It is a truth universally acknowledged than an Eamon with only one n and who wishes to make n’s meet, must be in need of a few shekels.
That middle-brow bromide came to mind in this the centenary of E. DeValera’s return to the US of Eamon when the Founding- / Funding-Father of Fianna Fáil sailed to the land of his birth to accumulate the shekels (and heckles alike).
Thus, a notable tradition, to coin a phrase, was continued when, this year, DUPlin’s own delightfully cockamamie intellectual, Eamon Delaney, though gaunt of look, plumped for The Times of Israel in which to flaunt his hideous prose in full sight.
Israel: oodles of schlock, yes, but no shock. For Israel is there, where as recently as a few short days ago, its gabby PM – call him the Nathan Yahoo to the Boris Bobo – indulged in the crafty art of virtual land-grabbing with the aid of a chart and pointer (to heel, boy !). A crafty art right well known to all those linguistic Yunes who so like to curry in tune their yoghurt on both sides of the Black Sow’s Dyke. Call it a same text Samuel-Sommy thing; a song, sung blue.
So, no particular chutzpah required therefore of Delaney the Brainy in his choice of overseas outlet, the newspaper of the foreign land in which he chooses to schmooze. But, soft you, a word or two before we go on to peruse the oozy wit he has fluently writ even as he sat on his tush, pushing his pen.
Leaving land to one side, and turning now to the grand old topic of verbal diet, the sandwich of language. Are not the linguistic Yunes of DUPlin (where there’s Diamonds in the lady’s eyes and Goldman Sachs in her hair) a tad out of tune with the Stars of David in the minor matter of a not so young spoken tongue. For which emigrant Yanks emptied their wads, or not. Depending, of course, on the lingo which is a synonym for bingo ! And on which brogue gets the Order of the Boot.
Hardly any need to toss a shekel to find out which is which between the Argot of Esau and the Patois of Pat (aka the Idiom of Biddy, for this is a shared space). A case of comparing Big Apples and Small Oranges.
On one side of the Wailing Wall stand the Israelies, uttering in Compulsory Herbrew:
-Revival ! Revival ! Revival !
On the other side of the Wailing Wall stand Yunes United, muttering in Obligatorisch Englisch:
-Connivance ! Connivance ! Connivance !
How then, to square the particular circulation by Eamon Delaney of that Revivalist Review?
Till next week, DV, in Little Jerusalem, DUPlin 8.
Meanwhile, mention of Esau facilitates a segue of sorts.
Nassau has been in the news of late on account of the devastation wrought by Hurricane Dorian. Both the first word and the last word of this sentence find an echo in the windbag city of DUPlin : Dorian was the name of a character whose hair never morphed from fair to gray via the quill of Oscar Wilde of Merrion Square.
If one is a blowhard from there (i.e Duelling Danno) one passes through Clare Street to Nassau Street via South Leinster Street. A spot where, in 1974, the hand-picked Harrassment Unit of the Glennane Gang, having reached boiling point, struck a blow for a United Land of Ire by detonating a bomb which had been constructed in their holy of holies, the cow byre.
Nassau Street, DUPlin 2, is called after King William of Orange-Nassau, surely a reason to warm the cockles of the lion heart of Hugo McNeill, who has been been making Nassau noises of late through his rear pocket, breaking old ground with new wind by putting pen to paper. Even as he knelt down in an effort to make DUPlin a fitt, oops, fit place for Orange folk to live in, and where they can Jaffa the Times of their lives.
Call it the genuflective / reflective style of political discourse which, of course, The Unionist Times has pinfully pioneered for the luminearati of the Oirish public-school alumni, boy.
Hugo ‘Garryowen’ McNeill (a surname associated with Gleanarm where the choke tackle, blokes, is rumoured to have originated) who has a thingy about National Antrims (as they are known in DUPlin), is a former British and Irish Lion. Since then, he has seamlessly segued from dotting down beyond the whitewash to becoming a Dot Commissionaire with Goldman Sachs, that byword for dosh and bottom lines. He now functions as the Chairman of a (gasp) nebulous eagraíocht of hob-knobs known as the (gulp) British-Irish Association. That sorta thingy.
