Hail, Hail! Ricky Hoops – part one.

I met Ricky outside the gym in the University of East Anlgia, Norwich. I was standing outside the gym entrance, texting someone before I went inside, when I heard a loud voice shouting.

“Hail, Hail!”

I didn’t look up. The voice shouted again.

“Hail, Hail!”

I still didn’t look up. The person shouting could have been shouting to anyone, I assumed. And campus was packed. It was seven in the evening, still rush hour, and students crowded the paths and bus stops as the evening grew darker.

The voice shouted again.

“Hey! Hail, Hail!”

This time I looked up. That’s when I saw Ricky. He was standing at the bus stop outside the gym looking straight at me, a big smile on his face.

When our eyes met he shouted “Hail, Hail!” again at me, then unzipped his jacket, revealing a green and white Celtic jersey. He kissed the crest and shouted “Hail, Hail!” again.

He pointed at my chest, and kissed the crest on his jersey again and sang “We love you Celtic, we do!” with his arms in the air. This was all because I had worn my Celtic jersey to the gym. I just smiled and gave him the thumbs up, half-thinking he was some loony.

Ricky started walking towards me. He wasn’t the typical person you find on a university campus. Ricky was in his 50s, short, chubby, and had the pink face of an alcoholic. He was wearing cheap black formal shoes – the sort priests wear – baggy stained tracksuits, a Celtic jersey, and an old raincoat. As he moved towards me, he shuffled rather than walked – slightly hunched – and was carrying a plastic Tesco bag with clothes inside.

Although his appearance was rough, his demeanor was upbeat and friendly. His face beamed as he reached me, pointing at my Celtic jersey.

Without hesitating, Ricky put his hand out to shake mine, then introduced himself.

“It’s good to finally meet a fellow Celtic man,” he said in a thick Glasgow accent. He looked thrilled, as if he’d spent his entire life searching for me.

I’m not a Celtic fan. But like any Irish football fan, Celtic holds a place in my heart. Also, half of my family on my mother’s side are Glaswegian. My granny grew up in Glasgow. So, half of my family are Celtic fans. But they’re not die hards though, like Ricky.

Ricky and I spoke for about thirty minutes standing outside the gym, mostly about Celtic and Glasgow. He assumed I was a much bigger Celtic fan than I am, but I didn’t let on otherwise. I didn’t want to tell him I wasn’t actually a big fan, because he seemed so genuinely happy to be talking to someone about Celtic that I didn’t want to burst his bubble. In fact, he just seemed genuinely happy to be talking to someone.

Eventually I told Ricky I needed to get to the gym. I said it was nice talking to him. As we were shaking hands goodbye, Ricky looked me in the eyes and said “Hail, Hail!” again. I had no idea what he was talking about. Then he kissed his Celtic crest and pointed to the sky, before turning around and walking back to the bus stop.

I walked towards the gym. I looked back at Ricky one last time before going inside. He was looking at me and immediately gave me two thumbs up.

Two hours later, after I had been to the gym for an hour, used the pool, showered and changed, I was leaving the gym when I heard the voice again.

“Hail, Hail!”

Ricky was sitting on a bench near the gym doors but he jumped up straight away when he saw me and scurried over excitedly. He told me he’d enjoyed talking with me so much that he had waited for me to come out so he could ask if I’d like to go for a pint with him some time.

There was nothing strange or creepy about him. He just seemed like a man who really wanted someone else’s company. Someone to talk to. I was flattered, and said yes. To be honest I felt sorry for him. He came across as happy, but his eyes were the only part of his face that didn’t smile.

Ricky suggested Saturday afternoon for a pint, so we could watch the game. I didn’t know what game he was referring to, but I said yes and gave him my phone so he could put his number in. He put it in as “Ricky Hoops!”

Then we shook hands goodbye once more. He kissed his badge again and shouted “Hail, Hail!” as we parted ways.

On my way home I texted my mate Ruairí back in Dublin. He’s a Celtic diehard. I asked him what the fuck “Hail, Hail!” meant. He told me it’s a Celtic chant and a common fan phrase for praising The Bhoys.

