LAPTOP BITES BULLDOG (30) by Perkin Warbeck

 The dulcet tones of Dinah Shore flotated over the much-anticipated and lately-postponed  sporty Weekend at the West Egg Mansion of the West Brit Egg Head in DUPlin..

Make the World Go Away

  Get it off  my shoulder…..

Despite Dinah’s surname, she in fact hailed from land-locked Tennessee and later in her life, after a stellar career on the surfy shores of showbiz California,  she returned to her native roots to record a wunnerful LP of sophisticated country music. Of which the above classic by the great Hank Cochran is an example. A different  Cochran classic on the same LP is ‘I fall to pieces’ which was actually a collaboration between Hank and another superb songsmith: Harlan Howard.

Hank came up with the title, got stuck, and handed it over to his goodbuddy, Harlan to do the wiring and ensure the correct emotional voltage.

Tá cuimhne gheal ag An Pearcánach casadh ar Harlan i gCaisleán Átha Cliath oíche chinniúnach amháin agus an oíche a chríochnú i dteach tábhairne  Whelan’ ar Shráid Camden, no Waylon’s,  as Harlan called it.

The Perkin has a vivid recollection of meeting Harlan ag a bash in Dubhlin Castle one memorable night.  It was there one got the low down on the background to the composition of the Patsy Clyne signatoor toon, y’all.

So, why then the choice of  a score of Dinah Shore’s  to pour through the leaves of The Great Sycamore which adorns the party garden of The Great FOTsby’s West Egg Mansion ? The nod and the wink are to be located in the two songs mentioned (see above). But perhaps a glint of a hint might be further supplied.

It was actually  a toss up between the dulcet tones of Dinah Shore and  the equally  glorious  dulse-and-yellowman soprano of Eileen Donaghy. Both songbirds were near enough contemporaries. There were other similarities: Donaghy hailed from land-locked turfy Tyrone while her famous sporting  son Plunkett was often descirbed in hushed tones as ‘the  blonde beach bomhshell’  by the Red and White Pom Pom Girls of Pomeroy and points east, south, north and west.  Bíodh go raibh, agus fos  tá, trá orga de dhíth ar Chontae na Láimhe Dúnta Deirge.

By now it should be clear as to the choice of songstress, once one spots through the railings of West Egg those two sports journos, The Grand Old Dukes of Cork theyselves:

-Brian O Connor, racing correspondent  of The Unionist Times and Matt ‘The Hoople’ Cooper, Leeds Utd columnist of Todayfm.

Cork, of course, is where Páirc Uí Diúrassic  is located and where the Dinosaurs of the ghastly  GAH disgraced themselves YET again when refusing to hand over their own property for use by the  Morally Superior Spiverati  of Man U and other uplands of unimpeachable propriety.

When it comes to demanding, a la Denis the Menace, the use of other organisations’ grounds for their own, erm, charitable purposes,  the Footy Fraternity in Occidental England are a very grounded body, indeed; high moral grounded.

-‘Make the World Go Away’, the Dinosaurs seemed to be crooning. And in the process, due to their local yokel parochialism,  are in the process of, erm, ‘falling to pieces’.

This outlandish  ‘refusal’ rankled these Grand Old Dukes of Cork all the way down to their Anglo-centric ankles and all the way back up again. 

Matt ‘The Hoople’ Cooper is a veritable super-duper adumbrator of  umbrage. Not only did he take issue with the super-Gaels  shower who put the ghastly into GAH  – how dare they protest they were ‘bullied’ much less ‘blackmailed’ !   – but he also recently  almost caused scar tissue  from his rugger playing days to split open when he was irked to the point of going berserk on hearing that the Altar Rails (strictly come RC) in the Dublin Diocese had gone digital in the dosh collection.   How d. they !

And then, of course, there is the inevitable Brian O Connor, Sport of Kings corr.   for The  Unionist Times, organ of record for, that  (cor !!) CCOB coinage,  The Fairyhouse Tradition.

