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On the sporting front, this summer for sure has been one great big Glorious Goodwood of Gaelphobia, both on Liffeyside and Leeside.
The clinching piece of an alphabet of evidence to support this plain statement of alleged factoid is Exhibit L. This, of course, refers to that doggone DNA-level evidence presented by the not-an-inch Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop: his failure to bark even once during this long hot summer of contented shoneenism in a demented Free Southern Stateen.
Now that Anglophobia is dead, not least in the theatre foremerly known as The Abbey, its obituary having been definitively nibbed by the West British watchdog himself in The Unionist Times with a thumping page-piercing full stop at the flourish of a finish, Gaelphobia has been allowed to thrive, alive and being kicked at by a Good Golly sporting chorus of Aviva, Aviva-o ! The cockles of a muscular Molly Malone’s heart on Hill 16 have been warmed, but dangerously so, in this temperature-topping season, such has been the severity of the heat strokes aimed in her direction.
Thug sí féin an samhradh léi ina haonar cois Life le trí bhliain anuas; agus thabharfadh arís i mbliana gan stró ach an seans a thabhairt do bhanmhangaire an spleodair.
True, The Lapdog aka FOTUS has been emitting dogwhistles during the dog days of June and July , but all have been exclusively focused in an easterly direction at his beloved Mainland. There, where the ‘braindead’ beasties of gnationalism, those ingrown toenails of a dogged isolationism (Sinn Fens : Oursevles Alone !) have been failing to meet FOTUS’s perfectly reasonable expectation of an eternal Empah of Inclusive Imperialism.
But not an accidental bark or a sly barkeen itself under cover of darkness has the coy Lapdog projected at Gaelphobia under his very own cold nose in Occidental England; a stark and easily checked fact.
Gaelphobia expresses itself in different ways: as there are at least two Gaelic tongues for instance, each of them comes in for a t-lashing from the Monoglot Media. There is the tongue which insists on speaking the bogstandard teanga of the Gael and then there is the tongue of the laced-up boot which insists in kicking the ball in the barbaric game of Gaelic Football aka Bogball.
Now, FOTUS (Fintan O Toole Uber Shoneeen) knows roughly, dog-roughly, as much about sport as he does, say, about the Lingo of the Lepreachaun; in a phrase, puck-all. We know the latter by quoting one of his all time favourite lines of po-etry: ‘Tá fuck-áil focal Gaeilge againn’. This he (yawn) dogtrotted out as part of his ongoing Dom Perignon campaign to give, in conclusion, the ‘nation’ a new foregone National Tantrum in keeping with the post-Anglophobic dispensation.
Foregone, because of this tell-tale reaction to Ireland’s Call Girls of the Jolly Hockey Sticks which truly set his Continuity Sticky tail a-wagging:
–The fabulous women who mesmerised us all on both sides of the Border are from Coleraine and Cork, from Belfast and Dublin, from Derry and Larne.
Eh? Mesmerised? Maybe FOTUS meant to write Ms. Merised. Or even Mass Merised. For the whole Jolly Hockey Hero saga was truly a Mass-Media makey-up exercise in Fakey ! Fakey ! news. It’s all rather reminiscent of Billy Cotton, the legendary and soon-forgotten bandleader of the mid-century just gone, whose catchphrase was ‘Wakey ! Wakey!’ and whose signature tune was (gulp) ‘Somebody Stole my Gal’.
For the Jolly Hockey Gals truly ‘stole the hearts of the nation’ even as they were paraded down (gasp) Dame Street (which is twinned with Mott Street in NY): note, the sale of heroine is banned from the city centre of Dublin. And on the identical Jackmobile, oops, Jillmobile bandwagon borrowed from the glory days of tall lad named Jack in flat cap with Nor’umberland accent, famous for long bawl up middle:
-Ay, lad, this is wot I calls it: ‘The Triumph of FAI-lure’. In a word, daft.
