Having already been convulsed by the latest offering from the Celebrity Jeff of the Gag Rag on Liffeyside, this time it is the turn of Celebrity Mutt from the Sindo School of Comic Strip Duos
And Eoghan Harris (for it is he !) gets right down to the biz of cheering us all up with this thigh-slapper of a funnybone–grappler of an opener:
‘This week, in deepest winter, I want to try to lift your spirits by writing about Jurgen Klopp, about the Liverpool football team, and about life’.
Got that? Yup, that Herr Klopp. The very same. Klopp of the Kop.
Even those who are not fans of the Premiership (sic) will know Kloppy by sight. For, unlike flu, there is no known anti-jab for the Premiership (sicker) : it is all pervasive on a 24/8 basis and so will know by sight, at the very least.
Die sideline stormtrooper whose shaggy, bespectacled face resembles nothing so much as the rear end of a particularly (gulp) perky Doberman Pinscher.
So, let us foresnsically examine in a friendly way just ow Eoghainín na n-Aontachtoirí add a variation of his normal comical clap trap – call it , Klopp Trap. (Or, ought that read Klopp Von Trap?)
‘That’s because the charismatic Klopp has won the minds and hearts not just of Liverpool fans but of the wider football world’.
With a bar-setting blast like that only a genuine comedic genius could manage to keep the standard going: and donner und blitzen, does the Cork-born comic stripper manage to do so. Or, what?
No Buffering or Bluffing from this Blueshirt of Buffonery!
Just as his celebrated namesake Bomber Harris broke all the china in the T of Dresden (T for Target) during WW2 so also does the Bomber Jacketed Harris love-bomb the neo-Liverpudlian who has a marvelous way of muddling through the German Queen’s English.
Due to the miracle of replay Kloppy gets to act out his own Mein Kampf with der Mudder tongue of der Englanders on both a daily, a nightly, even (gulp) a nightmarely basis.
Let the Love-Bombing Harris continue on his Long Haired Libhaber who, if he is not from Liverpool, has made the following his mantra:
-Ich bin ein Liverpudlianer.
Pray proceed, o besotted Bomber-jacketed one:
‘Liverpool fans are in love with Klopp. They are not alone. Even for fans of Manchester United, Klopp is the secret love that dare not speak its name.
But new lovers like me have to join a long queue. Klopp is also adored by the fans he left behind in his two former German clubs, Mainz 05 and Borussia Dortmund. Who is Klopp? Why is he so loved? What is his system? How does he get so much from his players?’
Eh?
One would have thought Dier wirkliche Frage / The real question / An fhíor-cheist to to be asked here might be:
-How come Kloppy is clap-happy with that whch he gets from his bosses on Mersey side? A paltry 7 million squids per annum, a mere pittance compared to even bigger Fianna Failures, oops, failures such as Jose, Jorge and bottom but not least, Arsene.
(In mitigation The Perkin might well be excused for namechecking the Fianna Failures from whom Der Double Jobbing Jurgen-lover works on a journeyman fahrt-time basis, i.e., cobbling together Shinner-skinning soundbytes for the Doc Marten-wearing Leesider Lieder-singing Leader of that Patitionist Party).
By the time one has picked oneself off the floor, one inhales deeply of the following:
‘There is something beautiful in what Klopp does, something that goes beyond the game itself and becomes a metaphor for social life.’
Like, erm, wheelbarrowing home his minium rage to his modest, semi-detached Schloss in the Black Forest?
Well, no, nothing so plug-ugly a prosaic pursuit as that. Let the Love-Bomber Harris tell it like only he can, the terribly funny beauty at the heart of what Kloppy is all about:
‘Klopp persuades 11 individuals to put aside their egos, to exert themselves to the extreme limits of their endurance, and to execute a common plan that will lift the hearts and minds of their adoring audience.
That is why there is nothing hollow about how Klopp hugs his players. Or about the Liverpool anthem and its aspiration not to walk alone’.
The last line reminds one perhaps the most comical note NOT hit in pop music since Freddie und Die Dreamers failed to reach the highest note of that anthem, there being no stepladder high enough in Dankeshire to enable Der Fred to reach same.
Two and a half nano-seconds of pure golden silence.
But, unlike the ordinary run of the mill gag-flagging wags, the Celebrity Mutt had the confidence to crack wise in his very opening salvo:
‘Let me start by admitting I know less than zero about football, or soccer as my father called it.
He was also a Harty Cup winner, and followed Cork hurlers closely. But forced by the grim GAA Ban to choose, he preferred to play or watch football’
Geddit? That hoariest of old h. jokes of the Father Tedium school of knock aboutery:
-The grim GAA Ban.
Ah, yis. Nothing like giving the GAH a right good bollicking to get a receptive readership in the right rollicking mood.
That would be the ‘grim GAA Ban’, of course, which patrolled each and every, erm, Autobahn of the Nazi-sympathising Network of Gnashionalist Ireland.
Which is not to say that the ‘grim GAA Ban’ is not alive, well and kicking.
Though Die Bomberjacke does not seem to have noticed.
Consider, ready to listen reader or indeed Eddi Reader herself, the following, without leaving the Pale, over which the moon never rises. Dublin, to which Corkies having absorbed these porkies, seeing it as a Non-Tralee, seems to be attracted since Tuam Immemorial.
Dublin GAA Board , according to reports, are on the verge (again) of purchasing the Spawell Centre (where The Perkin’s outer high handicapper used to watch in –aw shucks – awe, one Padraig ‘Focus’ Harrington, whacking the old Titliest out of sight on the Drivng Range) for a cool 9 million squids.
Which is reportedly more that what NAMA sold it to a Vulture Fund, having already whacked back the original over-the-asking-price-offer of the Jacks of Hill 16.
