19-17 was always too close to call and too fragile a victory to last. While some passionate Sommeys likened it to the catastrophic rout at Passchendaele in 1917 more mundane Sommeys, the ones with their boots on the brae, compared it to a typical strife-edge rugger result between those two behemoths of the oval-ball game, the Seconds and Thirds (pronounced thirds) of the Magherafelt Rainey Old Boys Rugby club, County Londonderry on a dry but muddy day.
A replay was duly arranged and the result, of course, was reversed, as decisely as it was derisively. For it was always going to be with ease when a Military Mon with Mojo (refound) confronts a mere wee Mon in Mufti in a replay with the element of Quel Surprise gone: 36-0.
Bhí 19-17 i gconaí ro-chongarach agus ro-leochailleach le leanúint. Fhad is chuir roinnt Sommey teasaí é i gcomparáid leis an treascairt thubaisteach ag Passchendaele i 1917, ar an lámh dhearg eile, mheabhraigh an toradh do gach Sommey a raibh a mbroga ar thaobh cnoic, gnáth-thoradh rugbaí idir na fathaigh úd le liathroidí ubhchruthacha, na Tánaistí agus An Tríú Criú (a fhuaimnítear amhlaidh) de chuid Cumann Rugby Sean-Bhuachaillí Rainey, Machaire Fíolta, Contae Londaindoire, ar lá tirim ach lábach.
Deineadh athimirt a shocrú, mar is cuí, agus deineadh an toradh a aisiompo droim ar ais, chomh cinnte is a bhí sé dísmheasúil. De bhrí go mbuafaí i gconaí go héasca nuair a thugann Laoch Mílteata a bhfuil a Mhisneach (athcheannaithe) aige, aghaidh ar ghnáth-chúl le balla in éadaí sibhialtacha agus a bhfuil an t-iontas tráite de.
There was always only going to be only one winner – the former one who’d lost by two: Corporal Donaldson. When it was pointed out to Mr. Poots that the Papist predecessor of John Paul 2 in 1978 had, at least, lasted a full 33 days in office,while saying his office, the 21 day-old vanquished showed himself to be in the vanguard of unsore losers, when he winsomely replied with that typical twinkle in his I.Q.:
-Och aye surely, Sorely Boy, but, ye’ll notice, I lived to tell ye tale!
Ní bheadh riamh ach an t-aon bhuaiteoir ann – an ceann a buadh air cheana le dhá bhota : an Ceannaire MacDonaill. Nuair a cuireadh ar shúile an Uasail Bramanna gur lean réamhtheachtaí Pápach Eoin Phoil 2 i 1978 ar feadh 33 lá in oifig, agus a leabhair urnaí á léamh aige, ghlac fear caillte an chluiche, nár lean ach ar feadh 21 lá in oifig, go huasal leis an díomua nuair a d’fhreagair sé le loinnir an ghrinn ina shúile:
-Sea, go díreach, Somhairle a Bhuachaill, ach, beidh sé tugtha faoi ndear agat, gur mhair mé fada go leor le bheith im’ fhear iniste an scéil !
It is a safe bet that Corporal Donaldson, knowing full well that when one joins John Bull’s UDR Island regiment, one wears the Poots. Or, not. It’s an even safer bet that C.D. will last a wee bit longer nor E.P., playtime-wise. The Unionist Times of DUPlin are beside theyselves with ectacicism. (You left, no, you left: me right). Always a reliable weather vane re which way the West Brit by North East winds are a-blowing. None being more (justifiably) vain than the West Brit Weather Vane aka An Sean-Vane Bhocht heself, Finchely Fintan (see : The Tool / An t-Úll below).
Tá sé measartha dearfa go dtuigeann an Ceannaire Mac Donaill nuair a chláraíonn oglach i Reisimint UDR Sheáin Buí, go gcaitear Pútsaí a chaitheamh. No, nach gcaitear. Tá sé níos mo ná measartha dearfa go leanfaidh C.D. ag seinnt níos buaine ná E.P. Tá sceitiminí áthais ar T.U.T. i nDUBlin cois Life . (Tusa ar chlé, ni hea, tusa ar chlé: mise ar dheis). Is eite ghaoithe é atá i gconaí iontaofa más uait a fháil amach conas mar atá na Gaoithe Iar-Bhrit o Thuaidh Thoir ag séideadh. Agus níl ceann ar bith acu níos mo de féin ( agus iomlán inchosanta) ná An Sean-Vane Bhocht fénin, Fincheley Fintan (féach thios: An Tuathalach / An t-Úll ).
