The world has been the oyster of the Dublin Media for two reasons during the past week or two.
Which is in itself hardly world-shattering, considering that the Mamma Mia of the Metropolis is none other than a molluscular street hawker whose legendary mantra raucously namechecks both cockles and mussels:
Backstop had been the buzz word of the moment in B.A.C., capital of Occidental England for as long as the Liffey itself, or the fuzzy novel called Ulysses, whichever is the longer, it seems.
It is a baseball term, of course, and baseball, being the national game of the USA, it follows naturally that the annual championship series of Major League Baseball within that continental-sized country should be for the, erm, World Series. Where teams with such quintessentially avuncular Samurai names as the New York Giants, the Boston Red Sox and the Los Angeles Dodgers send out their power hitters to face relief pitchers out of left field in the strike zone, that kinda thingy.
Shrill are the hoots of derision and chill the toots on the less than mute flutes of the Free Southern Stateen whenever smug folk there who gather for a group hug of self-congratulation are reminded that the World Series derived its grandiose title from the sponsorship or the (gulp) New York World back in the day of its dawning. No chance of such grandiosity twixt the two canals of Dublin, the Grand and the Royal, nosiree.
In these global times the oyster-scented sentences are, ar ndóigh, served both consecutively and concurrently by the The Unionist Times, worldly, worthy and wordy as ever.
First up was the climactic celebratory commemoration of WW1.
At first, the soldered Hauntings (no apostrophe or apology before or aft the s) Soldier attracted gaunt maiden aunts of all ages and genders who foregathered both to flaunt their political maturity and their moral superiority and to taunt the diehard rebels who disbelieved in détente with the double agents of the Cairo Restaurant (altered from Café for rhyming purposes, Simon) on Grafton Street, an cineál ruda sin.
An unusually laconic Linguistic Lapdog opted simply to taunt the axed and banjaxed laptop Gaelic-font of those fanatical fenians aka the lower case f’ers. Yes, that Linguistic Lapdog who, as Mary Kenny noted recently, is revered in London and New York, twin capitals of the English-barking world.
FOTUS (for indeed it is yet he ! – the Yeti himself – Fintan O Toole, Uber Shoneen) has been unexpectedly exploring certain dark corners of the Dictionary for Dic Heads of late. Witness his self-use of such contraband words as the m-word which rhymes with Continuity Sticky and the big, bad, b-word itself, which rhymes with Prolix. Prolix rather than laconic is, ar ndoigh, the default posish of the L3.
What on earth, or at least the English-speaking part of same, can be going down here? Why is the Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop choosing to launch these dirty-birdy words (cf Kathy Bates as Nurse Annie Wilkes in ‘Misery’) in the directon of the bulldogs on the Lion’s Maneland ?
Relax: Professor A.N. Other, the Nobel Laureate in Genealogy, puts it down to the malign but inescapable influence of the surname – see the middle letter in FOTUS above.
The orgasmic success of this Looking At You statue was only tainted by a failure of the Ill Met by Moonlight office to issue an Orange Weather Alert. Which, sadly, led to the hind quarters of that irony-free lump of ironmongery, the Hauntings Soldier, being nocturnally splattered with red paint. And on that part of its scrap metal anatomy where it mattered the most.
Which prompted the still yawning PM to spring both from his bed and into action as soon as AM dawned with the familiar drrrrinnnnnnngggg of his old alarm clock. This political heavyweight displays all the nimbleness of a phantom bantam on being awoken, newly freed from the chains of slumblerland after a less than stilly night. Hence the distinctive ring:
-Cock-a-doodle-ooo ! Cock-a-doodle-ooo ! Cock-a-doodle-oo !
None of the Cock-a-dawdle-do about this early riser. Early to bed, early to rise, makes Leotard one of the boys.
Not for nawt is the PM of the Republic of Irony known as Leotard Varadkar. For there was nothing in the least bit tardy about his prompt and undaunted proclamation to commemorate the Irish heroes of WW1 in a more enduring way. By? By the imminent erection of a permanent, paint-proof statue. The same backy-chewing heroes in khaki who never came back-y.
