The Continuity MOPEmobile, blaring out its theme/ meme music ‘For he’s a Jolly Good Infallible Fellow !’ on the tannoy, with the hilariously annoying Real Pope Colm (not merely viceless but voiceless too) at the steering wheel and his trio of back-tracking song birds, The Popettes (from left to righteous: Miriam, Marian and Mary) to the fore of the veering Flying Column, aka The Roaming Catharsis, softly singing with the una voce of an angel the old Little Jo Stafford gospel standard ‘Whispering Nope’, is, as of now, temporarily off the Information Highway.
Understandably so, after its riotously gloomy Rope-a-Phoney-Pope-Opera tour of each and every obliging broadcasting pulpit faction in the Free Southern Stateen ( Leo Gratias !).
Perhaps, therefore, tis time for a little divarshun with another less than askance glance at a slightly different kind of Black and Tanish Inquisition, to whit, Gaelphobia on Liffeyside. In the immoral words of Arolf Harris: Time to tie me morsupials (morally superiors) down, Sport !
Ní ceartchreideamh go cur na bróige vogue isteach le chéile.
And as the Real Pope and Popettes, pleased as low-punches, share the De Luxury of Two Real Cathedrals (no mere solitary backstreet Pro-Cathedral for this Coterie of Coatrailers, no sireee, but hymns and hers, a genuine conundrum for the Uncle Thomists to unravel in The Big Chapel), it would appear that, say, lemme see, ah yis, the Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop’s limited interest in sport extended to watching only one. One of what? One of the 2 World Cups which were held this summer: the WC marked Mná rather than the WC marked Fir. Hock rather than sock.
Which is a shame. For while the one he opted to sit upon his highbrow stool and drool over in a way which set his tongue a-lolling and his tail a-wagging featured, from what one can gather from those who actually watched this high-pitched extravaganza of hockey sticks and Maria Lanza (cue: Serenade from ‘The Student Princess’), only (gasp) one venue, one single, ringleted pitch. This was called the Lee Valley Centre, London E20, into which a dozen thousand spectators with knees tight together could be squeezed at a (gulp) pinch within an inch of their wives.
FOTUS (for it is indeed he !) found it ‘Fabulous and Mesmerising’. (Translated into text: F fnds Fem F.A.M).
To switch now from one kind of Urinal (Mná) to another kind of Urinal (Fir) one must look even further East and describe a parabola up and over the Urals to land with a splash on the far side where the Walrus Tash of Uncail Seosamh’s once cut a dash as well as supplying the first two initials of USSR. Specifically to the Soccer WC in Russia where there were a dozen Stadia in use, ranging in capacity from 35,000 to 81,000. While Stadia is technically correct still one, perhaps crassly, prefers to use Stadiums as it responds more euphoniously to the phrase, ‘bums on seats’.
The largest capacity still fell short of the capacity of Croke Park (82,000) : a staid fact to put in your pipe of peace, Putin aka Vlad of the Impaler shade of white. A staid fact too to make the Gael preen and the Shoneen wax obscene? Well, nyet. And yet, and yet: for what we are getting is but an Abridged Edition of Croke Park. In a word, Croker is unfinished, much like the National Tantrum will be next Sunday.
The point, indeed the Hawkeye-proof point being that no stadium at the Soccer WC in Russia was unfinished. What ? Not even one? Nyet. In the burst to be first with the news neither RTE or indeed, its print wing, The Unionist Times, thought this staid fact at all worth reporting.
The unfinished Croker is anything but Schubertian: aesthetically, it is unpleasing on the Hawkeye for all to see, apart from, om, former stockbrokers such as The Minister for Sport, om, Shane Rossini, aka ‘The Thieving Magpie’. Indeed the Railway End in general is a bloody eyesore and not just on a Sunday.
Truly, Hill 16 was Die Forelle, for eff’s sakes, of the Fourth and Final Phase of the Redevelopment of Croker back in 2005, the Trout Quintet in the water tank of the Living Room. For it is the fourth movement of the same quintet which evokes a silent response from the critics, the Trout than never gets the Shout Out it so patently demands from the Consensati of the Communications Cartel.
Hill 16 is even less Gaudi and more gaudy, much to the delight of the Duffer and the lesser micro-phoney duffers in their duffel coats, as well as the other langers-on at Leeside. These morally superiors in the Sagrada Familia of Soccer with their (gulp) Campa Nua Cois Laoi of Keefie’s Park delight in nothing better than giving the GAH a right good and thoroughly deserved root with the boot up the Barcelona.