Truly, is the DUP on the precipice of a new Dawn ! If they can only manage to keep an even Kilkeel the only way is surely Down.
The signs are surely there, Sorely Boy, as a quick glance as the first two photos show:
from the name of its new HQ in Snap 1 to, in Snap 2, the detailed yet coldstream clear Road Map to a Brand New Political blandscape, not.
Dáiríre, ach tá an DUP ar tí éirí le Breacadh an Lae Nua, más féidir leo an páirtí a choinneáil ar Chíl Chothrom níl ach an t-aon bealach le dul ach -Thíos.
Tá na deachomharthaí ann mar a thugann sracfhéachaint ar an gcéad dá ghriangaf: le fios on ainm an CA nua i ngrangraf 1 go dtí, sa dara griangraf, an Léarscáil Bhoithre le mionsonraithe agus an Bother Buíbhrící chun na Spéire mar a n-eitlíonn na hAontachtaithe Gorma.
Note the absence, in both photos, of Sham Ambiguity. A fine example of a keen military mind in operation. Therein kindly oberve the clear, straightforward, no-nonsence, what-you-see-on-the-tin- hat-is-what-you-get kinda thingy: Sublime Ambiguity. Or, Sambiguity, for short. Enough to keep even Wee Generic Sommey heself happy in a hoppy class of way, e’en as he tip toes through the tulips in hot purusit of the Two Lips of his True Love.
Tabhair faoi ndear, sa dá ghriangraf, an t-easpa Bhréag-Dhébríochta. Sampla fonta é seo den mheon géar mileata i mbun oibre. Taibhair aire speisialta ar an mbealach soiléir, glan, macánta, díreach, frith-sheafoideach a leagtar an meon amach: Debhríochas Draíochtúil. No, Sambhríochas, sa leagan gairid. Go leor ann chun Sommey Beag O Cineálaigh féin bheith sasta ina bhealach beoga féin ar na barraicíní tríd na tiúilipí is é sna sála Péire Liopaí a Ghrá Ghil.
With Demarche Season just around the corner, incidentally, TUT in DUPlin will set the tone of non-wolfwhistling at Corporal Donaldson. He is not, repeat till ye tie yesleves up in knots, not a gunman. And the Organ of Record (OoR) will duly go into a paroxysm of TUT-TUTing, like no UDR, if anyone bone-headed enough dares to do so re OoR Jeff..
In their most stentorian of Dame Edna-like contraltos, The TUT view is:
– Gunmen, sir, do not get to be Knighted ! End of Storey.
Ní fada uainn an Séasúr Demarche, agus socroidh TUT i nDUPlin an ton tuairisceoireachta a chuirfidh bac ar fhead graosta a ligean leis an gCeannaire Donaldson. Ní fhear gunna é, an chomhairle a dháilfear dá léitheoirí, ag moladh doibh iad féin a cheangal i snaidhmeanna má tá sin riachtanach lena leithéid a dhéanamh. Má tá éinne díchéillí a dhothain neamhshuim a dhéanamh de Mhuire na Dea-Chomhairle agus Ár Jeff a mhaslú, rachfaidh TUT ar mire le racht feirge. Agus leis an glor contrailt is crua údarás de chuid an Dáma Edna, nochtofar dearchadh TUT:
- – Ni deantar Ridire de fhear gunna ! Deireadh an Scéil.
Not unexpectedly, The All-Cankering PW Investigative Team has got hold of a transcipt of the actual dialogue which preceded the replay between Mutt and Jeff and which resulted in a reversal of that orange-tinted order. The Operation was Codenamed ‘The Apple’ . Not unlike, say, comparing an Appleman to an Orangeman.
Ní nach ionadh, d’éirigh le Scothfhoireann Iniúchta PW teacht ar thrascríbhinn den fhíorchomhrá a tharla roimh athimirt Mutt agus Jeff, agus a raibh aisiompo an oird oraiste ar leith sin ann. Tugadh an codainm ‘An t-Úll’ air. Ní raibh sé neamhchosúil le, cuir i gcás, comparáid a dhéanamh idir Fear Úill agus Fear Oráiste.
THE APPLE
Jeff: I pitch a pretty good game of baseball ! Hold still, Mutt, and I’ll knock this apple off
the top of your head !
Mutt: What? Are you crazy?
Jeff: Why? I’ll bet ‘cha two bucks I can do it?
Mutt: You little boob ! You gotta be a marksman, an expert to do a stunt like that !
Suppose you miss !
Jeff: Yeh, I suppose you’re right ! It is kinda risky at that !
Mutt: Of course, silly !
Jeff: O.K. then instead of two bucks I’ll only bet a dime !
And, by the way you can call me – Sir !
. An t-Úll
Jeff: Preabaim daorchluiche atá thar a bheith damanta maith ! Fan socair, Mutt, agus
déanfaidh mé an t-úll seo a bhualadh o bharr do chloiginn !
Mutt: Céard ? An bhfuil tusa ar mire?
Jeff: Cén fath? Cuirfidh mé dhá dhollar leat gur féidir liom.
Mutt: Dúramán mion tusa ! Ní mor duit bheith id’ aimsitheoir den scoth, saineolai féin
chun éacht mar sin a dhéanamh ! Samhlaigh go gcuireann tú d’iarracht amú !
Jeff: Sea, is docha go bhfuil an ceart agat ! Tá sé abhairin contúirteach, lena chois sin .
Mutt: Ar ndoigh, amadáin !
Jeff: Togha. Mar sin, in ionad dhá dhollar a chur leat, cuirfidh mé dím amháin leat !
Actually, the dialogue was conducted through the medium of C.U.S. (Compulsory Ulster Scots). Which means, unavoidably, that there is no shortage of C.U.S. words which, of course, only adds to the cultural colour of the lingustic landscape or indeed, glandscape (for gender equality porpoises).
Herewith, therefore, (Brandon Luas, please note) pray find in the interests of cultual perverstiy, oops, divesity, the complete original text in C.U.S.
Jeff: Curry my yoghurt can coca coalyer.
Mutt: Curry my yoghurt can coca coalyer. (x4).
Mar a tharla, deineadh an comhrá trí mheán na hUltaise Éigeantaí (Ultais Éigeantach). Fíoras a chiallaíonn nach bhfuil aon easpa eascainní le chloisint, a chuireann, ní nach ionadh, le saibhreas cultúrtha atá le fáil sa tírdhreach teangeolaíochta. Le seo, mar sin, faighhtear, (Déan nota, leid thoil, Breandán Luas) le teann measa a léiriú ar an éagsúlacht béalscaoilteachta, bun-thrascríbhinn an chomhrá san Ultais Éigeantach.
Jeff: Curry my yoghurt can coca coalyer.
Mutt: Curry my yoghurt can coca coalyer. (x4).
As Photo 3 shows.Edwin P. Moot, political pragmatist, did not languish in self-pity (languish to him is not a matter of real-politic) but was back trading the very next day, albeit in a differet business. Having lost the Corona of DUP and all the jewellery which that entails, he promptly re-opened a Kiosk and switched smartly to retailing such durable items as gewgaws, curios, trinkets, knicknacks, baubles, mementos, that sorta thingy. Even souvenirs are found among his goods. It’s a given that Paul is the name of the assistant.
Mar a thaispeánann Griangraf 3, nior chaith Edwin P. Tost, aon am amú go dubhach leis an féintrua (ní cuid den fhéintrua an fhíor-pholaitíocht) ach bhí sé ar ais i mbun trádála an lá ina dhiaidh, bíodh gur le gno eile difriúil ar fad. Tar éis do Choroin an DUP bheith bainte dá chloigeann dhún sé a shiopa seodra agus d’oscail sé Stainnín ina raibh buan-nithe mar ornáidí, mangaisíní, ailleagáin, giúirleidi, seandachtaí, deismireáin, na cineáil rudaí siúd. Tá cuimhneacháin fiú le fáil i measc na n-earraí. Glactar leis go coitianta gur Pol ainm an chuntora ag an gcuntar.
So far the best selling item has been, by a wide margin, the pootard. Sorry, Sorley Boy, come again?
-It is a wee Ulster variant of petard, as in ‘hoist with his own pootard’.
(Hoist with his own Leotard – is a contemporary Liffeyside catchcry: grounds for twinning with Laganside already)
Is é an t-earra is mo a bhfuil éileamh air go dtí seo, ná an pootard. Mo leithcéal, Somhairle, a Bhuachaill, arís?
-Is mion-leagan Ultach é den peatard, cosúil le ‘filleann an fool ar an bhfoolire’.
