LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (31) by Perkin Warbeck

                                                                                                                           Perkin   Warbeck

 Like many a memorable sporting occasion before it the sport-themed party at The Great FOTsby’s  went into extra-time.

None of us white-knuckled time-serving extras  gawking in  through  the railings  of West Egg had leaving on our minds, glued as we were to the goings on inside, the preferred stock talking, the  catwalking, the biological clock watching, that sorta thingy. All of us  boggers outsider  agog as the top dogs of what passes for high society in the Free Southern Stateen were holding on to every syllable which fell from the laptop of the lapdog whose, um, every pronouncemnt is marked PEDIGREE, chum.

Ní sport go dtí é!

Look, over there! That’s Billy Keane of the Indo, old china.

There is a code of ethics which runs right through the game of rugby and the main tenet is to welcome the opposition supporters.


(Btw, tenet is a darling word which Arnold Bennett also had in his locker, but used sparingly).

Now coming from the Dort-accented denizens of Dun Laoghaire, oops, Kingstown that BK observation  might not cause a starched eyebrow to arch  but when served up in the Kerrygold-buttered tones  of a buachaill from Listowel in  the Kingdom of Kerry, well, then. Why, that’s enough to cause one’s swizzle stick to fizzle, to  seize up on the spot  and stop it from shaking out the bubbles from one’s glass of champers.

A what? A  code of ethics? Surely Billy Keane is not suggesting some sort of morsupial element to the game of rugby which puts it a hop, skip and jumperoo above all other pathetic  sports which are tied down to a lesser code of ethics or none. Surely not, Shirley.

(Morsupial is marsupial with a diploma in moral superiority).

Carry on, Keane-o, yapping like billy-o.

Scotland and Wales refused to fulfil the Dublin fixtures in ’72. England came.

(Translation: Yerra, thank oo, England, nearly half a cintury on, and we sthill haven’t forgot ! We are forever in oor gratitood for showing such mettle, unlike our shrinkng Celtic cousin petals,  by  deigning to come to our shores to play us poor pain-in-the-neck hoors at oor own game. Wirra, musha, we just cannot bow, schrape and bellycrawl enough for ye, entirely).

Gush on, Billy boy.

The English are big spenders, which is important too, even in Dublin, where the tourists are well minded, and well charged too.


There isn’t a bed to be had in the city. Tickets are sold out for months. The English supporters will tell you the Dublin trip is their favourite of the Six Nations.

Mind you, in fairness, going backward, one must make allowances for all this musha gush. After the shellacking which The Team of Usury, oops, Us were dealt by the Low-swinging Sweet Charioteers of the Brave Red Rose. Not to mention the lambasting suffered by the  cheerleading articles of the Hackitariat, off Lambay Island.  Which crushing defeat might well have re-echoed the immortal words from the Room of the Unknown English General at the derriere de guerriere,  of the first day of Schlacht an der Somme:

-The Day did not go entirely to Plan.

For some reason The Unionist Times chose  not to  re-cycle  this readymade headline, Michael, surprisingly so, given its legendary trackrecord with the unsubtle, the rebuttal and the Gael-scuttle..

Still, to return to the loquacious BK and his ‘code of ethics’.

Would this be a ‘code of ethics’ that gets kicked down the road of pathetics when it suits the suits of either side  like it was some, erm,  indented if not indentured billy-can ?

Consider the case of – lemmme see…..ah, yis ! – Peter O Mahony, the Munster Warrior aka The Thor of Thomondgate. Or, if the shoulder-to-shoulder Gael-scuttle was not already faoi lán seoil:

‘Sé mo laoch mo ghile mear
  Sé mo Shéasar, gile mear
  Suan gan séan ní bhfuair mé féin

Seems like in this, the Chinese Year of the Hog, yonder in Murrayfield  that POM went ‘low on the hog’ , being in no hurry to get out of the way of, erm, Stuart Hogg. Here’s the view from Edinburgh which differed somewhat from the view from DUPlin: while the latter took the, erm, high code, the former took the low code. Despite this, same rugby result: ‘I’ll get even afore ye !’.

The Scots  are of the view  that Peter O’Mahony should have been yellow-carded (on two separate occasions) While Rory Best was merely trying to slow Hogg’s chase, it was O’Mahony that did the damage. He would justifiably contend that he was going to block the kick but his left elbow was high and braced, and was the impediment that sent the fullback, Stuart Hogg,  hurtling.

Hogg will now sit out the rest of the Guinness Six Nations and his season with Glasgow Warriors may be over too. Needless to say, many Scots are fuming about that O’Mahony dunt.

The Sound of Silence from the Uncle Garfunkels on Dodderside which  greeted this display of modified v. in the pom-pom waving and all-Cheerleading Oirish Media (COM) on the POM case indicates that there is, possibly, just possibly, a  code, so, for the Scots, and another code entirely for the Not-Scots.

Fiddle-Faddle ! is the only retort from Paddy-land: fit only for the Scots Fiddle Orchestra.

A code of ethics for everyone in the audience, as it were, as they might chorus on the Late, Late Show. (see below).

Dunt? Did somebody just say …..dunt?

If so, then, sadly, it brings to mind another trangression on the part of a miked-up  POM, ár laoch, mo ghile mear. This happened on that (gulp)  Day.

-The Day which did not go entirely to Plan.

An altercation on the sideline between an Irish forward and an English forward, neither of whom was backward in the exchange of verbal pleasantries:

Kyle Sinckler:      Xz****y”””xyz !!

Peter O Mahony: You c-word !  You stupid c-word !!!!

Hmmmmmm. Or, more to the converted point: Hrrrrrrrrr.

Social media blows up after Peter O’Mahony’s foul-mouthed rant at Kyle Sinckler

But, musha,  was there a severe ticking off in and from  the Organ Of Rugby Record (OORR)?

Or, was there not? Specifically from the Miaow 2 media corrective of The Unionist Times. Purrhaps the best way to put it is as follows: it equalled in Jezebel decibel levels the  kinda hush which descended on the latter day Her Man’s Her Mits after the recent She Nanigans in the House of Non-Congress, Washington, DC. 

On the day when Nancy Pelosi of Palookaville playacted like she was back in Lower Infants fingering her abacus of ansiseed balls  behind the teachers’s back: to the unbridled  delight of the other girls in the class of ’19. Not least those who were  dressed in white robes (group thinker’s think tank? A lá members of the Ku Klux Koleen). A hint, perhaps, of what life will be like for the mere male when and if  McHenpartyism finally takes full control, a bhuachaillí.

Classy gal indeed, is Nancy: a Kindergarten classy kinda gal.

With a deft sidestep worthy of Mikey Sheehy himself, Billy Keane  quotes from left field  another Kerryman Moss Keane (no relation) who  played in, erm, The Field of Per Diems :

-(Yerra) There are no borders in the Irish dressing room.

Hmm. Shoulder to Shoulder stuff, then.

So, what about the dressing room of the – lemme see-o, Leo  ? hmmm…..ah, yis ! ….The BRITISH and irish LIONS aka The Team of us and Dem, like.

Eh? But, where has Billy Keane gone?

Here, The Perkin’s innner Procurator Fiscal must, perforce, take a closer look through the railiings of the West Brit Egg Head’s mansion at West Egg, and indulge in a spot of long-distance lip-reading.

-Why ! There he is over there, having moved not only location but topic, as he has been granted a gracious audience of one  with The Great FOTsby himself.

The topic by now has switched from the sporting to Die Hausfrau Englisch, on the undersandable understanding that what  Finchley Fintan (for it is also he !) knows about the old frisk and romp of  sport is akin to what he knows about the buts and dolts of  Leprechaun (‘fuckáil focal’ ) and so, does not amount to a (gulp) lady’s hair clip in a tank of slurry (with apologies to Capt. Moonlight).

Versatile lad is our  BK, who encompasses within the parameters of the same pair of galluses, the twin identity of being the Son of John B. Keane on the one hand, and the Godfather of John E. Sexton on the other, both simultaneously and in extra time. (Lest we forget, lest we forget !).

You’d want to be a right lúbán not to enjoy the English language as it’s spoken in all corners of our island.

To which sage observation the intellect of the ages, The Great FOTsby nodded as if he knew exactly the intended  meaning of ‘lúbán’.

Does BK mean: ‘ a loop for holding the spindle in a spinning wheel’?


Does BK mean: ‘a pair of fire tongs made by bending a piece of iron hooping’.?

What BK  clearly does not mean a ‘lúbán dubh’ which, of course, is a ‘ black pudding’.

One thing is sure is that John B. Keane would have been, yerra, very, very flaithiúlach in praise of his son, Billy. Among other dramatic  distinctions John B. was a stalwart of the LFM back in 1966 or thereabouts.

This was the intellectual cutting edge of the Free Souther Stateen’s counter-revolution: the (gasp) Language Freedom Movement. Or in terms more easily understandable to Finchley Fintan: the LFM was to language what the Punks on the mainland were to fashion and fashionable (gulp) music.

 This guaranteed John B. a permanent  pulpit of honour on the Late, Late Show (see above)  and a warm handshake from the host with a Windsor knot on his brain: G.B. heself, happily still with us.

Now the L and the F parts of LFM were clear enough: Freedom for the Language of Die Hausfrau to be able to converse without interference from the erse of the Dinosaurs. Englische being in such dire straits at the time  the sultans of lip swing were on the verge of doing the talk of life for the last time in Occidental England. Thanks to the vibrancy of Hiberno-Englische, however, it was saved from the hob of hellische extinction, begob.

But, Movement ? This is problematical. While one would automatically assume that it had to do with (gasp)  Vowels and such like, sadly, such was the cascade of linguistic loose stools on the Late, Late characteristic of John B. and other warmly handshook guests of honour, that it could only refer to (gulp) Bowels.

(Theatrical note; it was only when the LFM faction finally took the Abbey Theatre/ Amharclann Náisiúnta na hÉireann  by the throat that John B.’s plays  of an unpleasant peasantry  got their due desserts in DUPlin).

John B. of the LFM also introduced an avid Irish readership to the disarming charms of leaba-sharing among the day and night-shifting navvies in places like Northampton  on the Mainland.

There would be thus  something  deliciously logical in a lúbán class of way  for the Free Southern Stateen to become the only Englsih-only speaking member of the EU (Which May or may not happen yet). For  what the Shoneen mind (to use the m-word in a loose, stooly sorta way)  wallows in, linguistically speaking,  when it comes to matters of the lingua franca of the turfland  and earning a loaf, is, erm:

– Sofa Surfing in another man’s living language room.

Ná bí imníoch, críochnófar go Luimníoch:


An Dub gairmiúil é cor ar bith, Fintan

Nó Ciarraíoch go smior le hard-intinn?

Tán’ sé cáilithe

Tá sé ‘mallaithe’

An maidrín lathaí idirlín, Rin Tin Tin.

                                     TUILLEADH  LE  TEACHT :    TO  BE CONTINUED

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