One of his proudest boasts is that he studied British-, oops, Anglo-Irish Literature under Brendan Kennelly and David Norris in TCD which is on the other side of the wailing wall of Nassau Street.
-‘Yerra’, to quote Yogi Berra, ‘even William of Orange-Nassau had his bottle of Boynewater’.
(Status Orange Weather Alert – Be Prepared.
An Orange level weather warning implies that all recipients in the affected areas should prepare themselves in an appropriate way for the anticipated conditions).
You blow ahead now, Hurricane Hugo:
WHAT ELEMENTS OF BRITISHNESS WOULD BE INCORPORATED INTO A UNITED IRELAND?
(you mean, Hugo, APART from Compulsory English !!!!!!!!! ?????
What would we give up?
(Sound of Force 12 Hurricane Hugo whipping through the manicured lawns of Warbeck Towers).
What element of Government would be in Belfast? How would our Constitution be altered and what role would the British goverment have as a form of guarator for unionists?
(Sound of a turret on Warbeck Towers crashing down and smashing far below upon an uprooted eight hundred year old oak).
Would we pay taxes to fund the NHS-type sytstem that exists in the North now and the wider shortfall from Westminster? Would we rejoin the Commonwealth?
(Sight of gazebo being summarily hoisted above the deluged lawn and smashed against the garden wall. Splinters of which pavilion are seen to be deposited in the moat, where they would certainly have been seen to float if there were any water still left by this time in the moat of Warbeck Towers).
Those who promote a united Ireland expect the unionists to give up so much. Every start of the rugby season we get the familiar complaints about having Ireland’s Calls as anthem for the Ireland team as opposed to Amhrán na bhFiann.
(Sound of the heavy grating of the portcullis being ripped unmecifully from its grooves, leaving the barbican of Warbeck Towers looking as bald as Stan Cullis himself, and he to be in his prime).
A key issue relating to mutual respect is: what elements of Britishness would be incorporated into any united Ireland? Do we in the Republic really understand what it means to be both Irish and British? Progress has been made but only to a point
(Sight of a 1907 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, once the pride and joy of Sir Galahead Warbeck, pioneering petrolhead, upside down on top of the potting shed, and with its wheels still spinning)
At times one feels one is reading the score of a famous arnrangement by Hugo Montenegro. No, not his legendary version of Enio Moricone’s :
– ‘The Good, the Bad and the Ugly’.
What with Peter Robinson, John Hewitt and Seamas Mallon, predictably, all getting genuflective namchecks, much more like the score of a Spaghetti Northern, entitled:
-‘The Yawn, the Stretch and the Trouser Cough’.
Of course, neither Delaney the Brainy or Hurricane Hugo were the only B and I windbags of change to drag their fawn-coloured clogs through the, erm, Myers : trust The Lapdog who has developed the biting of The Bulldog into a Thing of Booty not to lag far behind. Not for nuffin, Puffin, is The Lapdog the M.D. of M.D. Productions. (M.D. = Mar Dhea)
The Double-jobbing DUPliner was acting The Guardian Angel (where Finchley got first dibs with the nib drops of Fintan’s Fuckáil Focalology) on the Sunday. Then, the Duracell Bunny of the Real Really Funny Absurdistan did an overnight quickchange to re-emerge as a Monday Morning Quarterhack. When he lined out as a jobslot in the more familiar gansey of The Unionist Times. B and I-location, by dad.
Who’d have thought, incidentally, that the sky-seeking (and Sky- sought) Fintan could still find time to get down and dirty?
For Fintan of the Refined Mind, whose Liberty Hall High IQ sublimely equips him to survey an intercontinental worldscape and prescribe infallible quick-fix solutions to a Millennial-old mix of global problems, nonetheless he is not above plumbing the arcane depths of ‘the crouch, bind and set’ of an urbane rugby scrum. With its intricate bubble gum-style intertwining of bum shoves the size of big bass drums, eyegouge thumbs and per capita incomes.
Take it away, The Tooler:
‘The Vices that led Johnson to the Top are useless when it come to Weilding Power’
-The self-image of the public-school ethos from which Boris Johnson springs is best expressed in Thomas Hughes’ high-Victorian novel, Tom Brown’s School Day. But Johnson’s own model is surely not the honourable Tom but the contemptible cad Harry Flashman, as he is hilariously re-imagined in Geroge MacDonald Fraser’s ‘The Flashman Papers’. The arch-bounder was sometimes suggested as an avatar for David Cameron but he is surely a better match for Johnson. He rises inexorably to become Sir Harry Flashman, VC, and brazenly informs us that ‘all my fame and glory has been earned by accident, false pretence, cowardice, doing the dirty, and blind luck’. Flashman makes his career in the military and explains: ‘Some human faults are mlitary virtues, like stupidity, and arrogance and narrowmindedness’
But, of course, agus mar is eol do chách, as always with Finchley Fintan of the Fuckáil Focal, it is the inner lapdog which did not bark which is the one to listen out for.
(And as this is a shared space one will now furnish the statutory feline image to complement, if not compliment, the canine one):
–Coimeád do shúil ar an bpussy cat / Keep your eye on the pussy cat: tis da wans ya don’t see, dem’s da wans to watch.
If one searches for a reference to the name of Havelock being taken in vain or not, in either The Guardian or The Guardian Lite (aka The Unionist Times) one will search in vain.
That would be the loveable Lord Havelock who introduced the comic concept of dying for the love of someone else’s country to India.
1.Havelock has a prominent place in all of the series of The Flashman Papers, novels set in the subcontinent of India. He is given the nickname ‘Gravedigger’.
2.The Havelock Terrace at the old Lansdowne Road stadium in Dublin was so named as it backed onto the small 19th Havelock Square. The roof of the new Aviva Stadium dips dramatically in response to the proximity of the square.
In his guest role as Preacherman while perched high as heaven as one of the pulpit faction in St. Patrick’s Church of Ireland (sic) Cathedral, did not the lock of common hair on the High IQ Head of Fine-minded Fintan brush against the Regimental Flags which hang a-dangle from the celestrial ceiling of the morally superior religious edifice? Even as it dipped dramatically in response to the proximity of Aprúin an Bhúistéara?
-Look up, there’s Lucknow !
Is all it would have taken for the pushy Pasha of Gravitas to give the Gravedigger a verbal dig out.
Alas, poor Yorrick, another trick missed. To talk in lockstep, not to mention, stock-holder to stock-holder, with the inspiration of all green-ganseyed lockforwards:
Meanwhile, over in Jurassic Park, the stadium of the Dinosaurs in Dogpatch, Dublin 3, a-once-in-a blue moon occasion was Con-celebrated on Saturday with the notable absence of One.
-Dave Brubeck Day.
That absence had been flagged on the Eve of Destruction when the Pandit of Punditry was handed his furled surname by RTE and told to go, Joe. Pronto.
As another Joe (alas, still with us !) might have asked.
Seemingly for dissing a player here, a commentator there and a referee everywhere. Not to mention interrupting his fellow panelists of the male persuasion.
Seemingly, but not necessarily. Perhaps even for an incident which may have happened or not a month or so ago, and which Hawkeye had missed, Missy, having taken that long, Lord save us, to catch up with his appointment in Spec Savers.
–Ná nocht d’fhiacla go bhféadair an greim do bhaint.
Actually, the dropping was as inevitable as the dropping of ’is aitches by the charasmatic Cascarino, RTE’s favourite Irish sports pundit, luv.
What BBC NI does, RTE aka BBC NI Lite dutifully follows, in, erm, delayed lockstep. Time now for a Nordie (though not, repeat not, a Geordie) with a Mined Brain of his Own to be dropped South of the Black Sow’s Dyke.
This explains why a calypso-style song populrised by Eddie Grant rather than a jazzy number in the Brubeckian mode is to be played by the Artane Boys Band, assuming they haven’t been, erm, banned in the meantime by the Montrose meanies:
Oh, gimme hope, Jo’anna
Gimme hope, Jo’anna
Gimme hope, Jo’anna
‘Fore the morning come
Gimme hope, Jo’anna
Gimme hope, Jo’anna
Hope before the morning come
Autumn’s here for good as yet another Oak Leaf falls to the ground with a resounding thud, Bud.
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED