Why is this supermarket closing down?’

 

Sports are wonderful. I think we can all agree on that (ok, maybe not everybody). For millennia, people from all corners of the world have been engrossed in participating in, watching and consuming the various games and competitions that have come and gone, with a weird sort of social evolution resulting in a strange phenomenon – the modern sports fan. Sycophantic and carefree, naïve and romantic, the sports fan is a marketer’s dream. Most of us know we’re a bit ridiculous, often becoming aware of the absurdity of investing so much emotional energy into something so fleeting.

Most sports fans are decent people looking for a bit of entertainment, and if that transcends into feeling part of some sort of community, all the better. There’s no harm in that. But each individual sport tends to attract a subset of fans that, although a minority, tend to be more annoying than their compatriots. Below, I’ve listed some of these groups.

Golf – White American middle-aged males dressing like they’re actually playing.

There’s a reason why the only major golf tournament I can watch close to its entirety is the British Open – there is a welcome dearth of white American middle-aged males dressing like they’re about to tee off. Watching golf from the United States is cringe-worthy. Looking at the galleries, you’ll observe a sea of flatterers and sycophants, with at least one idiot prepared to shout “get in the hole!” after Every. Damn. Shot. You’ll also regularly hear them shout “great golf shot!” which helps to remind us which sport we are following. Oh sorry, I though this was a tennis match – thanks for reminding me that it’s golf.

These Bermuda shorts-wearing, baseball cap-covered folk often refer to their heroes by their first names – Tiger, Phil, Bubba, etc. – though they seem to have an inability to learn how to pronounce ‘Pádraig’, even after many years. These people are likely to be Republican voting and are often mildly racist, as can be seen when they refer to “Tiger” as being “well-spoken”.

GAA – Nationalists telling me that my tepid interest makes me less Irish than them.

Gaelic Games – football and hurling – are great sports. Fast, skillful and tactical, people from Ireland ought to be proud of them. Unlike many Irish men and women, however, I was brought up in a home where soccer reigned supreme, with a dash of rugby and whatever you’re having yourself thrown in. I’d always watch the All-Ireland finals, but beyond that I had, at most, a passing interest. I tried hard to fall in love with Gaelic Games, including one summer when I went to a couple of games in Croke Park, but it didn’t quite work out. Instead, I continued to channel my sporting patriotism through our international soccer team (a case of self-harm if ever there was one).

It’s fantastic to observe the visual aesthetic of thousands decked out in county colours roaming around Croke Park. Football and hurling have done more than anything to promote and maintain a sense of county identity. Alas, Gaelic Games has, and continues to have, a hyper-nationalist side that is creepy. On more than one occasion I’ve had my Irishness called into question because I don’t avidly follow our national sports. One of these obnoxious people, while telling me that he was more Irish than me, showed me his tattoo, which said ‘26+6=1’ over a tricolor. It’s a pity, because Gaelic Games are damn fine sports and the majority of fans are glad to support their local club and county.

Rugby – When they ridicule American Football because the players wear pads.

This often happens when some rugby fans (a minority) watch American Football – “look at those pansies with their pads and helmets . . . they should come and play some rugby and see what real men are made of . . .” ETCETERA Et-frickin-cetera ad infinitum.

What they don’t realise is that, in spite of the fact that there is a similarly-shaped ball and posts, these are actually different sports with different rules. I could go on and on, but the upshot is that if American Football players did not wear pads and helmets, there would be deaths each week in the NFL.

Hockey* – Fight! Fight! Fight!

I’ve accepted that fighting is ingrained in hockey and is likely to stay, but on more than one occasion I’ve had hockey fans tell me that fighting is the best thing about the sport. I’ve had people show me videos on their phones of their favourite fights, some of which involve themselves. The best thing about hockey is not fighting, which tends to be premeditated between certain ‘enforcers’ and therefore not just a spontaneous outpouring of energy and emotion. The best things about hockey are its constant end-to-end plays, incredible skill, strength and teamwork, spectacular shots and saves, and sheer entertainment. Next to all that, the fighting is quite boring. And that makes those who promote it as the game’s defining and best quality similarly boring . . . and annoying.

Soccer – “I fucking hate scousers, me.” Get a grip. You’re from Killiney.

Usually found perched on a stool in a suburban pub, these people have become convinced that their support of Liverpool or Manchester United means they must hate “mancs” or “scousers”. They’ll even sing songs about how much they hate them, often mimicking the accents of “mancs” or “scousers” while doing so.

Baseball – Not actually interested at all in what’s going on.

I’ve been told that going to a baseball game is great fun. Oh you’ll love it. There’s food, there’s drinks, there’s big plays . . . oh you’ll just love it!

