LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (57) by Perkin Warbeck




There is an old proverb / seanfhocal from the Leprechaun which goes as follows:

Is fearr rith maith ná droch-sheasamh.

For the benefit of – lemme see, ah, yis, – Matt ‘The Hoople’ Cooper, SuperDuperstar of the Airwaves in DUPlin’s fair to middling city –  he who thinks those misguided folk who (gulp)  prefer the Leprechaun to das Englisch der Hausfrau are suffering from (gasp)  ‘notions’, this proverb translates as:

A good run beats a bad standing.

Delaney is an Irish  surname which is sellotaped to the verb, to run. It has yet to pass its sell-by date. Three examples will suffice:

-Ronnie Delaney, who ran to golden glory in the 1,500 metres  at the  Melbourne Olympics in 1956.

-Delaney’s Donkey, who, back in the day, won the Half-Mile Race.

-John Delaney, who ran the FAI for donkey’s years in what some describe as an asinine way.

(There is also a soccer player named Delaney who  plays for Denmark, but he tends to be a stroller in the park:  as against that, Ireland is crammed with run-down hamlets).

Delaney, paradoxically, is also an Irish surname which is inextricably (a daaarling word, Joxer) entwined with the concept of ‘droch-sheasamh’/ a bad standng in DUPlin, aka The Big Orange. In this instance, two examples will do:

-The Statue  of Thomas Davis in College Green, D2

-The Statue of Wolf Tone in St. Stephen’s Green, D2.

In the case of the first statue one might add a little extra:

Is fearr rith maith ná droch-sheasamh, gan dua / A good run beats a bad standing, hands down.

While in the case of the second statue, aka Tonehenge, having been unveiled in 1967 by DEV it was, erm, reDEVeloped in 1971 by a UDA device known as a bomb. Say what one might about the UDA in this instance they displayed a keen sense of fine-art appreciation, specifically in the realm of public sculpture. Only the Pinocchio-coned  head of Wolfe Tone  survived, the rest having been helped on its way, Hiroshima-style, all the way to Tokyo.


A big victory for, erm, REM, i.e., Real Eyesore Movement  was, however,  gained when the scultptor guilty of the original dysfunctional erection, Edward Delaney, after some delay, was re-rewarded  the gig to ressurect the shattered statue, head down. Thus, this hideousness is to this day still hiding in plain view as Wolfe Tone  exchanges stoney  gawks with the non-talking, boob-flaunting  Nubian slaves that stand sentinel outside The Shelbourne Hotel, across the way.

Everybody hurts.

The Shelbourne, of course, is renowned for its hearty  A Lá Carte cuisine and which Warren Buffet once famously complimented on its being among  the finest food his alimentary system had ever invested in, beneath his button-straining vest. Surprisingly, country singer Jimmy Buffet is no relation. Unlike another country singer  George Strait who is related to his fellow Texan, Jeff  Bezos whose Amazon fortune was badly scorched and narrowed  in his recent divorce settlement with the former Mrs. Bezos. It is not known if this ex’s still living in Texas.

One mentions Jimmy Buffet, who comes from Alabama with a guitar on his knee,  because of his songwriting ability.  Now while one has no wish to make a meal of his accomplishments, nonetheless he is germane to le topic du jour. He is especially  relevant to both landmarks in St. Stephen’s Green, just mentioned. He too is famous for many reasons, three of which will suffice:

-His most poplular song is ‘Margaritaville’, prompted by a Mexican cocktail with which the ice-cubes of the Shelbourne  have a realtionship which has long since cooled, but in a nicely positive way.

-A line from another of his songs features in a legendary border roadsign in the Nubra Valley, Ladakh, Northern India: Without Geography, We’re Nowhere.

Most apposite of all, is his song entitled: Delaney talks to Statues.

The Delaney in question is his daughter whom he named after his father: James Delaney Buffet Jnr.