Apart maybe from coaxing Rice to grow in the parched Paddy Fields of Athenry. And who, if he, the Saviour, opts to U-turn his Arsenal on the offer to don the Green Gansey, will promptly be damned as Damian the Leopard (‘he’s always changing his spotkicks !’) by the Best (though not in a Georgian sense) Fans in the World.
Whereas Gaudi fell under a damn tram in The Big B in 1926 and to a too early death at the age of 73, the gaudy Hill 16 of Jackeens was thrun under a bandwagon marked ‘Big Jack’, thus becoming an unfinished part of a Jurrasic Park fit only for Dinosaurs.
‘Gaudiamus bigotry !’ as The Perkin’s second favourite uncle, Thorneycroft, was fond of remarking.
Fead sosa / Let us now paws for a Pangur Moment (see before). Let us first return to Erin in 1922 when the marching boots of the Khaki Kolumns in the Kastle made their (gasp) T-Rexit from Dublin 1. Let us now advance to 2RN and the field which the Dinosaurs called their own, betwixt the canal and the railway / idir an chanáil agus an bóthar iarainn i mBaile Átha Cliath 2.
-The first live commentary on a field sport anywhere in Europe was broadcast on 2RN when Paddy Mehigan covered the All-Ireland Hurling Semi-Final between Kilkenny and Galway from Jurrasic Park on 29 August 1926. This game is credited with being the first mainly because the BBC was prevented from broadcasting sporting events before 7.00pm as a means of protecting British newspaper sales, including (gulp) The Unionist Times.
The Railway End in Croker strikes not just an aesthetic but also a technical bum note. Points are notoriously more difficult to score at this end, open as it is to the sky blue of Dublin, on account of the swirl of girl-fickle winds that whirl around the goal posts. Unlike the dozen stadia in Hammer and Sickle Land, this particular stadium is, um, u-u-unfinished. Just to stammer home a point.
Wherefore art thou, o Georgian Romeo (of the DUPlin Civic Trust) who bellyached about the Dublin flags on a Liffey bridge on account of the ‘ horm done to the orchutectural huritage of our notional copital’. Not a dicky bird, be it Hawkeye itself , from that ovoid-vowelled source. But then, having sung dumb and kept mum about the slumdogging down of a Multi-Million Stadium in 2005 to yawp about a mere Halfpenny Bridge in 2018 was a doddle, especially as it did not span the Poddle.
As it did for FOTUS (haka Fintan O Toole Uber Shoneen), back in 2005. This Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop (for it is still he !) made his mark barking his wholegrain being off like billy-o during the long dark night of Occidental England’s soul, when the recently deceased Anglophobia was still abroad ( a broad, not) in the land, well, the state, ok, the stateen, the Free Southern Stateen. When, however, Gaelphobia railed against the completion of the Railway End, FOTUS opted to take a different tack and so adopted the stunningly cunning stunt of maintaining a Ssssshtercian Bow Wow of Silence.
Why then, boss, an Unfinished Croker? Gaelphobia. How, then? A Hwyl. The Presidential-sized Hwyl from the local Residents, choreographed by local supporters of a political party who were stooping down low behind the advertising hoardings.
Yes, the same political party which welshed on Connolly and squelched for Conor. Thus, did the Labour Party (mar is é atá ann !) help to make a bags of Croker. A cholostomy bags, indeed, in so far as when it peed from the heavens it only peed on those absurd Ionesco-inspired urban hayseeds who stand al fresco on Hill 16. Thereby maintaining a castironic consistency with the same party’s policy towards the risible Rising of 1916 and its recent cantenary.
So, it is official Labour Party Policy for the lowly paid elements to suffer from exposure – not to the media – but to the elements? Cúpla focal bog mar sin / Soft you a word or two before you go go from the current leader of that party, before he takes his leave and makes his Brenxit from the Stage, right, as, be all accounts, he’s on the verge of an imminent heave-o. me hearties :
Brendan ‘I’m a serious political thinker’ Hwylin
You have to hand it to the Abridged Edition of the Labour Party Leadership: he doesn’t do humblebrag.
This Boy Wonder from the back end of the Barony of Bargy and Forth in the Sunny South East will be badly, sadly missed, for his sundry qualities, none more so than for his willingness to be forthright in whacking the Argie with his ‘cruiser’ (which is his party’s laborious pronunciation of ‘crozier’). But, above all, for his (gasp) Beeeeeeeoooooooootiful use of the Queen’s English. No Weaponising the Buckleppin’ Lingo of the Leprechaun, here. Lán stad.
Sheasfá cosnocht sa tsneachta ag éisteacht le B. Ó Uaillfairt, Íseal, ag óráidíocht trí mheán an Bhéarla, Béarla Béalbhlasta na Banríona. Bíodh go bhfuil an Leipreacháinis éigeantach ag an NT seo, mar a bheifí ag súil leis ó Darby O Gall aka Glam Rocker na Gaeilge, is é a pholasaí docht ná: tost nó bust.
He doesn’t just write and deliver a speech he (gulp) ‘crafts’ a speech. Sez so himself, so he does. The pocket rocket man with the XL mind sits up through the long and draughty nights drafting and redrafting and re-redrafting, climbing down occasionally from his high stool to stamp his left footeen on the flure in satisfaction at having, erm, finessed the correct phrase with just about the right mot juste. Till at last, with the grey dawn a-yawning through his wainscotting and peering with breadcrumb eyes at his thinking wain’s ink-stained waistcoat, he has that final ‘crafted’ speech with which he will dazzle the nation, well, the nation state, well the state, well, ok, the Free Southern Stateen to a (gulp) frazzle.
Listen up: where lesser infelicitous politicians might take a short cut with route one monosyllabic words like the itty-bitty pithy word ‘piety’, as most did in the recent fusillade of F U Francises, BH always makes a point, a laborious point indeed, of detouring through the long and winding polysyllabic route to seek out the exact mortal synonym. Hence, this real high-voltage, low-current cattle prod of a word guaranteed to send an electric prick through his morsupial listeners in Leinster House:
-Antidisestablishmentarianism, abú !
Sadly, for this Colossus of a Ceannaire who spent most of his political life gladly delivering crafted orations condemning terrorists he now finds himself the boss of a party whose diminished ratings comfortably fit into the Margin of Errorists. It is through splayed fingers only that one these days can squint at The Boyote sprinting over the cliff edge, his tiny feet spinning like good-o through the air, in the last nano-seconds before he drops with a final sidesplitting Hwyl, down down into the Cartoon Graveyard of Powell-itics (sic). As the wily one himself would, wryly, hwyl:
It was Aristotle himself who coined this very word to describe ‘the moment of realisation’ when a hitherto uncouchable finds himself suddenly falling on his, erm, Onassis. (Pardon one’s Greek).
Thus, severe traffic restrictions have been announced for those wishng to travel down Wexico way over the next few days. All roads will lead to the sunny south east as the bossy couple of Colossi of The Communications Cartel head homeward: 1. The Hwyl to Bargey and Forth where he can baffle the locals with his waffle of BIG words which never fail to give the impression of having been won in a dictionary raffle, and to consider, perchance, an offer to toss the caber on behalf of a neighbouring Labour Party whose ratings are even smaller or as he would say himself (gasp) Lilliputian than the Irish versh ; and 2. O Luch Garmain go Loch Garmain: The Real Pope Colm aka The Bore of Gorey (meant of course in the kindliest way). Also known as The Barnaby Rudge of Grudge Holders he will hopefully take time out to consider the FSS’s future and by, extension, perhaps even his own.
A New FSS where 94.378301% of abused children remain anonymous. These are the unexploitable, forgotten anti-heroes who had the rank bad luck to be kiddyfiddled by Uncle Mick or Cousin Dick or Grand-dad Frederick himself, with not a dogcollar in sight. But then no ancient institution does Cover-up or Omerta or Mum’s the Word itself quite like the domestic Family.
Come ha scritto Il Duce di Dublino: : perche pensi che la mafia si definisca la famiglia?
Could be, as the offers come in over the phone, where Aps are short for Apparitions, he might even consider filling a vacancy at the empty head of (gulp) Amnesia Ireland?
Leis an (sclog) fhírinne dhamanta a insint, is é sin ar a laghad ar bith atá ag dul dúinn, ar na hamanta damanta seo, sinne (cnead) na peacaigh damanta. Rachaimis ar ár nglúinte damanta agus guímis go damanta dian go líonfaidh sé an folúntas damanta sin.
Guímis an P.C. chéanna agus a chanann na Popettes: Paidir Chapaill.
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED