Laptop bites bulldog (48) by Perkin Warbeck


If Michaelangelo, revived from a centuries-long coma  and rearing to go with a chisel in his hand and a sizzle in his eye,  were to indulge in a spot of time-travelling, going forward, he would immediately hop on a Roma-exiting Ryanair. 

And not stop till he reached DUPlin’s fair-to-middlin’ city, the still doubtful capital-to-be of Occidental England.

If the Number 10 door is the Leaning Tower of Theresa on the Mainland the visitor would veer left at its Oirish equivalent, Floor Number 17 of Liberty Hall, and steer his Lamborghini due south-east to sunny Wexico. Taking care to stick to the ciotog of the autostrada even while growing accustomed to the sound of the brogue on Radio Boolagvogue.

For there, in the clamour the Model County, he, the Mike Hammer of the higher sculpture,  would locate the  model for the 21C version of his Davy, oops, David.  In the person of Captain Glamour of the Yellow-Bellied fellows for whom he struck a purple patch in an ochre-shaded Croker last Sunday week:

– Lee Chin.

One is provoked into conjuring up  this image as a result of, yes,  Leo the Lioness’s hubristic and  very odd (no non-PC synonyms, please) nod  to send Missy Panti Bliss, the  Rube of the Bogus Boob Tube, the  ham it up Galiath of Sham, to criss cross China. So this country bum-king  native of Mayo could address the lessers without the Wall and all and  put the Maoists to rights on crios cross-dressing rites.

 (S)he being  viewed, perchance,  by the Government’s glad-handling chancers (with their lingering finger on the  pulse on the zeitgeist)  in the one-note same sax Merrion Street Upper  as a Babe Ruth of Truth in the PC Voting Booth? PR for the PR (Proportional Rapresentation).

Surely, Shirley, this is the most hick-like and  quixotic miss-adventure since Sancho Pansy went tilting at windmills on his ass, and Cervantes was but a muchacho in La Mancha.

Back in the day,  there used to be a Maynooth Mission to China: now there is, forsooth, a  Gay Truth Emission to China.

So why then has the most populous part of the planet, Dinah, me ould china,  been targetted by the depopulated  Land of the Dulse and Yellow Man, in this, Sis,  The Year of the Pigtail ?

Perhaps the snaking regarders in F17, Liberty Hall of the Jhunta, Jeremy,  wanted to send out a message: if you do want to Hong a Kong do ding a colonial song?  It would appear, dear, that the  Hang Over of British Benevolent Rule is still causing sore heads in DUPln, putative capital of  Occidental England as well as in a long offshore island in the  Orient Grand, astore.

One wonders will the Manipulating Mandarins for the Man, dear in Government Buildings, Merrion Street (truly a street on its cultural, erm, Uppers)  be yet hoist with their own canard? Look up, Peking Duck.

The same Mandarins who first nightmared up the Malarkey which has become the modern day global retch-reach of St. Patrick’s Day. With its sinister hint of Chernobyl for roubles. Not to mention a pathetic, limp-wristed  Imperialism. What, after all,  did the iconic buildings of the world do – from L’Arc de Triomphe to the Taj Mahal (see below) – to deserve having their facades  smack-drenched in a chronic OTT wave of  forty shades of a Snot-green Paddywhack Charade?.

But Malarkey, nonetheless, which has, gan dabht,  got the paws up from the non-narky barking Mutt.

If, on the outside chance these glad-handling greybeards had grey matter taobh istigh as well as taobh amuigh of their Aunt Sally Noggins, they would have looked to Lee Chin and given Panti Bliss a wide miss, Sis,  when choosing their Cultural Ambassador.

After all, ’fraid the trade imbalance demands as much. Chinese cuisine has long been a most welcome import to Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore: we just cannot get galore of it, astore. Time then to repay the compliment by inroducing them to the delights of a game as practiced by an expert  which is as deliciously truculent as well as being as succulent as, say, Chop Suey, Louis.

The game of Setanta whose essence is  but whose  surname, sir, was not, decidedly not.…Bliss.


Time then, hopefully, to make the  history of the  camán  rhyme with the mystery of the prawn, that sorta thingy.  But, ná déanamais dearmad, every goodwill tour deserves a catchy title that folks can asily, lazily  latch on to, one even that could be almost sung.

But what will that be, baby? Lemme see……ah, yis..achung:

-Chopsticks and Stickfighting !

(One doffs one’s caubeen with reverential  deference to the dear memory of George ‘GB’ Byrne, shoneen, the late, grating footie correspondent of the Occidental English Independent. He, for whom words were putty in his no-hands game. And whose disarmingly charming and  skittish coinage, ‘stickfighting’ was fittingly buried, Gerry, in a wiseacre of land which shall forever be West British).

