LAPDOG   BITES   BULLDOG (12) by Perkin Warbeck



Indubitably,  the DUP are playing a stormer. Hence the headline:

-Stormy Daniels in the Line Dancer’s Den !

While the badly briefed, and in urgent need of debriefing / rebriefing  Karen Bradley, a dysfunctional part of  The Theresa Matriarchy, put her Big Foot in it when she opined that  the Giant’s Causeway referred to the spot where Gogmagog, the last of the British Giants, met his waterloo at the hands of the Bog Oak Monolith in the predawn of (yawn) history.

Thus leaving all who heard her agog at the mysteriously unfathomable depth of her cliff-sheer ignorance.

Time may well, actually, have good cause to prove her right as well as being a right good winger, winging it on her first boastful  overseas colonial posting in the  Green Tormented Corner. One giantess step for a folksy woman, one small step for womanfolk, that sorta thingy. As the Brave News of the World, mightn’t have it.

Meanwhile  down in DUPlin, this contagious courage has gained a new urgency.

Neil Francis is  courageous. We know that, because the would-be B and I Lion Heart  told us so himself.  Out loud, on Matt ‘The Hoople’ Cooper’s show on Today fm.  It might even be said that NF is, erm, ‘The Last Word’ in courage.

It took courage on his part to admit to being ‘courageous’. Francis being frank, as it were.


So how come he’s  Bróga Cróga / Courageous Clogs?

For raising the flag of Palestine on Hill 16, oops, for raising the issue of the Palestinian flag on Hill 16, which is a  different Ship of the Desert entirely, much as the Dromedary resembles but is different to and from a Camel. Doesn’t smoke for starters. Besides, the Dromedary only has, famously, one hump while the Camel has, infamously, two.

Same difference between one last straw and two last straws. Straw, Straw is better to back than Fatah, Fatah.

Neil Francis is no pal of the Palestinians.  Be they Nile-side or Liffeyside. In fact, one might say he has about as much grá for those unthrowable-in  towel-heads, the design of whose flag  is a horizontal tricolour of black, white and green with a red triangle based at the hoist, as he has for the footie end of the two-sport  GAA. If hurling gives Franno the hump, then Gaelic Football gives him two humps.

When Neil Francis was megaphoning, in his familiar  bombastic yet thoughtfully subdued way,  some months ago back in March  about how rugby was the New National Sport of Ireland he scoffed at the ‘popularity’ of hurling in the hilariously titled ‘Irish Independent’. But the stickfighting (Indo-speak) at least got a mench even if it was only for the purposes of being  choke-tackled;  the bogball (Indo-speak) didn’t even rate a crooked finger towards the bench,  being deemed  beneath scoffing from the off. It wasn’t, as the wisdom of the ages has it, even ignored.

His stern, no nonsense radio host with whom the guest exchanged a respectful Haka of the Hackitariat,  would concur with the latter assessment: after all,  Matt ‘The Hoople’ Cooper is the same Corkonian hurling snob who almost, but not quite,  introduced a new portmanteau word into the Hausfrau’s English last week:


‘The Hoople’ has no scruples about wanting the neo-Páirc Uí Sleeeven in his native Leeside   untrammelled by the camel game of bogball. Which is coarse for the park, by far. Cooper is to broadcasting what, say, The Linguistic Lapdog is to paw-print journalism: he too is a card-carrying member of The Knownothing Party.  Happy as the day is long not only to admit to coasting along with his own shortcomings but indeed to boast about same.

Whereas the Lapdog wags his tale while bragging  about his  dearth of a dead language long buried in the good earth of Eireland’s boneyards, The Hoople this week honed his own hopelessness by sauntering down Boulevard Bragadoccio while  flaunting  his ass-kicking lack of interest in classical music: tsas. Pushback to Bach, that kinda thingy.

As The Merchant of Ennis once declared:

“The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils (tsas); The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Éire Bus, oops, Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.”