When I got home I spent a few hours reading about Celtic – the current squad and recent victories. I wanted to be able to hold my own and be able to have an informed conversation with Ricky when we met in the pub on Saturday.

I don’t know why I didn’t just tell Ricky the truth, that I’m not the diehard Celtic fan he thought I was. But there was something about Ricky. A sadness. A loneliness. I felt like by keeping up the charade, he would be happy, because he might feel connected to someone. It was strange, I know.

I got a text from Ricky later that night.

“Nice 2 meet u. C u Sat. Hail hail.”

Nemo Can’t Be Found

Finding Nemo is my favourite Pixar movie. Funny fish, vegetarian Aussie sharks, stoner turtles and beautiful animation. As a film, it is everything that’s great about the Pixar studio. However, Finding Nemo is also full of shit.

This is because Nemo the clownfish, Marlin’s lost son and the titular character, is not what you think he is. He is not Marlin’s son. In fact, he is nobody’s son. If you look closely, Nemo doesn’t even exist. He never existed. Therefore, Nemo can’t be found.

I’ve seen this theory being peddled online before, and I agree with it. So here is my breakdown of the theory that Nemo doesn’t exist.

In the opening scene of Finding Nemo, Marlin’s wife and unborn fish eggs are eaten by a barracuda. (It wouldn’t be a Disney film without murder.) However, one fish egg survives. Marlin names it Nemo and promises to always protect it. Heartwarming.

But no, I don’t think any fish egg survived. I think the one surviving egg, Nemo, is a figment of Marlin’s imagination. I believe this because I think the film is an allegory for death and the grieving process. And Marlin’s journey to find his son actually represents the five stages of grief.

The five stages of grief are: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance.

In simple English, Marlin’s search to “find Nemo” actually represents his journey to get over the murder of his family.

The theory of the five stages of grieving is usually presented as a chronological process. A person goes into denial, then feels angry, then bargains with questions like “what could I have done to prevent this?” before becoming depressed, and then finally accepting the situation and moving on.

I think Pixar distorts the chronology a little in Finding Nemo, but every element of the theory of the five stages of grief is present in the film.

The first clue to Nemo being a metaphorical character is in his name. “Nemo” in Latin means “nobody.” Having Nemo be a physical character also shows Marlin’s Denial stage of the grieving process. He refuses to believe his family have all died, so he creates Nemo, an imaginary son.

Stage two of Marlin’s grief – Anger – manifests itself in many ways. Marlin often snaps at Nemo and generally has no patience for the people trying to help him, lashing out irrationally. Mr. Ray the singing stingray gets a telling off for bringing his class to the “drop off” on Nemo’s first day of school, while Dory constantly bears the brunt of Marlin’s short temper when Nemo goes missing.

Marlin blames himself for the death of his wife and eggs. He tells himself it will never happen again and obsesses over Nemo’s safety. This shows stage three of his grieving – his Bargaining stage.

In blaming himself for not being more careful, and for not protecting his wife and their unborn eggs, Marlin develops a feeling of self-loathing. Nemo even says “I hate you.” But this is Marlin’s subconscious speaking to him.

Marlin’s self-hatred also manifests itself though an extreme fear of the ocean and a lack of trust for anything. He is wondering what he could have done differently to prevent the death of his family. This causes him to no longer take unnecessary risks regarding Nemo’s safety, no matter how ridiculous his over-protective behavior is. And so, Marlin isolates himself and Nemo from the world. Everything beyond their home becomes a threat.

Stage four – Depression – is constant throughout the film, and understandably so. Marlin’s family were murdered. Perhaps the most obvious example of Marlin’s depression is when he gives up the search for Nemo.

When Marlin sees Nemo lying dead in the dentists office after the dentist’s niece Darla has shaken Nemo’s plastic bag too hard, Marlin gives up. Nigel the pelican brings Marlin and Dory back to Sydney harbour and says goodbye. Marlin drops his head and swims away melancholically into the dark blue.

Marlin has no idea that Nemo was actually playing dead in order to escape by being flushed down the toilet, but by this moment everything has come to a head for Marlin, and he gives into his hopeless sadness.