A common theme of the tepid type which ran through the media reaction to this putative purchase by the Dublin GAA Board to provide for their own teams went as follows and (gulp) out of their own p. – it’s not pocket science to guess what that particular p. stands for ;
-Such a pity it will be restricted to one sport.
Hmmmm.
Compare and contrast this tepid type response with the following Hat-trick of the Soccerati for whch the Fakirs of Fake News on Liffeyside threw up their swaeaty nightcaps in Von Trappy glee ;
1.South Dublin built the nearby Tallaght Stadium for Shamrock Rover FC, a semi-professional club of interlopers : cost 11 millions squids. Putting up ‘Keep Off’ signs to local GAA Club Thomas Davis in the process.
- Fingal County Council funded the singularly unsuccessful Sporting Club de Fingal. (House private: no public funding figures available).
3.Awash with dosh Dublin City Council (‘Home of the Homeless’) has recently pledged itself to renovating Dalymount Stadium to the looney toon of 20 millions squids for the benefit (sole) of Bohemians FC, aka, Bohs.
As the late 18th C lyric in Leprechaun had it:
-Go réidh, a Bhean na dtrí mBo, as do bholacht ná bí teann
/Aisy there, Ma’am of the Three Uddered Animals, don’t be so snooty about your booty.
Or, ought that be:
-Go réidh, a Ban na dtrí Bohs, as do Bhohlacht ná bí teann.
Hmmmm. Indeed, if one had a tune to that Hat-trick of a Humdinger one could almost hmmmmm it.
The Love-Bomber Harris has a reputation (well deserved, one must aver) for never putting a tooth in the toothiness of things (and can there be a toothier chap than Herr Klopp?) but the already quoted line deserves a second airing:
‘Let me start by admitting I know less than zero about football, or soccer as my father called it’.
Hardly has he ever ghostwritten a truer word. He is obviously unaware (blitzfully) that next week sees the Transfer Window of the Premiership (sickest). Surely there must be someone else in the Sindo to tell the neo-footie fan of LFC (former home of Uncle Bob, erm, Paisley) about this quaintly-named Window.
(One for some reason thinks of the Liverpool-fan who is always game for a scaff, Declan Lynch).
Mention has already been made of the flu to which the Premiership (still the sickest) is not immune.
Sadly, in this instance, the (gulp) Asian flu. For the corgis on the streets of Dublin have already engaged in their trademark orgy of barking that the China Plemiership have already made an under-the-counter offer to ‘the charismatic Klopp who has won the minds and hearts not just of Liverpool fans but of the wider football world’.
Be not surprised therefore to hear Jurgen’s inner Yuan-fancier bid his beloved Liverpool in the not too d. future:
-Mersey beaucoup.
Or, rather:
-Danke schoen.
Be not be surprised neither to hear the Kop chant the following uber-sorrowful dirge in the slightly more d. future:
-Kloppy is a danker ! Kloppy is a danker ! Kloppy is a danker !
Saddest of all, Anfield trimbles, oops, trembles on the verge of becoming a (gasp) ein kaltes Haus/ Teach Fuar/ Cold House for the newly Shanghaied Kloppy.
Ja, for Die Kloppy the Danker.
Very entertaining and informatI’ve as we have come to expect PW. Just one thing it was Gerry and the Pacemakers (not to be confused with Grizzly and the Peacemakers) not Freddie and the Dreamers who sang ‘You’ll never Walk, O’Loan”
Bang on, Brian, a chara.
One will never walk alone again. Rather will one take the Freddie across the Mersey.
Berry bua !
This is a painful attempt, on the author’s behalf to be funny and entertaining. It’s a blog post that is all over the place and tries desperately hard to be clever — it most definitely doesn’t succeed!! Please some quality control here, Jude? Terrible stuff
If I exercised quality control, Conor, I’d be cutting a wide swathe through the comments on blogs. I’m open to blogs by anyone with any political (or non-political) views, with whatever style the writer chooses.
It looks as though you wrote it Jude, yeah?
If you’re intention on commenting on this site, Conor, is simply to insult, maybe forget it. I am keen to get rid of trolls
I find I have no trouble following PKs blog and find it very amusing.
Conor Maguire, sir, one just cannot have any of this carry on , you know.
Esteemed Blogmeister has been subjected to much flak in his day, as even the most cursory of glances at his blog can tell , and has been able to absorb the most hostile of shellacking , stand his ground and come back stronger than ever.
But this accusation of yours which seeks to pin the D sign, designed for PW, on his back, is a flak attack too far, a blow too low, much too low.
What PW writes PW signs, period, as they say Stateside.
One has no problem with the dissenting voice but where one has a problem with your comment, Mr. Maguire, sir, is its brevity, its inadequate brevity. Normally this b-word is associated with wit but alas, having studied it from all angles, one finds it is utterly lacking in the w-word too.
Turned it upside down even, in the vain hope something unexpected might fall out. Alas, zilch..
Perhaps, what your brevity lacks is…..longevity? In a word, your posting is lacking in precisely that very element which you seek to disparage: it is not all over the place. Would that it were. Perhaps then would be given some kind of goalpost to aim for.
So, if you might be so kind as to indicate out what specific points in the pathetic,unfunny Warbeckian blog have caused you to growl , feel free to do so, EB permitting.
Otherwise, PW’s inner impudent brat will resolutely pay not the slightest heed to the words of the legendary Charlie McGee and his gay guitar:
-Get up out of that, you impudent brat, and let Mister Magurie sit down.
(Even though that final ‘yeah’, from the limited but menacing vocabulary of knuckleduster prose, in fairness, going backward, certainly did give one a bit of a slam dunk and a resultant hint of the old blue funk).