How about no?

I’ve been to three Major League Baseball games and each time I’ve felt completely out of place. The $12 warm-ish Coors Light I can just about deal with, and the weather is usually nice, but pretty much nobody present seems to actually care about what’s going on in the game. They’ll often turn up after the first inning and leave (leave!) before the game is finished, even though it might still be very much undecided. Then you have the high-fiving. Oh, it’s relentless. A group of people wearing shirts at least two sizes two large will turn up an hour into the game, sip on their $12 Coors Light and $8 rubber hot dog, not watch, then when they hear a big noise they’ll shout ‘Woooooo!!’ and high-five each other for about 45 seconds.

“Oh man, A-Rod smacked that one out of the ballpark real good.”

Shut it you goon. You weren’t even watching.

Basketball/Aussie Rules/American Football – Soccer has too few goals. Make the nets bigger!

Running across some fans of these three sports is a concept that is lacking in their brains – delayed gratification, the idea that if you wait for something, the value of that thing will be much greater when it arrives.

Would you rather have a single McDonald’s hamburger twice a day, or one fillet steak every Sunday? Same concept. Yes, there are fewer goals, but when they come (and they average around 2.5-3 per 90 minutes, about the same mean gap between touchdowns in American Football, including time when the clock is stopped) that makes each one of greater value to the team, and therefore to the game and by extension to the fans, than, say, a basket or field goal.

Delayed gratification . . . try it some time.

 

* Ice hockey, not field hockey.

Conservative Party election poster, 1964.

 

Conservative Party van to drive through housing estates, 2013.

 

This van will drive around Barnet, Hounslow, Barking and Dagenham, Ealing, Brent and Redbridge, all in the Greater London area, displaying a number that immigrants can text to arrange a safe passage “home”, despite the fact that the UK may have been their home for decades.

The Conservative Party of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is a parody of itself.

It’s been about five and a half weeks since I landed back in Montreal as a resident once again, though it feels like about a year. Here’s a brief rundown of what I’ve been up to.

The most fun project I’ve worked on so far this year was an article I did for French Living magazine. French Living is an Australia-based publication aimed at francophiles, so obviously a piece on Montreal is something they would be interested in. How did I get this gig? The editor, the wonderful Claire Chaffey, was both a housemate and work colleague of mine in Accra, Ghana from June to August, 2009. We both interned at the National Trust and Ghanaian Times newspapers. I haven’t seen Claire since then, but I’ve kept in touch with her and her husband, Sam, for the past four years.

The first time I met Claire was on a rain-soaked June morning down by the equator. I had overslept on my first morning before our orientation around Accra, so her first impression of me was of a bleary-eyed pale kid wearing only a pair of boxers, hand outstretched for the introductory formalities, having been roused a minute before scheduled departure time. Fortunately by that afternoon I had redeemed myself somewhat and we struck up a solid friendship. We even had a joint byline on the front page of the Ghanaian Times. I was delighted when she asked me to do some work for French Living and made sure to find interviewees that would interest her and the readership. I managed to source an outgoing, ambitious couple from Perth who were glad to talk about their experience in Montreal.

The bulk of my professional work these past few weeks, however, has been with Moving2Canada, an online resource that helps immigrants move to Canada. Moving2Canada is also a registered recruitment agency and has thousands of people in its international network. I did some work on spec for the founder of this company last November, and in March he asked me to become editor of the website. It’s been a great, if at times challenging, experience, but I’m learning a lot and feel confident that I’m providing top quality work to the organisation. The initial project has been a proofreading and optimization job on the existing content, but we’re now getting to a stage where I’ll be involved in creating new content and expanding the site in new directions. It’s an exciting project that I’m delighted to be a part of.

On top of all this I’ve been bartending at McKibbin’s on Bishop St. It’s a casual place with wonderful, amazing staff and happy, unpretentious regulars. I work anywhere between 30 and 45 hours a week there, so with professional work on top it’s fair to say I’ve been a busy man.

Outside of work, I’ve been reminded of the fickle, extreme nature of Montreal weather. Between the 19^th and 20^th of April, for example, the temperature ranged from -1°C to 22°C. Look, here’s the evidence.

This means that within 24 hours I experienced a range of temperatures that would be expected in Dublin across an entire year. In the past month I’ve sat sweltering in a park, while at other times wished my gloves were thicker. It’s very odd, but I like it.

But summer is coming, which means balconies, football, the mountain and long evenings spent on patios. Oh, and work – that too. I’ll end this post with a photo of the mountain I took yesterday morning while eating breakfast on my balcony.