Let then, the a-mazing King of the Camán swing,  Lee Ching, like something straight out of Sculpt Fiction,  tour Mighty China for a month, and turn it, to the delight of its billions, into, natch, an alluring Coolie Peninsula of Poc Fada across the  Paddy Fields  (PF x 2)  of  magic, myth, mitts  and the non-pelagic pike in the thatch, Maggie.

Let the free-taking  Raparee be accompanied on his smooth-striking hike by the musical duo of Lang Lang and Yo Yo Ma who will play as the co-signature tune of the Long Trek at break-neck speed:

-The Boys of Wexford.

After all Yo Yo Ma, long, long ago as a child prodigy (age 7) played for JFK in the White House. (Chiang Kai Shek it out, ! Chiang Kai Shek it out !). The other co-signature tune could be:

-On the Banks of my own Lovely Lee.

Which would  serve a dual purpose: not only as a backward nod to Lee Chin’s hurling prototype, a Corkonian hero from Ground Zero  whose name co-incidentally had a Chinese ring-a-ding about it:

-Christy R. 

But also to drown out the vacuous bellowing of a Fianna Failure of a clownish fellow, a TD for Clare, An Cláirineach Dúr Cuota (ACDC)  with a pure coolie mentality o cheantar speisialta Chúirt an Mheán Oíche. One, Tim Dooley, who never learned the art of how to gracefully hang down his headfart, opting instead to start bawling wrongfully, with a gong-bonging pong,  for a Special Midnight Court for Cultural Terrorists:

-No Poc Fada in fokkin China !

Instead, the noodle-eating denizens of China, including  Happy Valley, HK  (where the sun is finally set to set on the finale rally of those ire-filled chaps with map-reading issues and in dire need of tissues along with an anti-reveillé),  with oodles of taste and discernment will simply ignore the snore-inducing, pimply Timmy D., T.D.  with his lashings of Dalcassian flapdoodle.  And instead, will respond to their first-hand glimspe at the first-time pulling of Lee Chin, with:

-Ah, lovery hurring.


-Over the bar, sez Sweet and Lory Meagher !

An advance of both fox-hunting and Ping-Pong would you say, Jeremy, dear boy?

China, after all, when the Wall is said and done,  deserves better than Ping-Pong.

Ping-Pong, contrary to a common and nigh immaculate  misconception, Missy Panti Bliss, aka Queen (with an n) of Ireland (still with an n) did not originate from either the Chinese language or its people.

Rather, old bean, did the indoor sport of tennis table originate among the upper-class Anglo-Saxons  as an after-dinner and pre-supper parlour game during those long continuous  spells of torrential downpours  in Victorian England. A time when Alfred Lawn Tennyson himself could not play his second favourite outdoor sport, next to rhyming text.

Ping-pong was  the name suggested to some awfully witty Toff  by the smashing noises off, generated by racket, table and ball. And  was  hoisted along with the wavy mainsail of the B-Navy and duly foisted bit by bit by the Benevolent Brits  upon the unsuspecting and far off, over the sea Chinee.

The Chinese, who know a thing or two about class, would yes, under no duress, take to the game of Setanta like a (gulp) Peking duck to water. And quickly banish the already faded mammaries of a vanished Garry Glitter of the Anti-Sliotar, Missy Panti Bliss.

Soon, it would enable them to crow (The Bird’s Nest Stadium in Beijing could be renamed Crow Park) over their tabor-beating neighbours to the south in the environs of the Taj Mahal. Who, in balonial times,  had the game of stumps wickedly thumped into them  as their game of no choice (and of, yes, Joyce) and dumped upon them for a mess of patage by the Benevolent Raj.

Confucius say:

-Crash of  Ash  bash  Ashes like some dim  Orange Dim Sum with  Lambeg Drum !

There is, of course, a snag. One which could well cause a time-lag in correcting the trade imbalance between  the Prawn and the Camán. It concerns the M.U. No, not that malignant ubiquity, M.U. but rather the real deal M.U. One which is often overlooked but which is never undercooked, playing as it does a pivotal role in the hurly-burly of iománaíocht.

-Maor Uisce.

That divine Water Diviner with the magic bottle used to magic up more bottle in the throttle of the thirsty wristy Christys.


In China, one is never offered, in a restaurant or wherever, a glass of cold water. It is always a glass of luke-warm water. In China, Cool-hand Luke is a contradiction in terms. This is a practice which would cut no, erm, ice in the self-proclaimed world capital of niceness, DUPlin.

-Wrong, sez Mr and Mrs Wong.

-Through the chair, puleeeeaze.


Ina dteanga féin tá na Gaeil balbh

Ach atá líofa in uisce faoi thalamh

Uisce fuar

No patuar

Ol ! arsa an Mao(r) Uisce nua Olive.

                    TUILLEADH   LE   TEACHT : TO  BE CONTINUED

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