(Ardaithe lena Léatar fein – is rosc catha comhaimseartha é sin Cois Life, agus cúis eile le DUPlin a nascadh le Cois Lagáin).
No need to worry, as nobody ever had a clue what a petard was or is, not that that stopped anyone from buying into the phrase. (But the TUT infallibly suspect it’s a wee Northern form of ‘pooetic justice’)
Nil aon chúis bheith buartha, de bhri go bhfuil gach duine dall ar an mbrí atá le peatard, ní hionann sin agus a rá nár dheineadar a gcuid den abairt. (Tá amhras do-earráideach ar TUT gur mion-leagan Tuaisceartach ar ‘ceartas fíleata’ atá ann)
-(In the immortal catchphrase of Frank Carson: ‘it’s a cracker !’)
Photos 4 and 5 tell a different story. As different as caviar is from marmalade. Especially caviar to the Corporal. Or, indeed, Golden Shred chunky lumps of Marmalade from Gold watches.
A darker story.
-The MaJ badge, Madge !
Alas, the Mutt and Jeff badge was not what Dame Edna ordered but rather the Jeff and Mutt badge.
-The JaM badge,Madge !
Insíonn Griangrafanna 4 and 5 scéal difriúil. Chomh héagsúil le caibheár agus marmaláid. Go
háirithe caibheár don Cheannaire. No chomh héagsúil le Marmaláid Oráiste Stiall Orga le hUaireadoirí Oir.
Scéal nios dorcha.
Noel (two dots over the e) Coward once opined:
-Wit ought to be a glorious treat like caviar, never spread it about like marmalade.
Thug Noel (dhá phonc os cionn an e) Coward le fios uair amháin:
-Ba choir don nathaíocht bheith ina phléisiúr oirirc, cosúil le caibheár, ná déan é riamh a leathadh morthimpeall dála na marmaláide.
It was a Russian who put the Crime back into the Crimea, by dropping the C-word that is Crimea on to the laptop of Corporal Jeff (two dots ove the e, not) who still has a Russian fixation, seemingly.
The Rough Winds of Rumour are blowing from the East across the Urals of Ulster.
Ba Rúiseach a chuir an Choir ar ais sa Chrimé, tré ligint don Focal-C titim ar ríomhaire glúine an Cheannaire Jeff (dhá phonc os cionn an e, nil) a bhfuil fosuchán Rúiseach fos aige, de réir dealraimh..
Tá Gaoithe Garbha an Ráfla ag seideadh Anoir trasna Uralí Uladh.
Call it a witch-hint that Edwin is really (gasp) Edwin Putin. And that he has a habit of pronouncing Crumlin Road as Kremlin Road and how he delights in the way Vladimir Poots couldn’t give two hoots about the fluff in the navel of the Royal Navy.
While all the while EP, though not an imbiber himself, protests:
-Mine’s a Bussianmills !
Tabhair leid-on-gcailleach feasa a deireann gur ionann Edwin, dáiríre (cnead) agus Edwin Putin. Agus go bhfuil sé de nos aige Bothar Chroimghlinne a fhuaimniú mar Bhothar Kremlin agus conas mar a bhaineann sé sult ar leith as an bealach ar nos cuma liom nach fiú tráithnín le Vladimir Poots faoin gclúmh in imleacán an Chabhlaigh Ríoga.
Fhad is déanann EP, bíodh gur lán-staonaire é féin, agoid:
-Bussianmills domsa !
Cad is brí le seo uilig? Cad atá taobh thiar de ghaoithe briste an athruithe a shéideanna iad trasna tírdhreach othrasach Uladh ar bhealach a chuireann iachall fiú ar lucht neamhlochtach an Alliance smut a chur ina srona taifí, faoi nár dhein siad riamh bramanna seo an choirp pholaitiúil a análú.
What can all this mean? What is behind these breakwinds of change to blow across the ulcerated province of Ulster causing even the toffee-nosed Alliance types to swoon as if they were above inhaling these poots from the bottom of the body politic.
Trasna mar sin cuig Finchley Fintan de Scuad Reatha Clos Ultaise leis an rúndiamhair seo a réiteach, rúndiamhair atá ar dhath an ghainimh agus, seans, dath na láimhe deirge féin.
Over so to the Flying Squad’s Finchley Fintan of Ulster Scotland Yard to solve this riddle of the sands, if not the red hands.
-West Britannia rules the Air-Waves ! We shall never, never be anything other than Slave Minds !
More anon.
Breis amach anseo.
-
- ……
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