Consider, ye of true couch-potato stock, in the cold light of cliché, the following fakey fake-news
-Contrary to the overheard mentality of the monominded media the Fabulous and Mesmerising Missies did NOT have to pay to play for Oirland;
-The Jolly Hockey Heroes (sic) were drawn in the O-levels side of the draw.
Now consider their last four games in the, erm Lee Valley complex (see below):
-Lost 1, drew 2, and hockeyed in the Final.
Fabulous? Mesmeric? The very stuff that sweat dreams are made of? Jolly Hockey Heroes (still sic) to make US ALL forget the trollies in hospital corridors? Eh? Did FOTUS, perchance, get the whack of a puck on the back of his mind-boggling noggin or is one only having a midsummer’s night dream?
-Tá an Poc Fada marbh, Setanta, a chara ! / Long live the Puck, Jacinta duckie !!
And what has Puck himself to say ?
–Ireland’s Call Girls will put a girdle around the earth
In forty minutes and in forty shades of designer girth
The Cheshire Cat grin which was de rigeur to wear on each and every no-win pressurised puss after being hockeyed was eerily reminiscent in an Éire-only kind of way of the singing of the Best Fans in the World cheerfully ploughing through the Feel-goods of Athenry in Gdansk in 2012 after being hockeyed 4-0 by Spain in the rain.
-The Triumph of FAI-lure means you never have to win. Whinnying is enough.
And just as they were hockeyed by six so also did The Jolly Hockey Heroes (chronically sic) in turn hit Molly Malone for six.
Seans go bhfuil míniú de dhíth / Explanation, por favor:
Just the puck of a sliotar (to make a balls up, as it were, of a mixed metaphor) from Dame Street to the Halfpenny Bridge, up and over the Temple Bar, sez Lory Meagher.
Puck: And what hempen home-spuns do we find swaggering here?
Hark, not to the bark of The Lapdog but to a colleague of his in The Unionist Times, on April 9, 2018:
–The practice of draping enormous “Up the Dubs” banners on both sides of the Ha’penny Bridge by Dublin City Council for weeks before and after the county’s GAA team reaches a final is to be reviewed.
The banners, which obscure virtually all of the railings on one of the city’s best-known landmarks, appeared again in the days before Dublin’s league final against Galway on April 1st and were still in place yesterday, more than a week after the team’s triumph.
The obscuring of the bridge with partisan plastic has been condemned by Dublin Civic Trust as “completely inappropriate”. In a tweet the charitable organisation, which works to protect the city’s architectural heritage, described the bridge as “an iconic historic (and protected) structure” that “should not be concealed, never mind defaced, with any form of banner or promotional material”.
Now, as the last couple of weeks have proven, there are more Popes per head of population in the Free Southern Stateen than there are stethoscopes in Guys Hospital , ranging from Pope Colm to Pope Matt and Pope Pat and all the way to Pope Mary and Pope Marian to the talkative-to Pope Joe himself. Small wonder then that there is a move afoot to have the name of Dublin changed to DUPlin such is the vitriol in the media-sponsored vox populism to knock Old Red Sox for six as well.
(Pope Colm of ‘Damnesty Ireland’ has been calling on a daily early Morning Ireland basis on the Facilitatory Fakey ! Fakey ! RTE Radio ‘ on that guy the Pope to tell not just the truth but the DAMN truth !’, begob.)
In this instance it was the turn of the Lapdog’s colleague, one, (gulp) Conor Pope of TUT-tut to give his pennysworth account of what was happening on the Halfpenny Bridge. Call it, erm, Conor’s Pence.
Meanwhile on the opposite side of the EU, in Malta, they order things differently, to a fault. When Valletta FC won the Maltese FA Cup this year the historic buildings of the smallest capital city in the world were draped, unapologetically, with the team’s tallest red and white colours for weeks on end. Nobody whinged, neither foreign tourist nor local purist. If there is a Valletta Civic Trust they kept as silent about this monumental draping as their sniffy counterparts on aping Liffeyside were to later do on June 30 when the illuminated Government Buildings in Dublin wrapped themselves gaily in the proud colours of the Rainbow, enough to cause a catch in the trout of Leo the Angler after Approval Ratings.