-Delaney talks to statues

As she dances ’round the pool

She chases cats through Roman ruins

And stomps on big toadstools

The song  deals with  the baffled delight of a  father watching his young daughter develop her talents:

Delaney draws me pitcures

She finger paints the sand

Jimmy Buffet ought here to have been thankful for big mercies from the small girl: at least she wasn’t building statues in the sand.

One is reminded of one  who featured as a guest on  this computerised park bench of late, no, not Jimmy Delaney, son of Laois parents who played from Celtic, Man Utd etc; but rather: Eamon Delaney. Not only did he write in the opposite direction to Jimmy B., i.e., he penned a paean of praise-sodden prose which was not at all back-handed on his cack-handed pops, Edward Delaney:

Breaking the Mould.

A title which has long fascinated The Perkin, and which he refers to as his favourite ‘paean in the mould’.  Is it, one wonders, prompted by the modern madrigal, Mouldy Ould Dough (of which pops was paid double re his Wolfe Tone Statue (x2) upon which pigeons have been known to poo / agus a bhfuil mún scaoilte ag madraí na sráide orthu. Call them, perhaps, the flying column / colm of the UDA).  It was one of that feathered breed, of course, who made a smash hit of the madrigal:

-Lieutenant Pigeon.

Whereas  Delaney Major used the hammer and chisel, Delaney Minor, his chiseler, dug with his pen. And twas obvious  twasn’t off the sun-deprived streets of DUPlin the son picked up his own  talent for  producing hideousness in plain sight:

 –Forcing people to learn a language they don’t have a grá for is self-defeating.

A think piece which was contaminated meat and drink to the mono-minded cheerleadership of the (gasp) laughingly titled comicbook ‘Irish Dependent’. As this watery pigeon droplet of prose from the (gulp)  diplomatic goblet of Delaney Minor, attests:

The ridiculous folly of the State trying to force them to do something they didn’t want to, which was to learn Irish – just because the State said so and because it would make them ‘more Irish’, in a Éamon de Valera ‘dancing at the crossroads’ kind of way.

The curious thing about this shouty contribution to the trough of thought in snouty DUPlin and in  the most porcine of prose, is that it could well have been prompted by the following lines in ‘Delaney talks to statues’ by Jimmy Buffet:

She speaks a language all her own

That I cannot discover.

Just as curious is the next appearance in porcine prose by his rear-orifice composed, for it would seem to suggest Delaney Minor is more under the influence of Jimmy B. that even he is aware of:

-Without Geography, We’re Nowhere.

For it appeared in a newspaper of a foreign land far away in the Middle East. Ah, yis, but which, Mitch?

Here’s a clue or two: as recently as last week, Eamon Delaney was given the Redmondite red carpet treatment by Matt’ the Hoople’ Cooper on his show, The Last Word. To diss the GAH, i.e, to discuss, approvingly of:


One will conclude with a fact (checked) which raises the possibility that Matt ‘the Hoople’ Cooper is related, after all,  to the wondrous, sleight-of-offhand  comedian called Cooper and whom Matt very possibly calls Uncle Tommy.

For Matt’s Fez-wearing fanatical, feminist stance (is fearr droch-bhean ina seasamh ná an reathai fir is fearr) is, erm, Mattched, among other hang-ups and hang-downs of the Hoople, by his Anti-anti-Semitism. gan dabht.

This cold, cod-eyed Corkonian (of the professional variety) let his mask slip when he shed tears and was heard to sob as he blobbily read out with throbbing voice the tearful Sir Nicholas Soames’s weepy farewell to the Step Mother of Parliaments, during the week.

Old Nick, of course, is a grandson of the gentle, genocidal Winston Churchill..