Btw, both the daily Irish Independent  and Today fm belong, ar ndóigh,  to the same ailing, failing  e-empah of Denis O’Brien, tux-exile with a Texas-sized guile-filled smile, the Midas who wishes to guide us with media bias by morphing  DUBland into DOBland.

Truly does D’Indo  choose the initials of its deliciously vicious  GAH-bashers with judicious exactitude. If NF comes at it from the oval-balled half of things it was the late lamented GB who approached it from the booty-ful game’s half.

It was, tar éis an tsaoil,  the late lamented soccer, oops, football correspondent of D’Indo (the confusion with the Frog word for turkey ‘dindon’ is understandable) George Byrne, affectionately known as Kermit to friend and fiend alike, who coined the deathless  gicknames ‘bogball’ and ‘stickfighting’.  (Speaking of dindon, would, say,  ‘Pogball’ be allowed as a gickname for soccer, oops, football ?). Oh, Lord, hardly, one do be thinking in the long nights after Samhain and Sam.

After GB’s  sad and sudden passing some years ago D’Indo decided to drop these disarmingly charming (sob) sobriquets from the rage-filled pages of its responsible rag. Having obviously decided they, bogball and stickfighting, sans perverted commas,  were now sufficiently embedded in the competitive cutthroats of the street argot of DUPlin’s malware city.

Nothing gives the thinking (sic) Shoneens greater joy that the  proliferation of sink holes in the GAH’s four green fields. What else do they Neil, oops, kneel down and pray for with such, erm, Franciscan fervour ?

Neil Francis  never tires of putting the GAH through the hard yards; his energy levels in this pursuit never flag.  And even if it necessitates his reluctant  admission that the GAH camel  actually  does have two humps rather than the one hump of hurling / stickfighting, then so be it if the bit must be taken between his two front-row teeth.

In this instance it was deemed obligatory in order to mount a sally at the Palestinians. How he kept a straight face while penning the following reminds one how Francis the Talking Mule did so when uttering some of the funniest lines in the custard and jelly Telly Comedy Shows of the USA during the Fabulous Fifties:

Dublin’s win in the All-Ireland football final was satisfying on many levels. I think they will replicate their success again next season far more easily than their rugby confrères.

Having picked himself  off the Axminster, The Perkin found it taxing in the extreme  to stop himself itching the stitches in his  accidental offside as he  read on.

So all is well then? Well, yes if you happen to be a Dub. If you come from any of the other 31 counties this situation could go on for quite a while. How many choruses of ‘come on yiz boys in blue’ can you stomach?

Me? I am happy except for one thing, and it’s a shade stronger than just a quibble. I didn’t make it to Croker this year but, on a regular basis, the television cameras pick up the Palestinian flags in the mix on Hill 16 at nearly every match.

Flags have meaning; they have significance. For anyone to fly a Palestinian flag in this country out of some sense of solidarity with Palestine is up to their conscience, but flying one at a sporting event is a perversity and I strongly object to its continued practice.


Before proceeding, one must reference the first phrase of the last par above: it eerily echoes, Harriet,  the catchphrase of the finely turned legendary drag queen of Tyneside back in the Swinging Low Sixties:

-Ophelia Balls.

Drags have meaning etc

So then, what’s NF’s halal beef here that makes the Pal Flag so non-kosher? What has tilted  NF so abruptly  towards the beastly conflict in the  Middle East: could it be that the sandy tug-of-war is a handy excuse to kick the granular stuff into the eyes of the thuggish GAH? Being finer than gravel and coarser nor silt.  Allah idir sinn agus an t-olc !  Surely not !

I was in Munich last month. It’s a beautiful city and, while there, I went to visit the Olympic Stadium, where the 1972 Games were staged.

When the stadium tour was over I felt compelled to cross the bridge and go over to what was the athletes’ village but is now just a block of apartments. There is a memorial to the 11 Israeli athletes and one German policeman butchered at the Munich Olympics. The why? Well, maybe some perspective here would help.

Ach, fanann an cheist/ the question loiters:  what precisely  is the former rugger player’s ploy here ? Or, as they might have said back in the Roaring Twenty, what’s the dodge here? For, if one could decode his dodge perhaps one might then be able to, erm,  drive a four-wheeled Dodge though the ploy of Francis. One is namehecking here  an automobile manufactured by a firm founded by the Dodge Brothers in a  motown of  Michigan over a century ago,  the senior one of whom was called  (gulp) J. Francis Dodge.

Weightlifter Yossef Romano put up stern resistance but an unarmed athlete against murderers armed with machine guns had no chance. Romano too was riddled in a hail of bullets but was still alive.


One spots an opening, prompting one to take a, erm, quick grubber kick ahead to the final whistleblowing line of Franno’s f.artful article in D’Indo to get at what his dodge actually is.

As a sportsperson, as a citizen of Ireland living in Dublin I think I have made my position clear.. Or am I missing something?

Sadly, (gulp) yes.

Having spent his time delivering forward passes, oops, assists – which is a pass made perhaps  by a mule? – it is patently meet and just that one now  deliver a backward pass or two. 1972 is, give or take, a half century ago; pass back a further half century, take or give, to 1920. The Roaring Twenty itself.

The two biggest stands today in Croke Park are named both  for and after  two Michaels: Cusack and Hogan. Anois deireann an seanfhocal ‘is fearr rith maith, a Mhichíl, ná droch-sheasamh’/ Now, the ancient saw holds  that ‘a standing Michael, no matter how long, has a short memory’, as High fielding High Court Breitheamh, Brett Kavanaugh and former Gaelic Footballer is being daily not let forget by the modern day successors of Senator Josephine McCarthy, the Moy, Moy, Moy Delilahs who espouse:


So, just to remind The Courageous One of somethings he might have missed, the ever helpful Perkin is to and on hand.

Cusack, of course, was, erm, a sportsperson and a citizen of Ireland (and, besides, a former Merchant of Ennis to boot) living in Dublin. He has long been the Paddy Stink and Micky Muck of choice for speartackling by the egg-chasers. These egg-chasers  once were egg-headed but nobody has ever accused them of that condition ever since they morphed from being medical chaps in green surgical gowns  to being  concussed patients on cushionless  trolleys in the hospital corridors.

Tipperary defender Michael Hogan  put up stern resistance but an unarmed athlete against murderers armed with machine guns had no chance. Hogan  too was riddled in a hail of bullets but was still alive.

Two items of irony which the  Iron-man of Ire-land, Ire-land,  Franno, more a piano shifter ( ‘crouch ! touch! set! engage !’) rather than a piano player, thus making him such a ready-made radio guest of the Tone-deaf Cooper, who also likes to stand erect during the playing of ‘Ireland’s Call to Shoulders’, seems to have missed are as follows:

  1. If Croke Park had been like the Munich Olympic Stadium, i.e., the finished product, then, in a roofed Hill 16, the Palestinian flag would scarcely have been seen or indeed seen fit to cause a geriatric fit in Franno. Blame that undersight on the same ovoid ubermensch mentality which left Croker unfinished in the last place.
  2. Michael Hogan was a cousin of Monsignor Pádraig de Brún, a scholar who had more than a nodding acquaintance with Homer’s Odyssey, having translated it into Irish. The same original work in Greek was greek to the egg-chasing egg-headed geek, J. Augustus Joyce but this minor detail did not preclude him from employing it as a yolk of sorts to smear over Citizen Michael Cusack. Finally, Monsignor Pádraig de Brún was an uncle of (gasp) the second  Mrs. Conor Cruise O’Brien néal file.

Quite possibly  enough ironies there to fire a Brimstone.

                       TUILLEADH   LE  TEACHT:    TO  BE CONTINUED

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