-Consistency? Merely the hobgoblin of little Leprechaun-sized minds, old chap.
Nor was Leeside to be outdone in the Gaelphobia stakes by the snowflake langers on Liffeyside, boy. The soccer ball of bellyaching was got from the locker room and set rolling when the Dinosaurs of the GAH initially refused to open their 45,000 capacity Jurassic Park. For? For a Charity of Fire Event involving Tired Old Trouser Coughs of the Bootyful Game from the Maineland at the prime sporting time of a, erm, Tuesday Aftenoon come Late September
-Dat was de signal, boy, for de Rebel Yell to be heard y’all de way from Youghal down to Roaring Water Bay.
And even back on Liffeyside itself. Where the aptly nicknamed Duffer, a pseudonymn which slyly camouflages a laser sharp intelligence, weighed in to say ‘me bleedin blood was boiling’ while Miniser of Sport,om, Shane Rossini continued with the game of keepy-uppy involving an, om, umbrage-shaped ball by turning into a ‘Thieving Magpie’. This happened when he made conciliatory gestures to the GAH by threathrening, om, to grab all the biggy government subsidies for the building of Jurassic Park all the way back to, om, the National Piggy Bank before promptly handing it over to, om, Ireland’s Call Girls, heroes all, heroines, none.
Incidentally, the alma mater, om, of Shane Rossini, to which his pater sent him from DUPlin, to spend his schooldays where Tom Brownose had previously spent his, was, om, Rugby (pronounced ‘rubby’ in Limerick). Rugby School is located in, om, Warwickshire (where the second w is silent as in anchor) and where, oddly enough, the games of the gom, of the Grab All Assocation do not feature on the, om, sporting curriculum.
Soon Flying Chaucers were to be seen in the skies over de Blood and Badinage City, boy, and which, recognising a turmoiled city with its tails up, soon began to rain leather-bound tales down upon de Allied Irish Banks of dere own Lovely Lee Valley (see above). Specifically, The Miller’s Tale and its companion volume, The Reeve’s Tale and also, a third tale. Bearing the registration plate of Canterbury the Flying Chaucers were naturally drawn towards a city where cant is endemic.
-Do de Right Ting ! quickly caught on and became the mantra of the morally superior Monominded Media.
The talkative-to-Pope Joe (see above) was quick off the mark on his wireless programme, showing his acclaimed dispassionate professionalism, by inviting all soreheads, oops, listeners to share their phone-in views on the recalcitrant, erm, GAH (Joe’s parole du jour).
-Do de Right Ting and Open de Gates of de Park, like !
Naturally the morally inferior GAH were slow to respond with the progammed PC response:
-Cé chomh leathan agus ba mhaith libh ? / Like, how wide would you like? .
Eventually, after a week of prevarication once again, the knuckledragging Cavemen of CLG caved in and now, the Triumph of FAI-lure is in seventh heaven, and so, all is rightwing with the unfurled once again. A shame all the same that the lame GAH opted to play the waiting game by needless footdragging and by not succumbing more tamely, thereby avoiding even further maiming in the blame game.
Now that the happy-ever-after ending has been achieved with the game going ahead at Páirc Uí Reeve with no further need for Turner’s to be Cross, the gracious Cork City FC (recently hockeyed to the tune of 5-0 by the Norwegian giants, their hopes of progressing in Europe having disappeared somewhere over the English Channel) have generously agreed to change their name to Glen Miller Rovers for the Sweet Afternoon event which, as it is Cork tipped to do, is all set to glow gently into that good night.
Sadly, The Franklin’s Tale (for it was the third tale, see above) will not now feature, fate having intervened in the GAH-occasioned delay, aris.
Still, a Little Prayer will be Said by all the Morally Superiors in attandance.
Re-spect.
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT / TO BE CONTINUED
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