The Hoople, recovering his composure with his crozier-shaped voice at its most hectoring, took issue with and the p—s out of Boris, the flaxen-haired, waxen-faced bro of the flaxen-haired waxen-faced Jo, in a manner which left no doubt about his denunciation of this blatant act of:



Btw, Betfair, in fairness, going forward, is laying odds on the Johnson Bros joining up to feature in a remake of ‘The Boys from Brazil’ just as soon as The  Boris gets his UB 40 sorted out in No. 10. When both Johnson and Johnson will have their time pieces on their wrists and time on their hands. (Cue: ‘Red, red whine’ as soundtrack).  Assuming, of course that Big Fib Boris was only ribbing us all when he made that throwaway comment about death in a ditch at a Police Academy and which caused a young female recruit to swoon, having failed to stay awake in Wakefield.

-But, which ditch, Mitch?

Boris failed to say. Could it be ‘The Black Pig’s Dyke’/’Claí na Muice Duibhe’  (or, ‘The Black Sow’s Dyke’/ ‘Claí na Cránach Duibhe’  as it is known in this parish, for this is a shared space) aka ‘The Worm’s Ditch’ /‘Claí na Péiste’  as the prototype Border is known in Cavanmonaghan.

Stop !

Back to Old Nick (Soames).

Consider the following from the Great Goddess Google:

According to the book Women in Parliament published in 2015, Soames has been named as the ‘most sexist’ MP, with several female MPs stating that he has made vulgar comments to them. In other accusations of sexual harassment, it has been alleged that Soames makes repeated cupping gestures with his hands, suggestive of female breasts, when women are trying to speak in parliament, in order to distract them. He allegedly harassed Alastair Campbell, by telephoning him and saying ‘you sex god, you Adonis, you the greatest of all great men’. However, unknown to Soames, he was actually speaking to Campbell’s young son.

On 31 January 2017, Soames made ‘woofing’ noises at Tasmina Ahmed-Sheikh when she was asking the foreign secretary, Boris Johnson, a question in the House of Commons. Ahmed-Sheikh called a point of order to bring the speaker’s attention to the noises. John Bercow, the speaker, described the noises as ‘discourteous and that expression should not be used’ and Soames was asked to apologise. He did so, saying he was only offering her a ‘friendly canine salute’, in reply to her ‘snapped’ question.

-Just like that.

One is confident that there are enough clues there to deduce the plain sight of which overseas newspaper the hideous prose of  E. Delaney  is hidden.


Breaking News, which may contain some non-Flesh Photography !

The secret weapon to be employed by the Dubs in their Over-Drive for Five has been revealed !

 It will be carried on to Hill Sixteen on Saturday, September 14, at 6 pm. The carry-on will be easily identified, being a Jake among Jacks.

He will be immediately identifiable: being tall, spare  and languid of pinstriped build; wearing a pair of rimless spectacles which give the impression of being a monocle. He will be wearing a Tory- island sized rosette of true blue in his lapel. Indeed, it was his wing-span lapels which first caught the sharp eye of Wing Commander J. Gavin, bainisteoir of B.Á.C.

He will languorously, in a semi-recumbent posture, recline across the full length of the terrace on Hill 16, directly behind  the penalty box which Dubbles as a dispatch box, until the ball has been thrown in to get the replay under way. On the basis that is fearr luí siar tamall  na droch-sheasamh..

He will be holding a furled brolly just so, Joe,  of even truer blue in his hand, nearest to his right-wing span of a lapel. Which he will wave once, on his feet, clad on this occasion in a pair of Crockett and Jones black calf clogs. Which, like all the footwear of that firm since 1879, had an eight-week gestation period prior to its creation, winning for it, in the process,  a Royal Warrant, not unlike the Canal at the opposite end of the Stadium.

His cut-glass, lawdy-daw voice, till the final whistle is blown, will pierce the ether from either end of the storied Park of the Jurassics, with this window-shattering mantra, which will cause the Boggers to cringe in front of Moggers (for it is he !):

I say, come away the Metropolitans.

                              TUILLEADH   LE  TEACHT: TO  BE CONTINUED

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