Dublin Pub Box - In for a penny, in for 14 pounds

Day 5

So the whole weekend conditioning thing didn't really take off. And by 'didn't really take off' I mean I sat on my couch eating bourbon creams watching youtube videos (ie perving) on Michael Fassbender.

So this week I'm determined to sort out my diet and bring down my body fat percentage. I have quite good eating habits were it not for my love/hate relationship with chocolate. I love chocolate and hate myself once I've eaten it. So that's the first thing that needs to get sorted.

I have a really sweet tooth so I can't be fobbed off with raw carrot sticks dipped in cottage cheese as a replacement for my chocolate addiction. I'm trying rice cakes with some peanut butter on top and so far, so good. Also, eton mess without the meringue (or very little meringue is quite a good substitute, don't know how healthy it is but it feels pretty above board on the diet stakes).

So, last night's training session was interesting to say the least. It was my first time training with my mouth guard on. Tougher than it looks. I resembled a rabid dog by the end of it, foaming at the mouth with dribble down the front of my t-shirt; whoever says boxing is not an attractive sport, clearly don't know attractive when they see it. Due to the combination of the two-hour diet and wearing the mouth guard for the first time my main worry was that I would gag when I was wearing it and turn the National Stadium into chunder city (I am nothing if not classy). Alas, my fears were unfounded.

Therefore, guys and gals, I would recommend wearing it as soon as possible so that;
a) you get used to it before the big fight and
b) I don't look like such an ass at training.

Last night we practised our blocking skills which is handy but we did quite a lot of bag work as well. We had to do the minute of madness, where you belted the living daylights out of the bag solidly for 30 seconds, then 25, then 20 and so on and so on. Our trainer referred to these punches as 'haymakers'. At first this was great but halfway through I very nearly swallowed my gum shield whole! Totes awkies.

Then came the cool down at the end of training, normally we do some crouching tiger stuff (pilates-esque stretching) but we had the other coach. Turns out he isn't really into that slow-burn stretchy muscle thingy. He takes more of a little 'Grasshopper' approach to the last ten minutes. I was expecting to start calmly stretching, next thing, your man took off bouncing up and down like Busta Rhymes on speed, knees up to his earlobes no less. I made a valiant attempt at the beginning but towards the end I resembled a fatigued and confused reindeer just prancing tiredly on the spot, feet barely leaving the floor.

O.K. duty calls, I've got to go get ready for work,
Sayonara Daniel-sans,
Chat soon,
Carlynn
xxxxxxx

Dublin Pub Box - It's a wrap.

Day 4

Hey guys,

Welcome (note the serenity in my voice). Today is a good day. Thursday's training session was a good training session. The universe's balance has been righted and my heart doesn't want to explode in my chest every time I think of fight night. This is mostly down to lovely John from the Grafton Lounge contingent and a little down to the fact that Thursday I put on my hand wraps correctly for the first time (note pun in post title).

Maybe my nickname should be Carlynn 'Pun Gun' McCarthy? I am partial to a good pun...

John, after spotting me aggressively tickle one of the punching bags took it upon himself to teach me the basics of boxing. Our trainers are fantastic, but there are quite a lot of us and I don't think they have realised how much of a disaster I really am. I have a third level education but for the life of me can't co-ordinate legs, arms and head swivels. Whenever we leave the ring I'm cross-eyed from concentrating on the moves.

- "One, Two"
- "Left, Right"
- "Slip, Slip, Roll"
- "Check your stance"

Mother of god, I have tied myself in knots trying to do these, my pasty limbs flailing all over the place. So John gave me a kind of boxing for dummies class. I really needed that. Thanks John.

So while I feel better about the whole co-ordinated movement thing, I did realise one major draw-back for anyone contemplating even a temporary venture into boxing; I'm afraid of hitting my training partner in case I hurt them.

Not very conducive to the sport's aims. So unless I plan on killing my opponent with kindness I need to get over this stumbling block pretty quickly.

This weekend I am going to work on my conditioning ie watch videos of other people doing terrible things to their bodies in the name of fitness.


Yippee Kai-yay mother lovers,
Until Tuesday,
Carlynn,
xxx

Dublin Pub Box - Reality hits home

Day 3

Hey guys, what's the craic? Good, I hope, because I am seriously starting to worry about this boxing malarkey. Day 3 of training was very eventful.

