Mayo featured on BBC Radio 4 today. It had nothing to do with the attendance figure of 82,257 in Croke Park on 18 September 2016 or the appliance of science. It was not a good drying day in Dublin yesterday. It was about the curse. Local radio picked up on the theme as did some others in the media. The ghost of CJ also made an appearance, describing the match as, “grotesque.” “unbelievable,” and “bizarre.”
“It was an exorcism playing out…a strangely compelling sight that you couldn’t tear your eyes away, as Mayo wrestled against the hideous inner demons that have stalked them for the last 65 years, and Dublin struggled with a writhing Medusa…”
Apparently Ulysses left early, there was no point.
Jude
” I find it hard to accept that Irish people are culturally indistinguishable from the British in their “language, food, books, education, legal systems, humour and weather”
Is there any point at all in pointing out that he never said that?
Nor does he anywhere say that British culture is somehow superior as you imply.
What he does say is:
“It would be fatuous to over-simplify the many complex and productive creative relationships that have existed across the Irish Sea.”
After a late evening spent celebrating the sub-par Dubs’ still being in with a shout of making it, erm, BAC to BAC All-Irelands, Esteemed Blogmeister, one awoke this morning with a start.
That would be start as in startling.
To find none other than EB himself travelling in the Reserved Seat on the Good Bus Unionist Times. As if one hadn’t OD’d already on the bizarre in Croke Park yesterday.
One’s first reaction was that the Aliens had kidnapped EB and deposited him on Planet West Brit. Which would be perfectly in keeping with Movie Cliché 160:
-Invading aliens will always target national landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, EB’s Blog, Big Ben, etc first rather than important military infrastructure.
Of course, there is a price to pay for improving the level of discourse on the Letters Page of TUT (for it is it !) exponentially, overnight. In this case, a price almost too scary to contemplate. (See below).
Oddly enough, there is another piece in The Unionist Times which caught one unawares: it deals with a topic recently (very) touched on in this parish:
-It’s time for the GAA to forget this National Anthem business.
The byeline is by (gulp) BOC who is not from BAC but from de Reb-el City, boy, when he is not acting as the Racing Tipster for the Organ of Record, he shrills a weekly column in which he uses his quill as a pneumatic drill to instill some civilisation into the GAH.
Mind you, it scarcely needs pointing out that while the name of the topic is the same the treatments by EB and BOC respectively are a tad different: think Francis Albert and Bono in their ‘duet’ of:
-I’ve got you under my skin.
One sentence by Brian O Connor (for it is he !) from his Seventh Day Adventure into Molotov Cocktailing the source of all our failings, the Gaelic thingy , made an impact:
-The rest of the world largely skips this anthem ritual, reserving their bad songs for the international stage.
Perhaps, but how does he know? One is not so sure, but then one is not possessed, sadly, of the omniscience which seems to be a sine qua non of the Shinner bashers of not just every fifth columnist in the tut-tutting TUT.
One can only write from one’s own experience, limited though it be.
About ten years ago, one found oneself ensconsed in the sixth floor of an an apartment block in Hong Mei Lu in Shanghai: the address translates as the Red Rose Road which was one’s introduction to the 3 R’s in China.
The building had recently been a hotel before morphing into an apartment block; some of the old traditions died hard, however, like the leaving of shoes outside the door for polishing by the house coolie. One could see up to seventeen pairs of shoes at a glance down the long corridor on any given day, going backward.
One was reminded of the trusting custom which never fails to raise one’s RC eyebrows on entering an empty C of I chapel: the presence of unattended prayer books in the pews.
Ah, honesty.
The occupant of the room to the right of one’s own room was something of a mystery. She was rarely there. In fact the only reason one knew that she was of the female persuasion was the occasional (very) sight of a pair of pretty pink (!) stiletto-heeled shoes outside her door.
That all changed one dramatic day when the sound of hammering was heard on one’s door. One opened it to find a damsel in distress, a mature damsel it is true, but her distress was no less. The English of one’s mysterious next door neighbour (for it was she !) was almost as perfunctory as one’s Mandarin but the source of her emotional turmoil was plain enough to see.
