A nonfiction addiction

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, A Christmas Carol, Animal Farm, Brave New World, Crime and Punishment, Great Expectations, Heart of Darkness, Metamorphosis, 1984, Steppenwolf, The Brothers Karamazov, The Handmaid's Tale, The Man with Two Left Feet, War and Peace.

It's an addiction that our writer feels he should be doing much more of. 

Those are a selection of the fiction books I've read over the last few years. I currently have another few on the go, but I've yet to finish them, hence they're not included.

I refer to them to point out that I do read such works. Yet, I'm usually more content delving into nonfiction, with history, politics, biographies and memoirs being my particular favourites.

Fact crazier than fiction

One reason for this preference is that the writing style of nonfiction is usually, although not always, a little more straightforward than novels. Or at least nonfiction doesn't tend to go into overdrive just to describe certain everyday activities or sights, such as supping on a cup of coffee or staring up at the sky.

I'm not a fan of what I consider to be overwrought text, of overly descriptive prose. Or, to try to put my own creative touch on it, passages that are a fog of flowery language. A little alliteration can work well, after all.

Some novels are more guilty of this descriptive debauchery than others. The ones mentioned at the start are generally in the clear on this charge. And, thus, they are clearer and more enjoyable to read.

That I'm not a follower of flashy fiction matches with my fairly minimalist lifestyle and overall personality, I surmise: 'Keep it simple, stupid.' Being mostly economically inactive these days means I've little choice but to live a simpler existence.

'Digitised versions of books on a device are far inferior to having a real copy in hand, where you can physically turn the pages.'

This isn't to suggest that nonfiction is prosaic compared to other genres. Stories about events that are happening and have happened, about people who are living and have lived, are just as compelling as, if not more compelling than, those that people have concocted in their imaginations.

Another factor for my nonfiction preference is that in my younger days, I was more of a newspaper man when it came to reading. I was generally too restless to sit down for long periods with a novel or something similar. When I did start to read long-form literature, I gravitated more towards nonfiction, largely because, I figure, it was like reading a newspaper, just one with a higher word count and a more focused theme.

There's nothing too revelatory in that. As the great English writer Dr Samuel Johnson put it, 'a man should read whatever his immediate inclination prompts him to.' He does qualify this by stating that those who wish to expand their knowledge will most likely have to read material that isn't always to their inclination. But when it comes to reading for enjoyment or relaxation, then obviously it makes sense to go with material that matches your likes.

Digitised dilemma

One of the biggest impediments I have to reading more these days is in getting access to the books I want, in physical form that is. Digitised versions of tomes on a device are far inferior to having a real copy in hand, where you can physically turn the pages.

The chief reasons why I'm forced into the inferior option are, for one, that it's hard to get hold of English-language books in Colombia, particularly in peripheral regions. Additionally, as a mild rover with no fixed abode, it's not that practical to be hauling books around with me from place to place.

Digitised versions weigh nothing, bar the memory they take up on my phone and on cloud storage. And with a restricted budget, the availability, for free, of thousands of classics at gutenberg.org is quite the resource.

So, whether it's nonfiction or fiction, having material to read isn't my problem, even if it isn't in my preferred format.

That I don't get through as many books as I'd like to is more to do with my being what I'll term a ruminating reader. My mind is guilty of wandering, not necessarily in an easily distracted sense, but more a case of thinking about what I'm reading and applying it to situations in my own life. I assume that's a normal enough practice, isn't it?
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In Brendan O'Connor we trust: Letter to the editor

@wwaycorrigan

I must say that I'm somewhat relieved to get this out in the open.

It's not that I've come to hate Brendan O'Connor, a presenter on the popular weekend 11 am to 1 pm slot on Ireland's national radio, RTÉ One. No. Hate is overstating it. It's just that from the covid-19 pandemic onwards, he has steadily become something of a holier-than-thou host, talking down to his sinful listeners who he seems to think are in dire need of redemption.

This is at its worst in the Sunday newspaper review-panel segment from 11 am to midday.

I go into more detail in my latest letter published in the Irish Examiner, available at https://www.irishexaminer.com/opinion/yourview/arid-41788121.html. It's also posted as an image below.

Now, you might be asking yourself why I continue to listen to him if he bothers me so much. Well, it's a case of keeping an ear to my enemies, so to put it. One has to at least try to understand their thinking in order to overcome them. 

Saint Brendan the Pious: O'Connor's radio show has become insufferable.

Let's get physical

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'Let's get physical, physical; I wanna get physical, let's get into physical.'

Wrong Way Corrigan gets put through his paces at Walter's tienda.

Those lyrics, as some of you may recognise, are from the song Physical, originally recorded by the late Olivia Newton-John in 1981.

Considering how the rest of the song goes — 'let me hear your body talk' comes after the lyrics we've just quoted — the physical Newton-John sang about is not quite the one I have in mind here. While the setting for the music video is a gym, a little bit more than a solid, individual workout is suggested.

A problem to work out

Now, I'm not against intimate physicality per se, but the workout I want to talk up is one that doesn't require a partner. It can either be physical labour or planned exercise, the latter important for those whose regular lives are devoid of much movement, which is the case for many in high-income nations. Whatever form it takes, the idea is that it gets one's heart racing, lungs pumping and sweat glands exuding.

As somebody who is not a fan of gyms and whose current work life tends not to be that physical, I try to do my best to work up a sweat in other ways: Kinaesthetic exercises at home; walk when and where I can and do so with purpose and power; in general, the aim is to be as energetic as possible in daily tasks that require movement.

Ideally, though, I prefer it when a chore I undertake naturally involves an amount of physical exertion in order to get it done. In this way, I don't have to find a time to fit in exercise into my daily routine: a case of exercise necessarily coming with what one has to do or wants to do.

Alas, these days, it's rare enough that any work I'm charged with is of a physical nature — getting aggressive with frustrating technology doesn't really count.

So getting the opportunity to do some hard-ish labour is something of an enjoyable novelty.

This was the case over the Christmas period just gone.

Walter's Mitty

Walter, the owner of one of my preferred tienda bars in San Martín de los Llanos, asked me to lend him a helping hand on what is one of his busiest nights of the year: Christmas Eve running into Christmas morning.

'Receiving gruff orders reminds me of the times I worked on building sites where intellectually challenged labourers exercised the tiny bit of power they enjoyed by barking out instructions at their perceived inferiors.'

It'd be a stretch to say I was honoured to be asked — I'd visions of an old practice in Ireland where a drunkard helps out in his local in return for booze — but it was going to be a novelty for me and so worth a try. More importantly, it would give me something additional to do as I drank — I was allowed to gently imbibe during my shift — on a night that I'm largely indifferent towards in these parts.

My main task was to keep Walter's four deep-fridge-freezers stocked with both bottles and cans of beer as well as fulfilling the orders of customers, with the vast majority buying crates of booze to take home. So there was a lot of hauling of beer crates here and there, stocking and restocking, with little rest time. And while I could restock at a decent speed, the overworked fridges were struggling to cool down the beer, such was the turnover.

Even after we pulled down the see-through shutters at 4 am to organise things for the next opening, the odd reveller continued to rock up looking to keep the liquor flowing and the party going.

Seeing as how Walter asked me back to help him again on New Year's Eve, I took it as a sign that I performed well. Or at least I wasn't a complete failure.

One of the biggest drawbacks was that at times I failed to understand Walter when he gave me an order. In my defence, I've noticed that even native Spanish speakers sometimes struggle to understand Walter because his speech isn't the clearest due to missing front teeth.

I'm also not great at taking orders, especially ones delivered gruffly, of which Walter was occasionally guilty. Receiving orders in such a style reminds me of the times I worked on building sites where intellectually challenged labourers exercised the tiny bit of power they enjoyed by barking out instructions at their perceived inferiors.

The intensity and duration were ratcheted up a few notches on that New Year's Eve/morning — the busiest period of the whole year for Walter. This shift was of 12 hours, 5 pm to 5 am, as opposed to an eight-hour one the previous time.

Not only that, but Walter asked me to return to help him from 10 am to 5 pm on New Year's Day, so in a sense it could be said I did a 24-hour shift, split by an extended morning break.

Rugby roll

With just a trickle of customers on New Year's Day compared to what went before, my main task was to bring crates full of beer to the tienda from a small storehouse at the back of the premises, some 30 metres away. I also had to take the crates stocked with empties from the tienda to the storehouse.

As most of this 30-metre distance has a smooth, tiled surface — in between the tienda and the storehouse is a motel managed by Walter's sister — the easiest and most enjoyable way to carry out this task was by pushing the crates, stacked five-high, along the floor. It felt like I was in a rugby maul, with shouts of heave from the imaginary spectators driving me on. Something to that effect. It did get the heart racing, lungs pumping and sweat glands exuding in any case.

It was my favourite chore of the whole experience for the following reasons: It had a decent physical element to it, working different muscles; I was left to my own devices doing it, with the added bonus of not having to deal with tipsy and occasionally annoying clientèle; and I'm fairly sure Walter was quite pleased that I did it rather than him. Small, rotund Walter wouldn't strike one as the most athletic man about town. Although with practice, he could hold his own in the front row of a rugby scrum.

I must add that Walter did pay me for my labour. For the first shift on 24 December, I thought my payment was going to be in kind, basically free beer and food, the latter being a not-too-shabby Christmas dinner. But I got a decent enough cash payment, too. Had I not been paid for that initial stint, I would have been less inclined to return. Although seeing as how I dislike New Year's Eve, I probably would have gone back to help out regardless; a different way to pass the night.

I'm not, however, looking to go full-time as a tienda bar assistant. I have other ways to get physical activity into my daily routine. And I do like to be my own boss, when and where I can.
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Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

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Reigning cats over dogs

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'Do you prefer cats or dogs?'

My almost instinctive answer to that, what some see as a character-defining question, had been to pick the canines over the felines. Had been, that is. These days, I'm much less certain.

Demanding dogs: The canines are more of a pain than the felines.

Deadly dogs

Truth is, I've had too many encounters with annoying dogs over the years that I can't live the lie that I particularly like them. And it's not a case of a couple of curs giving the rest of their more refined furry friends a bad name. No, for each slightly acceptable dog I meet, there's at least two that I wish didn't exist.

With cats, while I can't say I'm too fond of them either, at least they usually leave humans to their own devices, outside of when they want food, which is understandable.

More specifically, a domesticated cat is highly unlikely to start meowing frantically at me as I pass by its place of residence or wherever it happens to be, never mind show a desire to attack me physically. In contrast, many dogs not only make an unholy racket on seeing somebody, nay anything, but some are keen to go to battle.

'Barmy barking happens too frequently to be shrugged off as a tolerable dog idiosyncrasy.'

Even with non-aggressive, docile dogs, most have a tendency to get overly excited when they see other beings approaching. Tone it down, Lassie. For a witty insight into what might be behind this whining, yelping nature, P.G. Wodehouse's short story, The Mixer, is well worth a read.

Cool cats

Cats, in general, are just far more chilled and less excitable. I can't recall even one occasion when they woke me up from my sleep and proceeded to keep me awake with their screaming. With dogs, barmy barking happens too frequently to be shrugged off as a tolerable idiosyncrasy.

The most annoying cat trait that I can think of is their fondness to brush up against one's legs. That can be quite annoying. But they can rather easily be persuaded to stop doing it. And it doesn't tend to last too long in any case. Plus, they're unlikely to do it to a stranger.

Some dog lovers point to the fact that your pet cat will resort to eating you if faced with starvation, were it to be trapped alongside your dead body. A loyal dog, so it goes, would choose to starve to death alongside its owner in such a scenario. Ergo, cats are selfish, dogs are not.

But what does it matter when you're dead? You're not going to feel or know that your cat started eating your body. On this score, cats can be seen as being more practical.

What's more, it may not be complete loyalty that's at play with a dog. It could be thinking that it'll be accused of killing its master — an act a cat would most likely be incapable of doing — should it start tucking into his corpse. Granted, this is making dogs out to be more intelligent than they are.

Taking it that cats are low maintenance, seem to prefer solitude and silence over multitudes and madness — and aren't known to be great swimmers — then it's only natural that I'd be more comfortable in their company than with dogs. I think I have more of a feline personality than a canine one, minus the fondness for lounging about for hours on end.

This does not mean I'm a cat man in all instances. It's just in this specific case, comparing them with dogs. Other pets are available, after all.

If I were forced to have a non-human companion, I think I'd opt for something other than a cat or a dog. I'm just not sure what I'd choose.
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