But Nemo, “nobody,” isn’t dead of course. He escapes the dentist’s office and Marlin reunites with his son. They go home with Dory and live happily ever after. This can be seen as Marlin’s Acceptance stage of the grieving process. He has learned to move on.

Despite all the struggles Marlin had to endure to get there, he finally manages to get through it all. And it is thanks to the help of community that he achieves this. Pixar is telling us to reach out to people.

Marlin couldn’t have done it without Bruce the shark encouraging him to open up, Crush the turtle for teaching him how to let go, and of course the amazing Dory for never giving up on her friend.

The moral of the story, and the film’s most quoted line, is “Just keep swimming.”

Gatekeeper

My job is to open gates. Every day for eight hours I sit on a chair on a construction site in Melbourne, opening the gates at the site’s entrance whenever a truck or van needs to get in or out. That’s it. That’s all I do.

The gates are made of steel and look more like fences, the kind you see at music festivals. They have wheels at the bottom. When a truck or van pulls up, I push the gates open. Once the vehicle has passed through, I close them again. From 8:00 am to 16:00 pm, that’s my life.

I know it sounds boring. If someone told me that was all they did at work – open a gate – I’d think the same. It’s hardly the most stimulating job. But I like it. Instead of being sat in an office, I’m outside in the sun. And vehicles don’t show up very often, so I spend most of my day reading books, something I love to do. As a legal requirement and safety precaution, I have to wear high-vis clothing and steel-cap boots. However, the only danger I face is losing the page I’m on in my book, or running out of battery on my phone from constantly refreshing Twitter. Some days I have to charge my phone three times.

I understand how some people would go crazy from boredom, but I genuinely don’t. I’m never not reading my phone or a book, and sometimes I write stories, like right now. Nearly two months into this job, I haven’t experienced serious boredom yet. I know I will eventually, but for now I’m OK with being paid nearly $30 an hour – a standard general labourer’s wage – to read and sit down.

The ridiculous nature of my job isn’t lost on my colleagues, if you could even call them that. (I doubt skilled carpenters, plumbers and electricians see me as their equal, and fair enough.) Workers on site walk past me and laugh, or screw up their faces in a way that says, “How the fuck is that guy still doing this job?”

I just laugh and smile back. Sometimes they joke and say things like, “I reckon you have the cushiest number in Melbourne mate,” or “All you need is a fucking beer, aye?”

The construction site we’re on is a retirement village. Most of the houses are finished and now occupied. It’s beside a golf course and a river, away from the noise of the city. Unless someone on site is using a drill or an angle grinder, all I hear is chirping birds and the occasional crack of a well struck golf ball in the distance.

The elderly people who live here seem to like me. They often come down for a chat. I enjoy it because a lot of them have dogs I can pet. Sometimes they also bring chocolate. A lot of them have Irish relatives or ancestors, so they like talking to me about “home.”

I keep applying for better jobs, and by better I mean jobs that aren’t such a piss take, because I can’t do this forever. I want a writing job, or something in publishing, but jobs like that are difficult to come by. Also, the “working holiday visa” I’m on is designed to make it more difficult to find good work. For example, you can’t work for the same company for longer than six months unless the company “sponsors” you, which means they have to pay a few thousand dollars for you to get a different visa.

A sponsored visa means you also get to stay in this country for another four years. Those of us on the working holiday visa only get one year. If we want to extend our visa for another year, the Australian government makes us work on a farm somewhere picking fruit for nearly five months. Fuck that.

If someone gets sponsored it’s considered a big thing. A lot of my friends here are sponsored, but it’s because they have a highly skilled profession or because they worked hard at convincing their employers to help them out. I have a BA in English and a Masters degree in Creative Writing. They’re hardly the sort of qualifications that get employers foaming at the mouth. I’m optimistic something will come my way though.

Before landing the gatekeeping gig, I worked odd shifts as a general labourer on other construction sites. I was carrying heavy steel, clearing debris, or pushing wheelbarrows piled high with bricks. The work was hard and I would come home tired.

So for now, I’m happy being interrupted from my book to push a gate open.