Something cringey about recent evidence of unbearable ‘Corkness’ of Cork.

County GAA board’s embarrassing imprimatur for towering pile of self-aggrandising baloney.

This dismissal by the hipster tipster from de Anglo-Irish Banks of the Lee, boy, is the equivalent of the visceral self-loathing decision of the City Fathers and Mothers of DUPlin to refuse permission to the Dubs All-Ireland Champions from – imagine ! –  draping the Halfpenny Bridge with their blue and bluer colours.

-Tyrone don’t prattle on about ‘Tyroneness’. The county board there doesn’t preen itself in fanciful reflections of chippy trash-talking Gaeilgeoiri hammering the heads of each other. 

Eh? Tyrone, like….Tryone? Even a tongue-in-cheek reference to Tyrone?

But, of course, BOC watchers in BÁC will know that apart from his day job duties he also likes to  keep  the Red Hand County  and the other five in the  Tormented Green Corner within the cross hairs of his High Powered Horse Racing Visionking Binoculars. He has, as befits a racing corr. some, erm, form, in this regard.

What really rattles his civilising  cage and sends his personal pressure gauge shooting through the narrow brim of his Philbyesque brown Trilby is the Northern boggers’ fatal, error-prone  attraction towards naming their grounds and trophies after terrs. Such as:

Martin Hurson

A commemorative Martin Hurson Memorial cup final is played every year at Galbally Pearses Football Field near Dungannon in Co Tyrone.

The fifth of the H-block hunger strikers to die, Hurson was arrested in 1976 and quizzed over the attempted murder of UDR soldiers in a bomb attack.

Kevin Lynch

The GAA hurling club in Dungiven, Co Londonderry, is named after INLA member and former player Lynch.

He was the seventh of the 10 hunger strikers to die in 1981, after being sentenced to 10 years for stealing shotguns and conspiring to disarm the security forces. Lynch was captain of the 1972 All-Ireland-winning under-16 Derry team.

Wouldn’t happen in the highly urbane, humane, refined, suave, genteel and enlightened environs of the horse racing world; no sireee, not a chance in hell, old chap. Not in a month of Monday Clubs, dear boy.

Hmmmmmmm.

Let us study the card. The list is long, the pick does not lend itself to be quick.  Still……lemme see….ah, yis…….let us take, at random, the Cesarewitch Handicap which is a particular favourite of the peace-loving and brainy Brian O Connor. And no wonder !

 “Cesarewitch” is an anglicised version of Tsesarevich  the title of the heir to the throne in Imperial Russia. The race was named in honour of Tsesarevich  (later Tsar Alexander II), after he donated £300 to the Jockey Club.

The event was established in 1839, and the inaugural running was won by Cruiskeen.

Eh?

Even Myles na Gopaleen himself, that Tyrone-born  flatterer of his perceived betters among the moderate monolgots in the Metropolitan media, couldn’t have made it up. Considering The Unionist Times didn’t make the hatch, match and dispatch columns till 1859 while the first ‘Cruiskeen Lawn’ itself wasn’t served till 1940. 

But, wait, there’s more ! What would have also cheered the cockles of this Grand Old Duke of Cork’s heart was the delight which Tsar Alexander 11 took in suppressing separatist uprisings:

The territories of the former Poland-Lithuania were excluded from liberal policies introduced by Alexander. The result was the January Uprising of 1863–1864 that was suppressed after eighteen months of fighting. Hundreds of Poles were executed, and thousands were deported to Siberia.

And the next item really would have floated this Leeside Lord of the Hausfrau’s English yacht, boy, is the following:

The martial law in Lithuania, introduced in 1863, lasted for the next 40 years. Native languages, Lithuanian, Ukranian, and Belarusian were completely banned from printed texts. The Polish language was banned in both oral and written form from all provinces except Congress Poland,  where it was allowed in private conversations only.