Her room had been ransacked sometime during the course of her latest long absence. Alas, it must have happened during one of The Perkin’s more temporary daily absences. One had heard or seen nothing untoward (a daarlin’ word, Joxer of the Boxer Revolution !).
Shanghai’s finest were called, questions were asked, suspicious looks were absorbed, crime scene rituals observed, an inventory of missing objects taken, that sorta thingy. One’s souvenir of the occasion was the business card of one’s new-found next door neighbour.
Which brings one, by a commodious vicus or recirculation to the,erm, Point.
After telling one’s story the next day to one’s employer (the incomparable Mr. Lu – yes, that was his name, any road) his eyes lit up on being shown the business card in q.
-Ha ! Mista Pekin (he meant to say Perkin but it always came out as Pekin) you know who this lady is? This lady velly famous, velly famous in China.
(Chinese folk incidentally , have a peculiar way of saying ‘China’ to which the five letter word on paper does not do justice . It sounds vaguely like a breath of wind whispering through a thin page of porous rice-paper. Ah, so)
The velly famous lady turned out to be the Chinese equivalent to the Fat Lady famous for Singing in the US of A. Which meant her career consisted of to-ing and fro-ing the length and b. of the country: singing the national anthem of China at this sporting occasion, and doing ditto at that cultural event. Which went a long way towards explaining her frequent long absences.
Btw, she was not fat.
The next time one spotted her was on telly singing at one of the events of the Beijing Olympics.
To conclude, where one began: with the price to be exacted for (a) occupying the Reserved Seat on the Good Bus Unionist Times and (b) improving the standard of conversation on said good bus exponentially and overnight.
Confucius say: no such thing as a flee lide.
Yesterday, the uncharacteristic edginess and uncertainty of the Dublin football team is easily explained: they were playing in mortal dread that at any given moment, going forward, the Mayo management would spring their not-so secret weapon from the bench:
-Madame Mojo.
That would be the shrilly female Senator (unelected but appointed ) who spent the previous week whinging in public about her Fine Gal failure to scrounge a ticket from the big, bad GAH.
(Just what is it about this partiality to morphing into Moaning Minnies which unelected but appointed Senators of both genders display?).
Thankfully, she did not appear. But the threat was sufficient: the damage had been done as the knocking on the door by this Lady was virtually audible.
The Untoward of Damocles which currently hangs over the cuckoo occupant of the Reserved Seat presents a spectre more spine-chilling and eerie than even Madame Mojo sheself.
Jeez, Perkin, you are truly off the scale today…”The byeline is by (gulp) BOC who is not from BAC but from de Reb-el City, boy, when he is not acting as the Racing Tipster for the Organ of Record, he shrills a weekly column in which he uses his quill as a pneumatic drill to instill some civilisation into the GAH.” – I paused in hurling MT’s latest comment into the wheelie-bin to laff both my bits off.I had barely recovered when I came to “Yesterday, the uncharacteristic edginess and uncertainty of the Dublin football team is easily explained: they were playing in mortal dread that at any given moment, going forward, the Mayo management would spring their not-so secret weapon from the bench:
-Madame Mojo.” Two final thoughts, Perkin : (i) You appear to have led a life that Woody Guthrie’s Ramblin’ Man (I think I’ve got that right – thinnnkk) would have envied. (ii) Your name and appropriate quotations should be chiselled in stone or set in steel and form the entrance to Croker, the National Gallery, Leinster House and (ah, memory) the steps leading up to the National Concert Hall, the UCD as was. Do stay healthy, Perkin. Our world would be a threadbare place without you.
Still, alas, in the process of making of the world one’s oyster, Esteeemed Blogmeister, but one’s inner shyster still has to make it to the Eponymous Festival of Clarinbridge.
PS Thread sparingly through the halls of Tara House, EB. Otherwise, one might well be tempted to entertain the Ultimate Bad Thought, i.e., think well of (gulp) The Unionist Times. Leave one with one’s predges, pul-ease !
Peil Ghaelach is a different ball game, but not according to Sky’s latest faux pas. The Dublin-Mayo draw was referred to as the “All-England Final” in Croke Park.
Slow-news-day
Mayo featured on BBC Radio 4 today. It had nothing to do with the attendance figure of 82,257 in Croke Park on 18 September 2016 or the appliance of science. It was not a good drying day in Dublin yesterday. It was about the curse. Local radio picked up on the theme as did some others in the media. The ghost of CJ also made an appearance, describing the match as, “grotesque.” “unbelievable,” and “bizarre.”
“It was an exorcism playing out…a strangely compelling sight that you couldn’t tear your eyes away, as Mayo wrestled against the hideous inner demons that have stalked them for the last 65 years, and Dublin struggled with a writhing Medusa…”
Apparently Ulysses left early, there was no point.
Jude
” I find it hard to accept that Irish people are culturally indistinguishable from the British in their “language, food, books, education, legal systems, humour and weather”
Is there any point at all in pointing out that he never said that?
Nor does he anywhere say that British culture is somehow superior as you imply.
What he does say is:
“It would be fatuous to over-simplify the many complex and productive creative relationships that have existed across the Irish Sea.”
After a late evening spent celebrating the sub-par Dubs’ still being in with a shout of making it, erm, BAC to BAC All-Irelands, Esteemed Blogmeister, one awoke this morning with a start.
That would be start as in startling.
To find none other than EB himself travelling in the Reserved Seat on the Good Bus Unionist Times. As if one hadn’t OD’d already on the bizarre in Croke Park yesterday.
One’s first reaction was that the Aliens had kidnapped EB and deposited him on Planet West Brit. Which would be perfectly in keeping with Movie Cliché 160:
-Invading aliens will always target national landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, EB’s Blog, Big Ben, etc first rather than important military infrastructure.
Of course, there is a price to pay for improving the level of discourse on the Letters Page of TUT (for it is it !) exponentially, overnight. In this case, a price almost too scary to contemplate. (See below).
Oddly enough, there is another piece in The Unionist Times which caught one unawares: it deals with a topic recently (very) touched on in this parish:
-It’s time for the GAA to forget this National Anthem business.
The byeline is by (gulp) BOC who is not from BAC but from de Reb-el City, boy, when he is not acting as the Racing Tipster for the Organ of Record, he shrills a weekly column in which he uses his quill as a pneumatic drill to instill some civilisation into the GAH.
Mind you, it scarcely needs pointing out that while the name of the topic is the same the treatments by EB and BOC respectively are a tad different: think Francis Albert and Bono in their ‘duet’ of:
-I’ve got you under my skin.
One sentence by Brian O Connor (for it is he !) from his Seventh Day Adventure into Molotov Cocktailing the source of all our failings, the Gaelic thingy , made an impact:
-The rest of the world largely skips this anthem ritual, reserving their bad songs for the international stage.
Perhaps, but how does he know? One is not so sure, but then one is not possessed, sadly, of the omniscience which seems to be a sine qua non of the Shinner bashers of not just every fifth columnist in the tut-tutting TUT.
One can only write from one’s own experience, limited though it be.
About ten years ago, one found oneself ensconsed in the sixth floor of an an apartment block in Hong Mei Lu in Shanghai: the address translates as the Red Rose Road which was one’s introduction to the 3 R’s in China.
The building had recently been a hotel before morphing into an apartment block; some of the old traditions died hard, however, like the leaving of shoes outside the door for polishing by the house coolie. One could see up to seventeen pairs of shoes at a glance down the long corridor on any given day, going backward.
One was reminded of the trusting custom which never fails to raise one’s RC eyebrows on entering an empty C of I chapel: the presence of unattended prayer books in the pews.
Ah, honesty.
The occupant of the room to the right of one’s own room was something of a mystery. She was rarely there. In fact the only reason one knew that she was of the female persuasion was the occasional (very) sight of a pair of pretty pink (!) stiletto-heeled shoes outside her door.
That all changed one dramatic day when the sound of hammering was heard on one’s door. One opened it to find a damsel in distress, a mature damsel it is true, but her distress was no less. The English of one’s mysterious next door neighbour (for it was she !) was almost as perfunctory as one’s Mandarin but the source of her emotional turmoil was plain enough to see.
Her room had been ransacked sometime during the course of her latest long absence. Alas, it must have happened during one of The Perkin’s more temporary daily absences. One had heard or seen nothing untoward (a daarlin’ word, Joxer of the Boxer Revolution !).
Shanghai’s finest were called, questions were asked, suspicious looks were absorbed, crime scene rituals observed, an inventory of missing objects taken, that sorta thingy. One’s souvenir of the occasion was the business card of one’s new-found next door neighbour.
Which brings one, by a commodious vicus or recirculation to the,erm, Point.
After telling one’s story the next day to one’s employer (the incomparable Mr. Lu – yes, that was his name, any road) his eyes lit up on being shown the business card in q.
-Ha ! Mista Pekin (he meant to say Perkin but it always came out as Pekin) you know who this lady is? This lady velly famous, velly famous in China.
(Chinese folk incidentally , have a peculiar way of saying ‘China’ to which the five letter word on paper does not do justice . It sounds vaguely like a breath of wind whispering through a thin page of porous rice-paper. Ah, so)
The velly famous lady turned out to be the Chinese equivalent to the Fat Lady famous for Singing in the US of A. Which meant her career consisted of to-ing and fro-ing the length and b. of the country: singing the national anthem of China at this sporting occasion, and doing ditto at that cultural event. Which went a long way towards explaining her frequent long absences.
Btw, she was not fat.
The next time one spotted her was on telly singing at one of the events of the Beijing Olympics.
To conclude, where one began: with the price to be exacted for (a) occupying the Reserved Seat on the Good Bus Unionist Times and (b) improving the standard of conversation on said good bus exponentially and overnight.
Confucius say: no such thing as a flee lide.
Yesterday, the uncharacteristic edginess and uncertainty of the Dublin football team is easily explained: they were playing in mortal dread that at any given moment, going forward, the Mayo management would spring their not-so secret weapon from the bench:
-Madame Mojo.
That would be the shrilly female Senator (unelected but appointed ) who spent the previous week whinging in public about her Fine Gal failure to scrounge a ticket from the big, bad GAH.
(Just what is it about this partiality to morphing into Moaning Minnies which unelected but appointed Senators of both genders display?).
Thankfully, she did not appear. But the threat was sufficient: the damage had been done as the knocking on the door by this Lady was virtually audible.
The Untoward of Damocles which currently hangs over the cuckoo occupant of the Reserved Seat presents a spectre more spine-chilling and eerie than even Madame Mojo sheself.
That would be the CNN version of the Paranormal:
-Corkonian Nonagenarian Newt.
Be wary, EB, be very, very wary.
–
Jeez, Perkin, you are truly off the scale today…”The byeline is by (gulp) BOC who is not from BAC but from de Reb-el City, boy, when he is not acting as the Racing Tipster for the Organ of Record, he shrills a weekly column in which he uses his quill as a pneumatic drill to instill some civilisation into the GAH.” – I paused in hurling MT’s latest comment into the wheelie-bin to laff both my bits off.I had barely recovered when I came to “Yesterday, the uncharacteristic edginess and uncertainty of the Dublin football team is easily explained: they were playing in mortal dread that at any given moment, going forward, the Mayo management would spring their not-so secret weapon from the bench:
-Madame Mojo.” Two final thoughts, Perkin : (i) You appear to have led a life that Woody Guthrie’s Ramblin’ Man (I think I’ve got that right – thinnnkk) would have envied. (ii) Your name and appropriate quotations should be chiselled in stone or set in steel and form the entrance to Croker, the National Gallery, Leinster House and (ah, memory) the steps leading up to the National Concert Hall, the UCD as was. Do stay healthy, Perkin. Our world would be a threadbare place without you.
Still, alas, in the process of making of the world one’s oyster, Esteeemed Blogmeister, but one’s inner shyster still has to make it to the Eponymous Festival of Clarinbridge.
PS Thread sparingly through the halls of Tara House, EB. Otherwise, one might well be tempted to entertain the Ultimate Bad Thought, i.e., think well of (gulp) The Unionist Times. Leave one with one’s predges, pul-ease !
Beir bua agus scaoil amach an bobaillin !
Peil Ghaelach is a different ball game, but not according to Sky’s latest faux pas. The Dublin-Mayo draw was referred to as the “All-England Final” in Croke Park.
Irish people don’t get Bridget Jones????
Tell that to the packed cinemas up and down the country.