Our occasional Dublin correspondent, Horace Woolington, has kindly written me this e-mail:
I thought you should be titillated to hear my report of RTE's rugby television cast on Saturday. This programme was hosted, as all RTE's rugby programmes are hosted, by a vile Ulster nationalist by the name of McGurk. This odious man, who looks like a cross between Gene Hackman and Steve McClaren, specialises in a bizarre kind of Fenian triumphalism which mixes Balkan viciousness with New World stridency. He is a rare cove even amongst the wilder Irish elements, most of whom at least affect the faux-humility you are doubtless familiar with from your travels to this island. McGurk is not troubled by any form of humility, faux or otherwise, and he bellows his views as if he were a particularly unpleasant Texan militiaman.
McGurk duly opened Saturday's programme in typically bombastic style. He had decided it would be a good idea for him to sit next to an enormous replica of the Triple Crown. The Crown was festooned with ribbons and polished to within an inch of its life. It was positioned so close to McGurk's left elbow that he threatened to send it clattering to the studio floor every time he turned to his pundits, George Hook (a marvellously entertaining old codger with an innate Irish decency), Brent Pope (a quite hideous colonial bluffer who has somehow inserted himself into the body fabric of Irish rugby), and Conor O'Shea (a relatively decent sort with a regrettable tendency to allow himself to be infected by the wilder utterances of McGurk and Pope).
The presence of the Crown, you may think, was somewhat presumptuous. And in this, My Lord, you would be right. Indeed, McGurk gave off the distinct impression that the Crown was not to be played for, but had already been won by Ireland (indeed, perhaps by McGurk himself?) The Crown was there to illustrate that Ireland's season wasn't really so bad - although, naturally, we Irish have much higher ambitions nowadays and, yes, it is rather a bore to win the blasted thing for the fifth time in seven years, but heavens, one shouldn't grumble.
...
Now, My Lord, picture the studio at the final whistle. The Crown has mysteriously vanished. Next to McGurk's left elbow, there is nothing. Just a vast, empty expanse of table. The Crown has been taken off into the ether and, with it, McGurk's dignity. For by golly, Mr McGurk is not happy! No, My Lord, he is positively emotional! He is almost on the verge of tears!
"How could we just lose to the worst team in the competition?" bellows McGurk to his startled pundits. "You said beforehand they had no chance! What happened?"
"Now now, Tom, we didn't quite say that. We said Scotland were a very good team."
"No! You said they were terrible! They are terrible! They are the worst team in the competition and how in the name of God have we lost to them?"
Now, by this point, My Lord, Mr McGurk was very close to throwing his last rattle from the pram. There was the hint of a tear rolling slowly down his left cheek. He kept gazing sadly at the vast empty space next to him. His cheeks were reddening and his old, mottled hands were thrust into balls, whereupon they thumped the desk in front of him as he proceeded to harangue his pundits for their (quite disgraceful) failure of foresight and intelligence.
His studio guests, riled by his tone, bit back at him, which caused poor McGurk yet further anguish. "Don't shout at me!" he bellowed. "I only ask the questions! That's my job! I'm allowed to ask the feckin' questions!"
My Lord, it was not pretty. But it was funny. Young Scott Hastings, the touchside pundit, was beside himself with mirth at this amusing Irish contretemps. In fact, Hastings was almost wetting himself with pleasure. And now poor old McGurk had to ask the Scotchman questions, and that meant seeing Hastings's great, beaming Scotch face thrust itself onto the studio screen. And that was just about the last straw, My Lord, for old McGurk then seemed to give up the fight and continued the rest of the programme in a near catatonic state. It was left to Hook to pick up the flag of Irish begrudgery by assailing Hastings with accusations that the Scotch "didn't play any running rugby".
Oh, My Lord, we Irish do tend to let ourselves down from time to time! You doubtless heard the febrile booing of Parks's kick at goal from all those "ah sure, we're a decent lot" Irishmen in the crowd. You perhaps even read Hugh Farrelly's humble assertion that "An Irish victory today is as predictable as the 'what's under your
kilt?' question that Scotland supporters will trade on in Temple Bar
this weekend".
But do not be too harsh on us, My Lord. This is the phenomenon known as "Celtictigeritis". It is what happens when a poor, downtrodden people enjoys a bit of success. They get giddy, My Lord. They get excited. They get, dare I say it, a wee bit above themselves. They take to strutting about the place like mini-New Yorkers and enjoy telling each other "ah sure, we're a great lot altogether, so we are".
Fear not, My Lord. Much of this island has gone stark raving mad, but there remain a few hardy souls with longer memories. We "Protestants on horses" might not be Ireland's most fashionable people, but we have sturdy, earthy virtues which will be invaluable as Ireland attempts to rebuild its shattered self-esteem. It may well be that the GAA bandwagon jumpers drift off back to their decrepit little backwoods villages and leave Irish rugby to the traditional chaps. No tears will be shed in that eventuality, I assure you, My Lord!
God Save The Queen!
Horace Woolington
A superbly entertaining missive I'm sure you'll agree, chaps. I must ask Horace to write more often. It's marvellous to hear that the Queen's Loyalists are still holding out in Eire.
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