I received my first blow (unexpected tap) to the face on Tuesday. Admittedly, it was by myself but I'd like to share the blame with my training partner, it makes me feel like less of an idiot.

Here's how it went down; we were in the ring and were practising our punches on actual human beings. One person kept their arms stretched out and tensed (this is the part I forgot) while the other person 1,2'd them for 60 seconds. I didn't really grasp the whole thing very well (still having issues with the 'ould left, right) but pranced around my partner for a minute while throwing the occasional punch. Then it was my turn to let him practise, it was all going grand until I stopped tensing my arms, my partner jabbed, my hand flew back and hit me right in the eye. True story.

What followed was nothing short of a revelation. That slight jab in the face brought home to me the fact that I actually have to fight someone. I know that sounds a bit strange considering I signed up for a charity boxing match, but up until that point it was just a bit of fun, a way to raise money for charity, get fit and a good excuse for a night out. It turns out self-delusion is not as powerful as a good old-fashioned belt in the face. Reality has most definitely been checked.

So now I have to train like a crazy person in the vain hope I won't have a panic attack the day I enter the ring for real. I have awful images of me running around in circles crying, "not the face, for the love of god, not the face". If this does happen, I am openly pleading with my future opponent to K.O me immediately.

Also, normally when I do any form of exercise, I suffer from stiffness or muscle pain the following day. With this training however, it's immediate. Five minutes after training ends I can feel my muscles tensing up on the walk home and the next day I'm fine. Is this normal?

Not the most convenient considering in order to reach my apartment you have to climb two sets of stairs, last Tuesday, I stood at the end of the staircase for exactly 7 minutes before I could work up the courage to take them very, very slowly. It wasn't a pretty sight to behold. The twitching curtains on the lower floors of the building have reinforced my impression that my neighbours now fear the weird girl from Apartment 5 who looks at the stairs as if she is about to burst into tears and then makes noises like a strangled cat as she ascends them. This gig is not good for my reputation.

So, as things stand, I'm more John Wayne than Wayne McCullough at the moment, but hey, it's progress, last week I was comparing myself to Quasimodo and R2-D2. Have training again tonight, here's hoping I don't score another own goal and the curtain twitchers are all otherwise engaged.

Chat soon,
Carlynn
xxx

P.S. No cats were strangled in the making of this post.

Dublin Pub Box - Round Two

Day 2


"It's for charity." I chant to myself as I force one stiff leg in front of the other on my way to work. "It's for charity." I whimper every time I try to get up from a seated position or walk down steps. "It's for charity." I growl as I hear the angry rattle of other competitors punch bags as they pound them to a pulp, (at my best, I have managed to get what can only be described as a surprised cough sound out of my bag).

Thursday's training session went better than I thought it would. It was tough but I managed fine with most of it. A substantial feat considering all my ligaments have been suffering from some kind of gag reflex since our previous session. This gag reflex started out friendly enough, a slight twinge here, a dull pain there, however it got so bad that I was convinced I could hear my muscles actually creak. I felt like a rusty R2-D2; all jerky movement and squeaky sound. The situation got consistently worse throughout the day, so much so, that by the end of it I was more like Quasimodo than the lovable Star Wars cyborg.

Warm up and conditioning were pretty much the same as before, lot's of planking (*shakes fist angrily at the evil genius who created this affliction to fitness fanatics the world over), sit-ups and press ups. We learnt two new punches, the hook and uppercut. I like them; the hook makes me feel powerful and I think the uppercut just looks the absolute business. For the hook, you move your entire torso and put all your strength behind the punch. It's quick, effective and if used correctly can completely disorientate your opponent. The uppercut is a good follow-up to the hook, if you're quick off the mark and aim correctly. Unfortunately for me I am neither quick nor have good aim. I almost K.O'd myself with my own hook and was lucky I didn't need to get dentures after trying to move left and uppercut at the same time. Multi-tasking, it turns out, is not my forte.

But onwards and upwards. I currently sting like a butterfly and fly like a drunken bee with a dodgy wing but, hey, have I mentioned it's for charity?!?

I am going to try and overcome my planking phobia by watching G.I. Jane.

Chat soon,
Carlynn
xxx

BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS OF HYSTERIA

Hi guys,

I know it's been a while since I posted here, (I say as I blow the cobwebs out of the corners of my old blogging haunt) but I have returned for a noble cause. In the hazy blur that was the Yuletide season, a time for giving and for sharing, I heard about Dublin Pub Box, a charity boxing event where various pubs around Dublin, sponsor willing 'victims', ehem, I mean, willing bar staff to go toe to toe with one another in the name of goodwill. This year we will be trying to raise some essential funds for Pieta House and St. Vincent de Paul. 28 members of the hospitality industry have to become not quite mediocre boxers in 2 months which equals 17 hours training. Me, ever the adventuress, thought it was a splendid idea. I am going to blog my experience in a post training diary, a blow by blow account if you will (unfortunately that pun was intentional) plus you guys have to read it, I'm doing this for charity, so if you don't it makes you a bad person. 

Day 1

Prior to entering the gym today I was  mainly worried about what my entrance song (Smack My Bitch Up by The Prodigy) and nickname (TBC) for the match were going to be, following today's little training session I am now more worried about the fact that my muscles are cramping so much there is a real chance that all of my limbs may regress into my own backside overnight. I was swimming in a sea of my own sweat 5 minutes into the so-called 'warm-up'. Don't be fooled by the gentle nature of the word 'warm-up', in boxing it's merely code for lets just run around until someone's lungs cave in on themselves. Unfortunately, we were all reasonably fit and that didn't happen, so we had to 'warm-up' for a really, really long time.

We learnt about technique; your stance, how to jab, how to punch etc. that was actually a bit of a hoot. However, I am not the most co-ordinated individual and truthfully at the ripe old age of twenty-five I still question which way is left and which way is right, so while it was my favourite bit, it's not my strongest part of the training. 

Then we moved on to what our trainer/fuehrer referred to as conditioning, during 'conditioning' I became privy to some information I had never known up until that moment. The entire quarter of a century that I have roamed this earth I have always thought there were only two forms of the medieval torture that is known as 'the plank'; front plank and side plank. How horribly misguided of me, it turns out, the plank has its own evil alternate realm FULL of different planking styles, a particular favourite of mine was the front plank that converted into a forearm plank, genuinely thought I had simultaneously suffered from an aneurysm and a hernia during that little gem. 

Other than that, everything was good, the other people taking part seem really nice, even though they are going to try and knock the head off me numerous times over the coming weeks AND Darren O'Neill was at the gym while we were there, yep, you heard right, we were training in the line of vision of a member of the Irish Olympic boxing team #likebosses. Now back to the more pressing issue of a nickname, do you guys have any suggestions? Nothing with any reference to genitals please, my mom might be reading this, let's try and maintain some semblance of decorum.

Until Thursday,
Carlynn,
xxx

THE THIN LINE BETWEEN LOVE AND HATE

I heaved open the shrieking metal doors and stepped tentatively out of the welcoming sunshine. The first thing that occured was that a sensation of complete and utter panic enfolded me. One of two things had happened; I had burst into an anti-christ like ball of flames or had been momentarily rendered blind.

As I blinked furtively in the darkness, I tried to decide which of the two was more plausible. The first of my senses to come back into play was my sense of smell. The acrid smell of stale sweat, physical exertion and fear filled my nostrils.

The next man off the sensorial bench was my hearing. The morbid metal entrance seemed to be hiding some sort of sadistic chorus line within its depths. There was a crescendo of deep-bellied grunts, squeals of nervous excitment and whimpers of what could be deciphered as pain or pleasure. The baseline consisted of the whirring of leather straps, the harsh clanking of metal on metal with varying degrees of ferocity and harsh intakes of breath.

Slowly but surely, the furtive blinking technique (excellent for those of you who want to regain their momentarily lost sight or appear like a complete sociopath in public) was taking effect. A blurry vision of tendons, red tear-stained faces and mountains of doubled-up bodies strewn across the floor floated before my eyes.

My whole being buzzed with fear. I began to hyperventilate and break out in cold sweats. What the hell was I doing in this sinister place! How had things come to this? I began to back out slowly, trying not to draw attention to my presence in this dark den of disrepute.

Oh no! Too late! One of them spotted me and like a flock of vultures, one by one, they all turned to gaze at me with beady eyes, all of which held the same message...fresh meat!

I felt like the proverbial fattened calf to the slaughter in more ways than one. Yes readers, Euro Stud has signed up to the gym.

In my humble opinion, joining a gym is a little bit like picking a scab. It seems like a great idea at the time but you´re almost always left with a scar. For example, If you have low self-esteem, the chances of you leaving your first calorie killing gym session feeling fatter, sweatier and about as attractive as a leech in a hemophelia pond are pretty high.

On the other hand, your inner gym-bunny may just burst forth on a wave of newly discovered non-chocolate induced endorphins and convince you to leave behind everything you cherished in your past non-aerobic lifestyle i.e. sharing gossip and a glass of wine with friends, being a couch potato and eating meals that don´t consist of dust, lukewarm water and a slice of lemon.

So, this begs the question; if there´s a thin line between love and hate, should going to the gym be classified under self love or self hate? narcissim or sadism?

This question has been eating me up so much over the past few weeks that I´ve regretfully had to give up my gym membership. It was a sad day for all concerned. However, the brain is also a muscle and after weeks of asking myself, what in the name of all that is holy, was I doing frolicking on a revolving strip of P.V.C. pavement, my noggin is in tip top shape.

DRESSED TO REPRESS

'The Emperor's new robes are making a killing.'

Of late, due to certain raucous behaviour i.e. the mass murder of his own people, the name on everyone's lips is Muammar al-Gaddafi.

Currently fighting for both his place at the top of the Libyan food chain and his life, the longest serving leader in the history of the Arab world is in a precarious position. The balance of power could be tipped at any second. He could have lost his last 'last stand' while I write this very article. He's now on his fifth or sixth 'last stand' , I'm not too sure; I lost count and interest at the third one.

This multi-faceted political sage has accomplished many things in his lifetime. Like any make believe-Marxist dictator worth his weight he has published a little mono-coloured book full of his idealogical preachings....the punchy title reads ....'THE GREEN BOOK'...like 'The little Red book' published by his Chinese counterpart Mao. This book basically exalted the virtues of his idea of Islamic socialism and Pan-Arabism.

At the tender age of 27 he manned a successful coup against the Libyan Monarchy.

In 1977, he invented a unique governing system called 'Jamahiriya'. He describes it as a 'state of the masses'.

The nation is governed by the populace through local councils..a.k.a people's militia...a.k.a.. Gaddafi's secret police. It's only unique because it's a complete shambles and barely shrouds the shackles holding the system in place.

In addition, in his forty years as shepherd of the Libyan flock he has managed to piss off almost every country on the planet. He has sponsored terrorist groups in:

-Chad
-Sierra Leone
-Liberia
-Morocco
-The Philippines

He also gave the I.R.A the gift of endless Semtex during the '70's and in '72 he was tangled up with the 'Palestinian Black Movement' which was responsible for the Munich Olympics atrocities.

Furthermore, King Abdullah- the reigning monarch in near-by Saudi Arabia finds the 'Mad Dog of the Middle East' a little bit irksome since he attempted to have him assassinated last year. Lets just say that he's not on his phone a friend list.

However, the Pièce de résistance of his career as 'The Brother Guide' has to be the Lockerbie fiasco of '88. The now infamous Abdelbaset al-Megrahi decided to blow up Pan Am Flight 103, which resulted in the deaths of 259 passengers and 11 innocent by-standers on the ground.

Despite all of this Gaddafi has actually gained more notoriety for his eccentric dress sense than his tyrannical psychosis.

One day he is swathed in animal skins in homage to his African 'brothers' and the next he is decked out head to foot in purple in what can only be construed as a shout out to his brother from another mother, 'the artist formerly known as Prince'.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, who would have thunk it... a dictator who is a versatile fashion subject. One who isn't afraid to step out of those dull and so last decade khakis. He dons everything from African cool to military chic and he is showcasing next season's MUST HAVE accessory - The Amazonian Guard, a posse of 40 blonde-haired, long-legged virgins all hand-picked by the Colonel and highly trained in martial arts and military combat. They're simply to DIE FOR dahhhling. The problem is many people are.

With the country creeping ever closer to an all out Civil war, which will undoubtedly lead to an International Security crisis what will become of the already tenuous relations between the Western Superpowers and their African and Middle Eastern counterparts? Where will the unrest in Africa and the Middle East end? Is the world as we know it changing? Has the world as we know it changed?