It came fresh on the heels of his excoriation once again of The Seven Deadly Shinners in the Tormented Green Corner for having been elected on the show-all, woe-begone slogan:
-Only West Brits take Westminster Seats !
But back to the paint-proof statue of the well-known soldier. As to the Who-of and the Whereof this putative enduring erection, The Perkin, ever helpful, mar is dual dó, is on hand to proffer some assistance by the offer of sage advice for the ages.
Firstly, take the Whereof.
For it is within that metropolitan oasis of green real estate in D2 that the unique monument to Clerical Abuse, though not as the term is normally understood by the Dublin Media (aka The Dublin Feedia of Fake News), is located. That would be The Joker’s Chair.
Ostensibly The Joker’s Chair touchingly commemorates the late, great Dermot Morgan but in actuality it celerbates his deformance of the late, grating Father Ted.
As the Bee Gees trilled:
–He started a joke which started the whole world crying.
Dermot Morgan, a Gee Bee to his marrow, as a billyboy barrow boy and ghillie boy of the Gall, achieved a lame class of lasting fame in the English-only-speaking world with his maimed portrayal of the pilloried Father Ted Crilly.
Father Ted Crilly, a religious hillbilly
Seen as 1 of obscene sectarian bacilli
By Dublin 4
On Channel 4
PC jesters fester at beastly Easter lily.
Dermot Morgan first came to public prominence in Occidental England. That was as a plant in the audience of some utterly forgetable and no longer extant Telly Show or other or RTE. On cue he’d suddenly jump up in a threadbare jumper and start roaring galore and ranting with a hurley in one hand and a fistful of D4 dollars in the other hand.
The cue jumper, as any theatrical director will confirm, darling, is even worse than that blight on long-suffering humanity, the insufferable queue-jumper.
Dermot M was, of course, a loather of all things of a foul odour that smacked of anythng not redolent of the Red, White and Blue or uncharacteristic of the Lion’s Maneland: a soccer buff to the bottom of his anti-GAH guff.
Or, Póg mo Shrón.
For cultural signif you sniff out Unesco
For the zedhead, Father Ted to the resco’
First twas hurling
His abuse hurling
Discount DM DVDs on shelves of Tesco.
Secondly, re. the Who-of: att-ennnnnnnnn-shun ! Lord Kitchener is the self-evident pick, gan dabht.
Ole Horatio of Ballylongford in the Kingdom of Kerry – mock ye not ! – came of good, solid, stiff upper lip, stiff lower grip, green ‘n gold crowbanger stock. From his time in Egypt in 1892, he gathered around him a cadre of eager young and unmarried officers nicknamed “Kitchener’s band of boys”. He also avoided interviews with women, took a great deal of interest in the Boy Scout movement, and decorated his rose garden with four pairs of sculptured bronze boys.
As well as being, as the Hiberno English phrase has it, always up for the craic he shared another passion with Dermot Morgan: his fanaticism for footie. It is said he always took to his leaky waterbed wearing his favourite team’s away gansey:
–Jungen aus Bern.
The stadium of Young Boys of Bern (denn ist sind sie !) is, ní gá a rá, the legendary Wankdorf Stadium (sic).
Who else, therefore, would fill The Joker’s Chair with more aplomb than a statue of Lord K and he to be in a sprawled pose with his manly legs akimbo and his celebrated walking-out finger pointing in the general direction of the nearest Christian Brothers’ School. Assuming, that is, there be any such institution still standing, however unlikely, having escaped the putsch, aka, push back by the Press of PC Central, aka Dublin.
(Artistic hint: let the designated sculptor not baulk at taking a gawk over his shoulder for a cog at the splayed mien in the dog-leg statue of The Languid One of Language, aka Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde which also graces this gay and merry Merrion Square).
Not forgetting the checked fact that Wikipoedia reveals that Lord K committed more Clerical Abuse (in the more normal PC meaning of this term in the Free Southern Stateen) than the combined number of guilty Father Crilly’s and multiplied by, precisely, 1,418.
