There was a lot of optimism surrounding Cork City FC at the start of the 2014 SSE Airtricity Premier Division Season . A new manager – club legend John Caulfield – had come in. Caulfield had signed players such as Michael Rafter, Anthony Elding, Liam Kearney, Billy Dennehy, Darren Murphy and Mark O’Sullivan, players that had experience and could make a positive change to the squad. Youth team players such as Brian Lenihan and Gary Buckley were ready to step-up to first-team football. So, as the new season came and the first fixture versus the 2013 champions St Pat’s loomed, a lot of supporters , including myself, felt that this could be a sucessful season for the club. Well, the team has most definitely exceeded expectations. As I write, Cork City are on the brink of SSE Airtricity League glory. They are currently a point ahead of Dundalk FC who they play in a title-decider at Oriel Park tonight. City started off with a respectable 1-1 home draw with St. Pat’s. They followed that up with wins against Derry City and Bray Wanderers. A real statement was made in the next match against Shamrock Rovers. City cruised to a comfortacle 3-0 win with the Dennehy Brothers, Darren and Billy, and Mark O’Sullivan scoring the goals. There was a real buzz around Turner’s Cross after the match as well as a general feeling that this could actually be a very good season. City continued to win games comfortably before a 4-0 trouncing by Dundalk and a 3-2 loss away to St. Pat’s. Many thought that this was the end of the “title charge” but others thought differently. City immediately bounced back with a 2-0 home win against Derry. They continued to grind through games with...

“I want you to believe.” “To believe what?” “To believe in things that you cannot.” The term “classic” is thrown around a lot these days. It seems almost every day there is a new “classic” popping up somewhere in the world of literature, film or television. I doubt that many of these supposedly “classic” works meet the criteria for “something that is judged over a period of time to be of the highest quality of its kind”. Insufficient time has elapsed for the “new classic” books that are springing up everywhere to be considered on one level with Shakespeare or Dickens. Dracula, an 1897 novel by Bram Stoker is a true classic; moreover it’s the definitive tale of vampirism. Dracula is particularly notable for creating the traditional concept of a vampire, which Bram Stoker achieves by taking the scattered traits set out in earlier works and twining them together to form the iconic Count Dracula who drinks blood, creates other “undead” monsters, can turn into a bat and speaks with an unnerving Eastern-European accent. But, at least for me, the Count was not the most interesting part of the novel, nor was he really present in the main bulk of the story. Instead, Bram Stoker spends the first half of the book weaving an intricate mystery around the Count’s motives and various suspicious incidents in London, without clearly revealing how they all tie together until the second half. Those of you who were looking forward to reading an action-packed scare-your-pants-off bloodbath will most likely be disappointed. The best part of the book is the depiction of Victorian society (or societies). As it was written in 1897, it paints a far more authentic picture of the world at that time (obviously) than anything produced nowadays....

Landscape of the berserk And forsaken fortitude; Numbed to the core A shell of sense – vapid. Talk of recovery With words that are mere Shapes that glister. But onward, onward, Ever onward. R.H.

Nowhere was it written that Shackers had to come up to us that Saturday and complain about life in the hole. This was not a rule; it wasn’t even an expectation, but he ordered a trench ladder nonetheless, lay it against the side and climbed up, rung by rung, patient and dogged. We watched the top of his head which was shaped like an almond. His hair was matted into one rigid tress and levitated out horizontally from the nape of his neck so that the whole assemblage resembled a comet. He stepped out of the hole and pulled the ladder up slowly, evenly, as if there were tripwires on either side of an invisible conduit. He had a measured way about him that made me suspect he had incipient talent and flair for something as yet untapped. He was one to watch and I wondered if there was a timeline involved, if something or other was inevitable. “We’re sunk,” he said flatly looking straight at Gross for a second or two then at me. “What do you mean ‘sunk’?” Gross asked. “Sunk, like I just said.” “What’s the problem exactly?” I put in. “Problem is the hole is too deep; we’ve been excavating since Valentine’s or so, working like we knew what we were doing and now, nothing. Nothing there.” He turned his head to spit. “How deep is it?” “It’s three hundred feet deep, give or take. It’s deep enough to hide the Ark, though maybe not enough to take the whole deluge with it.” I wondered about Shackers. I hadn’t thought he was literate; maybe there was some oral tradition or something in his village or wherever he came from. Nobody seemed to know much about him or at any rate...

In this, the grove of contentment There’s a corner tranquil.   Here’s escape from remorse To serenity;  Equanimity   Patrols the air, the grove – It attacks any invading senses with Blitzkrieg – And placid in the corner lies Our patch of stolidity. Ataraxia coats the grass   In it there stands a lone, dead rose   Its wilted stem beautifies The circular circumference The gentle crack of petals grey; The solemn breeze casts Shatters of difference All over the garden of indifference.   A thunderous footstep interrupts The neutrality of bliss existing Between both dead and living organisms Growing louder and louder, closer and closer.   In one fleet downward gesture the rose is crushed Under a boot of conformity.   All remains of the renegade lie atop the floor, dead; The garden now stands Completely perfect, Completely dependable, Completely similar....

Hundreds of thousands have rallied for it; numerous political parties in the region support it;they speak a completely seperate language there. Artur Mas has signed legislation allowing a much-sought independence referendum for it. And yet…Mariano Rajoy and Madrid continue to deny it. I am talking about is the Catalan Independence referedum, scheduled for 9th November. In recent years a wave of nationalist sentiment in the region – already carrying limited autonomy –  has mushroomed, inadvertently assisted by the policies of successive governments in the far away capital of Madrid. Catalans feel they have been shouldering the brunt of the economic crisis in Spain and that their industries have been subsidising the less-well off regions such as Andalucia. Momentum has grown and at a much faster pace than say Scotland. But what have these two regions got in common? Both have strong independence movements; both are financially feasible should they become independent – which Scotland has voted against –  a result that would disappoint both William Wallace and Robert “Braveheart” Bruce (no, that is not an error – just showing one of the major inaccuracies of Mel Gibson’s infamously inaccurate films, but that’s for another day);  and both of these regions’ independence was/is opposed by the European Union. Madrid’s argument that any such independence referendum would be unconstitutional really annoys the Catalan people. Spanish army generals have suggested military intervention should independence be declared. All of this poses a problem though. Democracy is considered a birthright in Western nations. This must extend to a referendum on autonomy. The hypocrisy is evident: Spain is simultaneously threatening to undermine one perfectly legitimate referendum while questioning the desire the people of the Crimea to vote to join Russia. This referendum could’ve failed. Spain could’ve kept the independence movement...