Now that there has been a (gulp) Gaeilgeoir from overseas Moscow appointed to oversee a revival of the mother tongue in Uíbh Ráthach in South Kerry one wonders what word will The Unionist Times allow their racing correspondent use to describe the new appointee. Or do they only allow the racist G-word to be used where a local chippy, trash-talking  Irish yokel  is involved?

It would be interesting to hear The Great FOTsby’s take on the topic, rather. Having cut quite the dash for himself being  ve-ry, ve-ry vigilant on the q. of racialism.

An fhadhb anseo – fadhb atá iomlán intuighte ag muidne, an t-aos tuisceanach – ná nach bhfuil FOTsby teoranta don oileáinin bídeach seo, go bhfuil an dearcadh leathanscáileáin, liobráileach  i leith an domhain go smior aige, mar is dual don Continuinty Stick.

Look ! There he is over there ! Seems like Finchley Fintan (for it is also he !) on the balustraded front balcony (aka The St. Patrick’s Pulpit),  of his 60-room Mansion  is giving a conference call in relation to the Jeff  Bezos sleaze case. And in his celebrated neo-sanctimonious tones too, so exquisitely  typical of the mentally-ransacked and cliché-shackled  hack who has seen the light of the Daily without which you miss part of the day, as they say.

Having first made the compulsory crossing  over from  the  Hadean RC refugee camp   to the Palladian  Church of Ireland spiritual health farm, for which TUT is renowned. One  will return, in due course to  the Avatar they also know, affectionately, as The  Memorandum of Understanding itself.

Meanwhile to return to Páirc an Diúrassic one of the first to jump on the Dinosaur bandwagon was former Dundalk bainisteoir, Stephen Kenny who used the D-word in his far-famed programme notes at Oriel Park:

–  Its p-poor prose being ‘worth the price of micturition alone’, according to one veteran observer..

The saintly SK has since been promoted to the lofty role of Bainisteoir of the Free Southern Stateen Under 21 team.

Sadly, if he had paid slightly  less attention to the study of palaeontology  for the amusement of his pals (Paul Kimmage subsequently penned one of his famous 28 page interviews with hm) and more time in trying to import one Paddy into his new training camp  he might well have managed to avoid the ‘export’ of another Paddy.

To wit, to woo: if he had sought permission to have the team anthem changed to ‘The Paddy Fields of Athenry; he might well have saved his star Paddy from declaring for the latter’s (gasp) native England. So now along with singing ‘they stole Trevelyan’s corn’ the fans will be (gulp)  chanting ‘they stole Trevelyan’s corn and Rice’.

One wonders now will Stephen Kenny, with buckets of time on his hands,  devote some time to choose his bucket list of least inoffensive terms drawn from the pre-dawn vocabulary of abuse.  To describe? To describe the seedy squabble which has developed in the immediate aftermath of the tragic death of Emiliano Sala from Argentina. Between?

 Between the two clubs involved in his transfer and the non-payment of the transfer fee involved: the French are accusing the Welsh of, erm, welshing on the deal already agreed. Who could have imagined such financial sordidity amongst the refined ranks of the Morally Superior Spiverati of Soccerdom ? This is loose  moral climate change with a V-neck.

With his advanced degree in palaeontology SK, sans doute,  will have no problem rolling the name of an apt creature off his programme pen to encapsulate the same sportbiz of which he is such an adornment:

-The Pterodactyl.

 (The P is silent as in  swimming pool).

Here comes the hard part: where to find a Singer Laureate for the Pterodactyl who will fulfil the same role as Dinah Shore did for the Dinosaurs.

Hmmmm.

Difficult. An-dheacair, ar fad. But wait ! There’s one: none other than one with the ultimate ironic surname in the context ……Terry Jacks.

-The Pterodactyl and Terry Jacks.

Whose monster hit describes succinctly the kind of insulated, not to mention, insolent existence,  which the Bootyful Game has been lolly-lolling in, 24/8  since the TV Celestials were given the greenback light  to global footprint money:

-Seasons in the Sun.

                                       TUILLEADH  LE TEACHT :   TO BE CONTINUED

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