Furthermore his leaky waterbed proved to be an eerie soothsayer of the eventual depth-charged death of this Knight of the Order of the Garter. This catastrophic maritime tragedy / cat mara occurred on 5 June 1916 when the armoured cruiser, HMS Hampshire, bearing his manly frame was, erm, fingered west of the Orkney Islands (or the Dead Dingo’s Dorkneys, as the great Barry Humphreys might put it – see belowdecks) by a German U-boat.
Mein Kampf of this particular U-boat took the shape of a mine, a real humdinger of a mine. Resulting in the mustachioed Horatio’s paying an unintended premature visit to the locker room of one, David Jones. Yes, the same DJ whose name was and still is, synonymous with rum, sodomy and the lash.
Alas, as the ranking officer he had first dibs in the dip department. Having made splash-down he then proceeded to roar that time honoured cry of maritime rescue:
–Throw one a buoy ! Yerra, throw me a buoy !
And with that, the first mate and his mates grabbed hold of all the unhappy cabin boys to hand and flung them overboard in the direction of The Priapic One. Rather than help ensure his chances of survival, however, sadly this gesture, well intentioned though it was, actually hindered them.
That Lord Kitch clung both to his buoy-band of boys and his sensitive sense of humour as he disappeared easily beneath the freezing waves was evidenced by the following poignant yet oddly reassuring cameo, devoid of ammo though it was. The final rigid digit of Ole Horatio to be sighted was not, dammit, his celebrated pointing index finger but rather that traditional symbol of the blithe demise: his dexterously sinister thumb’s up as it waved its ultimate farewell.
Ironically moronic, really, the sinking of the iconic Lord K’s warship, thereby making him a martyr of if not to, the drink, when one considers that his Knighthood of the Garter was fitted on his (gulp) manly upper thigh by a private member of the Saxe-Coburg-Goth family. While? While the order to lower the boom and send him to his unfathomable doom was given by an officer in the army of their (admittedly) less than kissing cousins, the Hohenzollerns.
Thus, WW1 was anything but a World War, much more of a Civil War / eine Burgerkrieg. Civil War? Stuff and nonsense. The Civil War to end all Civil Wars? Balderdash/ Mumpitz. Much, much more than that (more is less): A Family Feud / eine Familienfeude, mein Gott.
One wonders which Dictionary for Dic Heads the Dublin Feedia of Fake News consult when looking up the w-word : World. Grandiosity, or what ?
Oh, and it was a former Christian Brother who invented the U-boat – one, John Philip Holland. So, the sons of Edmund Ignatius Rice must bear the Lion’s Share if not the Joker’s Chair itself for this watery war crime. Just as they did later when the Postal Ship Leinster was sunk on October 10, 1918 in a water-marked grave off the Kish lighthouse in Dublin Bay, from which Ms. Malone once harvested her cockles and mussels.
The immediate culprit this time was a hunky hun, der Kapitan of UB-123 and not UB-40. This confusion is understandable as the waters turned a shade of red, red wine for weeks afterwards. The remote culprit, is léir, was this Order of the Christian Brothers in whose account column yet another red mark is entered. Debit where debit is due.
Curiously, the name of Ole Kitch, the most decorated of all nonreturnable Irish WW1 heroes has not been mentioned much, if at all, by the Dublin Feedia of Fake News of late. Sadly, one can only speculate why.
This has prompted the thoughtfully determined Perkin to meld his emotion with motion, much as the Hauntings Soldier was welded with devotion. Thus, he has directed his standing army of placard-bearing, flying picketeeers known colloquially as The Perks, to desist pro-tem from their current totemic campaign.
And to pick up the newly-printed placs and take up their positions outside Leotard Varadkar’s office in the Dept of the Taoiseach (sic, very) on Upper Merrion St./ Bowdowning Street, B.A.C. 2:
-Making a pitch for Kitch the Bitch ! Making a pitch for Kitch the Bitch!
As soon as this gentle persuasion will have proved successful (as it indubitably will) The Perkin will then instruct The Perks to resume their nice but temporarily-put-on-ice campaign outside the Department of Justice on St. Stephen’s Green, Londondublin. To do with the hurried appointment of Drew ‘Long Straw’ Harrison which made neither geographical nor gender-equality sense.
The theory behind this pick of Departments to picket is because the Minister, The Soo Flanagan, (Yoo-hoo, it stands for ‘Son of oliver’ ) was obviously pulling a, erm, stroke when he opted for the top London/Derry cop instead of going for the top dog in plain old foggy London town. Hence the chant:
–Our pick is Cressdia Dick ! Our pick is Cressida Dick ! Our pick is Cressida Dick !
Moving on to the second oyster-scented world which has been in the grip of a media frenzy, worthy, cobber, of Bazza Mackenzie himself (see above), in Dublin, The Perkin’s inner Irish Setter had been all set to pen a paen in anticipatory praise of The Team of Pat’s first ever win in the Oval Ball World Cup in Japan 2019. The theme of this paen was planned to be a Chanel’s Boy Bag as that is the receptacle in which an Oirish victory has already been deposited , due to the nonpareil expertise of the Boyz in Green at playing through the, erm, channels.
Yes, the w-word was indeed mentioned. W for World.
Now the last time one would have looked at a global map, if one had been so minded, one would have spotted that there are 195 (or thereabouts) mapped. Of this 195 the number of countries which play the rough game of rugby, as distinct from playing at, equals roughly the number of months in the year, give or take, while the number which plays to a level compatible with the near avoidance of outright embarrassment, is equivalent roughly to the number of days in the week, pull or drag.
Which of course does not hinder The Dublin Feedia of Fake News one whit acting as, erm, propaganda props 24/7. (See above for Dictionary for Dic Heads where the definition of ‘world’ is concerned).
The derisive braying of Francis the Talking Mule (not unlike that of The Jester Morgan) who kneels before the Shinto Shrine of Rugby, while dissing the paltry number of counties which can field a respectable team of camán-grabbers (See above under Unesco) echoes through the Canyons of all Grand Minds.
Ah, sweet ossified grandiosity.
Alas, a week is a short time in the politics of sport. And so one has had, reluctantly, to kick rugga to touch in order to focus on the second tenant of Shoulders’ Field: soccer, which slidetackled its way into the head-the -ball headlines from one end of the week to the other.
At the top of the week the business of a Bainisteoir Nua gained a bua.
As Plastic Paddies are now personae-non-gratae in the PC Capital of the World, the Makey-up Mick is back in fash. That McHenpartyism is the current de rigeur politicul systerm du jour south of the Black Sow’s Dyke it was a fore and daft conclusion that McCarthyism would be at the underwhelming helm of the Boyz in Green again.
Cheap, too, at the price to revive his wrap-the-green-flag-around-me flagging PATriotism;
-A paltry 1.2 million, pal.
Meanwhile, at the bottom of the week the soccer focus switched from the Top Job to the game at grass roots level, which is, ar ndoigh, but a poetic Mickro-cosm of the prosaic stratum of pro’s at the top.
Brave Bram Stoker once did Count Drac
Summons from the cold dark grave back
An undead leg
Re scam of the joker in FC Ballybrack.
Ar fuaid an fhóid dhomhanda tógadh raic,
Craic: ar bhréagéag ardíodh leac d’each
Mar an sport tacair:
Is Spáinneach an áit a fhaightear breac.
Which, via a commodious vicus of recirculaiton one finds oneself ferried back to where one began with that baseball term, erm, backstop.
Baseball has never caught on in Dublin, but then that was always odds on from way back in B.Á.C. Because, pray, of such sectarian terms as the St. Louis Cardinals? Well, that too, but far more on account of the name of the all-time super-duper hero of baseball:
Babes would not exactly be flavour of the month on Liffeyside, from Wood Quay to Bachelors Walk Quay, when one considers the ruthless and branch media campaign waged winningly during the last two referenda-di-di-dum south of the Black Sow’s Dyke. . Two strikes against and The Bambino was definitely hit high, wide and out of the ballpark known colloquially as The Lower Lapsed Castle Catholic Courtyard.
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED.