WELCOME TO MY WORLD

The Gaelic Athletic Association is one of the most successful and vibrant amateur sports bodies in the world, and has been a seminal influence on Irish life since its inception in 1884. In the face of official and casual hostility, poverty and mass emigration, infinite counter-attractions and a post-colonial inferiority complex the size of Mongolia, it has thrived, evolved and endured. It is, in many ways, the soul of Ireland.
Now cut the uileann pipes, fellas; that’s enough myth-making. The greatest thing about the GAA isn’t its rich history, or the way it continues to keep alive our indigenous culture in the face of a McGlobal onslaught. No – the GAA is great because it’s a living, breathing, vital part of the everyday life of hundreds of thousands of people, on this island and abroad. On an individual, community and national basis, we determine ourselves primarily through our connection to this enormous latticework of like-minded souls. I mean, if I had to choose between Ireland winning the World Cup and my county winning even a provincial title, I’d choose the latter any time.
Someone once told me that, should he be interviewing two job candidates of equal capabilities and experience, he would almost certainly give the position to whichever of them was a ‘good GAA man.’ (If they’re both good GAA men, you throw a contract in the air and let them fight for possession by the filing desk.)
And I can totally dig that. Growing up, I metered my year around playing matches, going to matches, waiting for the next season. The intercounty championship completely defined the summer for me, and still does to a large extent. My lifelong ambition, once I realised I’d never actually captain a team to an All-Ireland, was to sponsor the county jersey with the logo of my wildly successful movie production company. Which, you know, I’m still hopeful of if that bastard Scorcese ever returns my email.
The GAA is more than a sporting organisation. It’s cultural, it’s social, it’s political, it’s spiritual; hell, it’s metaphysical if you’re inclined to think that way. And best of all, it’s the most hugely welcoming body of people I’ve ever encountered, which would explain how an ungrateful little punk like me can affectionately poke fun at it for 230 pages and get away with it.
GAA Confidential is my homage to everything that makes the GAA special: the games, the people, the excitement and fun, the triumphs and disasters, the momentous and the ridiculous.
Cumann Luthchleas Gael abú!

• Click on the links on the right to read some of the book, then haul ass to the nearest bookshop and put some money into my bank account by purchasing a copy or ten. I thank you.

Hurling through time

Hurling, of course, has a heritage richer than the lovechild of Steven Spielberg and that cat who owns Wal-Mart. Most of the ancient mythological heroes are said to have played iománíocht, like Cuchulainn and Fionn MacCumhaill, while Diarmuid actually won the heart of fair Gráinne by scoring three times in a match, which makes her the first GAA trophy wife, I suppose.
The Brehon laws – the legal code of Ireland until the fifteenth century when those imperialist tramps arsed it all up for us – codified hurling and provided for compensation in case of accident. Amusingly, specific rules were set down on such issues as how, exactly, players should retrieve the ball from a field (seek permission to enter the land, close the gate when leaving and avoid the shotgun-waving irate farmer), and the proper metal from which one’s hurley hoop should be made (bronze for a king’s son, copper for the plebs).
Under the Brehon laws a hurley couldn’t even be confiscated, but then the Normans had to swan in with their killjoy edicts. Literally – it was, ‘Have any joy and we’ll kill you.’ A 1367 Statute of Kilkenny banned hurling on the grounds that settlers should instead be preparing for war by practising their archery. They’d obviously never seen the typical Junior C corner-back in full blood-crazed mode.
In the middle of the last millennium, some landlords had ‘stables’ of hurlers (who, appropriately, were forced to sleep in straw and subsist on horse poo), and huge wagers were laid on intercounty and interprovincial matches by dipsomaniac heirs determined to squander the family estate before its liquid consumption murdered their liver. One 1769 encounter carried the not inconsiderable prize of 300 guineas, though the poor old hurlers, after belting a ball and each other from parish to parish for several hours, generally had to make do with a few barrels of ale. And to think how the top players moan nowadays about making sacrifices.
This noble pursuit even got a mention in Brian Merriman’s epic poem Cuirt an Mhean Oiche, but the Great Famine (1845-‘47) killed much of the interest in hurling. Along with much of the population of Ireland. Thus, the game declined among the common folk, until its revival in the late nineteenth century: first through the establishment of the Trinity College Hurley Union, and then Michael Cusack’s foundation of the Metropolitan Hurling Club in Dublin. But he also helped set up something else, didn’t he? Indeed he did…

On your Marx

In 1999, the Gaelic Players’ Association (GPA) was founded to agitate for greater players’ rights: extensive medical care, compensation for earnings lost, end-of-season holidays and so on. Apparently, our intercounty stars had, for decades past, been virtual indentured servants, forced to toil endlessly (at a game they love) for no reward, bar the honour, medals, renown, fun, camaraderie, fitness, cushy jobs in the bank, educational scholarships, sexual favours from young ladies who would, under normal circumstances, be somewhat outside our heroes’ range, etc. etc.
This shocking – not to mention appalling – situation could not be allowed continue, and the GPA nobly dedicated itself to eradicating the Association of inequality and exploitation, ultimately creating a veritable utopia for all Gaels, at all levels. Admittedly, they seem to have concentrated primarily on the economic wants of top-level stars thus far, but I’m sure they’ll get around to everyone else soon. Probably just been really busy or something.
Their ideology was set out in The First Manifesto of the Soviet Socialist International of Leninist/Trotskyist/Cusackist Social and Democratic Brother- and Sisterhood of Communist Trade and Fair Play from Referees Union Central Politburo. Snappy title, eh?

“Comrades! A glorious victory has been achieved against the mandarins of capito-fascism and their spineless lackeys! No longer will we watch the fat cats eat all the pie from their swish corporate boxes! Now they will eat their pie with the rest of us: from the boot of the car!”

(Cue crackly brass band marching music like Lenin used have them play)
Dictate 1: Henceforth the GAA will be known as Cumannach Lúthcleas Gael – the Communist Athletic Gaels!
Dictate 2: We are dedicated to the worldwide overthrow of all amateur voluntary sports bodies. We will then establish the Pan-Global Directorat for Sporting Endeavour.
Dictate 3: All records referring to the Association formerly known as the GAA will be destroyed in a symbolic fire in Croker. We might as well chuck in those godawful jerseys Ireland wore in the 2001 International Rules while we’re at it.
Dictate 4: And any photos of 1970s’ hurlers with their hair billowing out from under their helmet. God, those were ghastly.
Dictate 5: The capitalist power-mongers and running-dogs will be given two weeks to hand themselves over voluntarily for torture by our specially trained Wicklow full-backs. If they refuse, roundy bombs with fuses sticking out of them will be thrown into the VIP section of the Hogan at the next big match.
Dictate 6: Competitive sports have been outlawed because they are nothing more than war without the guns…and we only like war with the guns. They have been replaced with gently kicking a ball around in a circle.
Dictate 7: All teams must wear red jerseys in honour of our great founder, Vladimir Ilyich Cusack. The referee’s jersey is a non-issue since all referees have been rounded up and sent to the Monaghan Gulags where they will be forced to try and understand the accent.
Dictate 8: The National Anthem has been abolished. Instead we will enjoy our new anthem, Kill All Rich People (And Anyone Else We Don’t Like). Soon to be released on Totalitarian Records (CD, LP and MP3 formats).
Dictate 9: Croke Park will be demolished to symbolise the destruction of decadent free market forces. In its place will be an ugly, grey building with little practical use and no aesthetic value whatsoever. A bit like the Mackey Stand in Limerick.
Dictate 10: All decisions will be made by unaccountable quangos of faceless bureaucrats, whose actions are inexplicable and whose motivations change constantly. So the Provincial Councils stay.
Dictate 11: The only books available in the GAA Museum (now ‘The Record House of the Glorious Revolution’) will be Das Kapital, that other one Karl Marx wrote, and Babs: A Legend in Irish Sport. All other literature is forbidden! Severe penalties will be incurred by anyone caught with subversive material like Communism Is Bad, I Preferred Things The Way They Used To Be, I Must Say, and Babs: A Legend in Irish Sport.
Dictate 12: Irish has been replaced by Russian as the primary language of the Association. Dos vedanya, tavarichi Galliki. For practical purposes, Sunday Game-speak will remain the lingua franca…at the end of the day.
Dictate 13: No more cheering is permitted. Supporting one team above another is divisive and bourgeois. It is also enjoyable, and enjoyment has been outlawed too.
Dictate 14: Spreading dirty rumours about teams taking performance-enhancing steroids will cease. This is because performance-enhancing steroids are now mandatory for everyone over the age of five.
Dictate 15: The Scór is now called ‘Non-Competitive Exposition of the Musical and Other Talents of Our Comrades Throughout the Association.’ The only songs allowed will be our aforementioned anthem, whilst the recitation will be limited to the collected works of Engels. The novelty act has been abolished because laughing is an Imperialist act.
Dictate 16: To extend the hand of friendship to our downtrodden brethren overseas, we will invite The Great Satan to play a non-competitive exhibition in the Stalin Dome (formerly known as Semple Stadium). Afterwards we shall try to poison their President during the presentation by inserting an Anthrax-filled needle into the base of the cup.

“Players of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but the first round of next year’s championship!”

You’ve just gotta love that

Five particular reasons for holding the championship in such affection:

Leaving early to beat the traffic
I have to laugh at how some folks, who have paid good money to be there, inevitably get itchy feet with five minutes remaining and decide not to bother watching the rest of the game. Sure, we’ll get it on the radio.
In a perfect world: supporters would be manacled to their seats/terrace stanchions by unbreakable futuristic energy beams.
In a nightmare world: the players would leave with five minutes left as well.

Finding new ways of beating the traffic
Imitate Jack Kerouac in heading for parts unknown! Imitate rally ace Austin McHale as you navigate impassable dirt-tracks at high speed! Imitate that chubby guy off Deliverance when you lose your way and fall into the greasy hands of sex-crazed hillbillies with a disturbing fondness for pigs!
In a perfect world: you would own a KITT-style self-aware vehicle which whisks you home as you sleep, eat and laugh at Pete Finnerty’s inaccurate predictions.
In a nightmare world: you’d get a puncture and discover you’d left the spare at home. During a rainstorm.

Rumour and innuendo
People love to gossip and speculate, and intercounty provides us with ample material: injuries to key players, bust-ups with management, star forward spotted on the lash with certain well-known TV personality until eight in the morning, etc.
In a perfect world: scurrilous (though untrue) rumours would unsettle the opposition just enough for your team to capitalise.
In a nightmare world: scurrilous rumours about your own team would prove to be completely true.

That sick feeling in the pit of your stomach just before throw-in
I could never figure out why anyone gets tanked up before a match, because it dulls the senses and thus deprives you of that beautifully keen edge of anxiety. You’re supposed to face the prospect of defeat with something approaching mortal dread. Sure, it’s horrible at the time, but makes winning all the sweeter.
In a perfect world: all those pent-up, broiling emotions would explode outwards in relief and joy as the final whistle signifies victory.
In a nightmare world: the guy behind would puke on your shirt with nerves.

Annoying GAA-haters
Hey, I’m a magnanimous fellow. But there is something deliciously pleasurable about annoying those narrow-minded assholes who have an axe to grind with Gaelic games and the people who follow them. And it doesn’t get any better than high summer: huge crowds, skyrocketing TV ratings, great atmosphere…in direct contrast to the miserable crowds and general air of decline which attend the League of Ireland.
In a perfect world: GAA-bashing types would be forced to sit through a two-hour compilation of the most mind-numbingly tedious post-match interviews.
In a nightmare world: more people would go to see the FAI Cup final than a bog-standard championship match. But that’ll never happen, will it?

…and five indicators that your team is going well

1. Huge signs proclaiming ‘Good luck on Sunday lads’ are planted in a ditch, obscuring the view at a dangerous bend


2. Fertiliser bags of a colour vaguely resembling the county jersey are strung across the road


3. Fertiliser bags of a colour not at all resembling the county jersey are strung across the road


4. People with zero previous interest in GAA annoyingly ask everyone they meet, ‘How will we do in the match?’


5. God – that is really annoying, isn’t it?

Tickets, please!

The attendances at All-Ireland finals often contain fewer fans of participating counties than their semi-finals. If this seems weird to you, don’t worry, because it’s weird to me too.
Every year this gnarly subject finds itself at the forefront of public affairs. It’s debated at the UN, protested about on urban battlegrounds, discussed by pretentious tossers on late night arts programmes. Families have been cleaved apart, fortunes squandered and reputations ruined in a vain attempt to secure access to the day of all days.
You see, All-Ireland tickets are divvied up between the whole country. This is because the final is seen as a Great Social Event and National Occasion, as well as a sporting contest. The President greets the teams, some bull-throated tenor gets wheeled out for the anthem, the match is broadcast internationally for mournful ex-pats in bars across the world. It’s part of our cultural heritage, like Paddy’s Day or the hung-over day after Paddy’s Day. Thus, everyone should have the chance to experience this great moment in Irish life.
Now, I can sort of see the point in allowing a few tickets for counties like Monaghan and Carlow, who will probably never reach that level themselves (not in this dimension anyway). It’s a pleasant trip to Croker, a taste of the atmosphere and colour. But not half of them, for God’s sake. That’s madness. Like, basic logic will figure out that if you give all the tickets away, there are none left for the counties involved, and the atmosphere for which neutrals are paying won’t be there in the first place. It can’t be much fun sitting in an enormous amphitheatre filled with 80,000 people chatting politely about what a grand day it is, eating ice-cream and asking when the bull-throated tenor is on.
Why can’t there be some balance in ticket distribution? Fine, give a few thousand to weaker counties. Spread it around a little – I’m a generous guy. But not three or four to every club in every weaker county. Let ’em find their own All-Ireland to go to. Then maybe we wouldn’t have to resort to extreme (and sometimes illegal) lengths to get our grubby little hands on some of that cardboard gold. If I had a dollar for every time some desperate soul has phoned me in the middle of the night, pleading for tickets, I’d be off down to the bureau de change to get $6.50 converted into euro. The breadth and creativity of bribes I’ve been offered is mind-boggling: cash, classified substances, sexual favours of a distinctly non-Canonical nature, at least fourteen stellar constellations named after me, a secret treasure map which provides directions to a buried chest of pirate treasure, the works.
Indeed, I was often that soldier myself, trawling the underworld for a hint, a sniff, a rumour of a ticket. One year there were about ten of us itching to go to the final and, of course, fewer than ten tickets to go around. My dad had to show commendable ingenuity in procuring admission for all of us, including (but not limited to) relatives up the country, well-connected friends and torture. I don’t really want to go into too many details, but suffice it to say a darkened bunker, two electrodes and a hungry alsation were involved. Thanks, pops – we’ll always be grateful.
Until next year, anyway.

We’ll ‘file it away for later

The high/low point of any big match programme is the player profile, in which random team members give grudging answers to pointless questions. Should you ever find yourself in this awkward position, just use this helpful cut-out-and-keep guide, which covers all potentialities:

Name: (we can’t help you with this one, unfortunately)
Club: (ditto)
Age: (you know the drill by now)
Biggest influence growing up: my father/my first teacher/Satan
Favourite position: anywhere in the first fifteen/wherever the head man wants me to go/the reverse Praying Lotus
Rule you’d like to see changed: the tackle/the pick-up off the ground/that of our Illuminati overlords
Greatest thrill: winning my first under-age title/being selected for the seniors/absinthe, peyote and MDMA cocktail straight to the cerebral cortex
Greatest disappointment: losing the county final last year/getting dropped by the seniors/waking up the next morning to discover I wasn’t actually the reincarnation of Krishna
Favourite star of yore: Mick O’Connell/Seanie O’Leary/Gloria Swanson
Favourite food: steak and chips/fish and chips/tofu fritters (and chips)
Favourite drink: coke/stout/the blood of a freshly sacrificed virgin
Favourite TV show: The Sunday Game/The Sopranos/Mr Belvedere re-runs
Favourite actor & actress: Tom Hanks & Kate Winslett/Tom Cruise & Cate Blanchett/Divine (for both)
Favourite place: Connemara/Malta/Tijuana docks
Favourite item of clothing: Levi’s jeans/CK shirt/spiked dog-collar with matching chain-lead accessory
Ambition: to win the All-Ireland/to win the county/to win the heart of that celebrity I’ve been stalking since last November

Die hard!

With many people now pretending to like Gaelic games because they think it’s cool (which it is) and it’ll help them make new friends (which it won’t) and meet interesting people (depends on your definition of interesting), it’s become increasingly difficult to tell the wheat from the chaff. In a manner of speaking. Who are the true-blue, old skool GAA heads, those doughty soldiers who stood on draughty terraces freezing their tender parts off for the meagre reward of spotting some future county talent? And conversely, how can we tell the kind of people who now include GAA alongside MP3 technology and teaching TEFL in Barcelona in a list of their ‘interests’…and thus eliminate them?
Here’s how – fill in the patented Supportex 3000 Questionnaire below, tot up your score and discover exactly which kind of GAA fan you are. Then act accordingly, using the helpful step-by-step guide to self-annihilation. Good luck!

1. What is your earliest memory of GAA?
a. Wondering vaguely what the point was after suffering a bloody nose whilst playing in an U7 tournament
b. Wondering vaguely what the point was as Fr Consumption, the U12 trainer, forced you to run backwards up the school hill with a bag of cement on your back
c. The opening of the new Hogan Stand

2. How do you celebrate an important victory?
a. Four days of drinking and absenteeism with constant verbal abuse towards opposition fans and some resolutely heterosexual bonding with your ‘mates’
b. Four days of drinking and absenteeism accompanied by a good, healthy dose of guilt
c. Four days of drinking and absenteeism spent talking loudly in pretentious bars about the game while getting all the players’ names wrong

3. What is your definition of the ideal match?
a. Beating the crap out of the team you lost to last year, ideally with their most loathsome player sent off as the icing on the cake
b. A whopping thirty-point victory achieved with style, character and panache – and their most loathsome player sent off as the icing on the cake
c. An exciting game played in the right spirit, with the underdog coming out on top in the end

4. Which of these are the most crucial things to bring to a big game?
a. Straw cowboy hat, tray of Smithwick’s, large store of ‘terrace wit’
b. Old newspaper to sit on, red lemonade and chicken legs, biro to note down each scorer on the programme
c. Mobile phone, sunblock, bottle of Evian

5. How do you refer to Association Football, i.e. what Man United and Celtic and them play?
a. Soccer
b. That foreign game! (accompanied by trembling and slavering at the mouth)
c. Football (real football then referred to as ‘Gaelic’)

6. Where is your preferred vantagepoint for the action?
a. Wedged underneath the scoreboard with 500 like-minded people, having the craic while trying not to pass out from a combination of the heat and a hangover that could sink a battleship
b. A good seat in the Hogan, up next to the Bishop
c. Experiencing the game through a virtual reality full bodysuit in Holodeck 7 of the McCoca-Donalds corporate box…on the moon

7. What is the most common utterance to pass your lips during the hour?
a. ‘Will ye get into them, for the love of fuck!’
b. ‘Pull on it, pull on it!’
c. ‘Watch your house, lads… Aw, come on, referee. That was never a penalty puck. Why didn’t he consult with the fourth official?’

8. What is the best treatment for a player whose head has been busted open by a wild hurley?
a. A slap on the face and some water poured on the wound from the magic bottle
b. Arrah, he’s grand, he’s grand. He’ll run it off
c. You are unable to suggest anything as you’ve fainted at the sight of blood

9. What do you read between the minor and senior matches?
a. Nothing – you’re too busy slagging off your buddies and getting psyched up for the ‘big wan’
b. The programme from cover to cover, Ireland on Sunday (or whatever it’s called now), your notes from the minor match
c. The Observer, the latest Chuck Palahniuk novel, the operating manual for your new Gizmotronic mobile phone with its own satellite dish and platinum aerial

10. What is your opinion of the national league?
a. ‘The league’s only a heap of ould shite, but it’s a good laugh. And the pubs are never as packed afterwards either’
b. ‘I haven’t missed a league match since I contracted tuberculosis and nearly died…and even then my wife and the doctor had to tie me down to the bed’
c. ‘The what?’

‘Are you champ – or did you flop at the first round?’
You’ve searched your soul and dredged your memory banks; now here come the payback. Work out your score using the sophisticated testing system below –

Mostly As and Bs: You are the quintessential die-hard – if you died any harder, you’d be dead already. Hey, it made sense when it first came to me. You are either a boorish ignoramus in a cowboy hat and too-tight jeans, living proof that alcohol really does kill braincells; or an Olympic-level anal-retentive who needs to broaden their range of interests just a smidgeon. Either way, you’re one of the true servants of the Association, you’ve been around for years and you’ll stay around for ever, and we love ya.
Your fate: life, so long as you keep going to matches.

Mostly Cs: Bzzz! Close, but no doughnut. You almost had everyone fooled there, but ultimately tripped yourself up with a few fatal mistakes. A crack team of all-in-one judge/jury/executioners noticed these little anomalies: Evian water? Holodeck 7? Fainting at the sight of blood pouring from a head wound!? Only a fake would have answered C to those ones. Hang your head in shame. Lower. No, lower again. Okay, that’s low enough.
Your fate: extermination!

Keep the faith

Ireland has become increasingly secular and materialistic in the last few decades, and the GAA has reflected that. Many people have long since swapped their rosary beads and peculiar certain-foods-on-certain-days rituals for astronomical house prices and a frankly absurd obsession with cooking. We’re also, of course, an increasingly multi-denominational society, with people of all faiths and none living pious cheek by atheistic jowl.
So how to know the proper procedure if that new club member is a Jainist, Zoroastrian, Beelzebubian or Yugoslavian? How to avoid making an embarrassing or, in the case of that devil worshipper, potentially fatal gaffe about their religion? Here’s a little guide to the world’s major faiths, in terms you, the reader, will understand:

Catholicism: Belief in God guarantees victory – but you must feel guilty about it afterwards
Presbyterianism: Hard work and sobriety will earn their just rewards (although the break of the ball could swing things either way)
Buddhism: The path to enlightenment is one of suffering – hence the maniacal training regimes now employed
Islam: Allah will strike down the Yankee infidels (which might explain New York’s consistently poor performances in the Connacht championship)
Taoism: Too complex to explain in one sentence
Confucianism: Man who struggle on with hamstring injury in club match risk missing big intercounty final following week
Judaism: We have wandered in the wilderness for forty years; God has forsaken us; we obviously need to put in more work at schools’ level
Satanism: The Dark Lord will one day rise and bring Hell on earth – although after watching the average Ulster championship match, some believe this has already happened
New Ageism: You have to feel the ley-line energy to truly be as one with the Association (man)
Native American Animism: When I was a boy, my people ran freely over this half of the pitch. We had plentiful free space, and many chances for goals. Where are those warriors now? They have been slaughtered by the handpassing game
Amish: What’s sport?
Calvinism: The Damned and the Saved are pre-judged – so no amount of tinkering with the formats will help the weaker counties
Moonies: Any chance we could use Croke Park for an upcoming mass wedding?
Hinduism: The caste system must be kept in place; we cannot have the pure mixing in the same division as the Untouchables (like Carlow)
Sikhism: These enormous plaits can be kinda hard to squeeze in under a helmet
Evangelicalism: And on Judgement Day the Lord will smite down the wicked and those who brought in the back door, sending them into the pits of Hell for interfering with the work of God and the traditional winner-takes-all structures. Testify!

The catechism of cliché

In his fantastic Myles na Gopaleen columns, Flann O’Brien would satirise the predictable, the trite and the meaningless through his hilarious Cathecism of Cliché. And now you can use this handy reference guide to spot cliché usage at matches, meetings or in everyday conversation:

Of what is the club the cornerstone?
The entire Association.

What prefix is invariably associated with the weaker counties?
So-called.

Of what is there none of that young fella at wing-forward?
Fear.

But what incorporeal part of him would a good scelp to the head soften?
His cough.

With what could his team-mate in the corner not hit a cow’s arse at five paces?
A banjo.

With what was the man inside him thick last night, a situation consequently hampering his performance today?
The drink.

How much short of a tramp is that referee?
Nothing.

And what does he need to get checked pronto?
His glasses.

What would that big horse of a man at midfield do to a brick wall for you?
Go through it.

Because he is built like what other sort of brick structure?
A shite-house.

In what direction will this selfless fellow bust the play, to the advantage of his teammates?
Up.

What is the most desired quality in a corner-back?
Stickiness.

And a half-back?
Knackiness.

And a half-forward?
The propensity to take flight.

And a corner-forward?
Deadliness.

Off what is the dressing-room door normally left hanging?
The hinges.

Off what do craggy old full-backs deliver the majority of digs to their markers?
The ball.

By what term is this sort of happening usually referred to?
An incident.

What part of the team’s individual bodies had the trainer run off them the other night?
The legs.

Because he is a what for the physical stuff?
Savage.

We lost that one in translation, Marty

What with our growing richness, desire for new experiences and belated realisation that we’re being royally screwed by every greasy till-fumbler in the country, holidays abroad have never been more popular with GAA fans. Sun, sea, sangría and fat English yobs with the cross of St George tattooed on their capacious bellies: what could be finer?
You can also, in most places, now watch all the Gaelic games action as it is broadcast on satellite TV. But what if – for some strange and, now that I think of it, not very likely reason – the commentary is in a foreign tongue? Or if you don’t want to break the exotic idyll by hollering abuse at the screen in boring old English? Well, now you don’t have to. Simply remember these key phrases, in a variety of commonly used European languages, and make that summer break even more special…

Spanish
Will ye get into them!
¡Voluntad que usted consigue en ellos!
We had a point to prove today…and we proved it.
Teníamos un punto a probar hoy y lo probamos.
Cork will have another look at the video tonight and see where they went wrong.
El Cork tendrá otra mirada en el vídeo esta noche y vio adonde fueron mal.

German
Football was the real winner.
Fußball war der wirkliche Sieger.
Talk us through Limerick’s first goal there, Tomás.
Sprechen Sie uns durch Limerick erstes Ziel dort, Tomás.
They knew they had a job to do and that’s exactly what they done.
Sie kannten sie hatten einen Job zu tun und das ist genau, was sie getan.

Italian
What’s Spillane saying now?
Che cosa Spillane ora sta dicendo?
He’s nothing short of a tramp.
È niente ma un vagabondo.
The GAA needs a strong Dublin team.
Il GAA ha bisogno di una squadra forte de Dublino.
It’s wonderful to see all the boys and girls here today in their colours.
È meraviglioso vedere tutti i ragazzi e ragazze qui oggi nei loro colori.

Portuguese
Keep the high balls low and the wides to a minimum.
Mantenha as esferas elevadas baixos e os wides a um mínimo.
Later on in the programme, we’ll have highlights of the O’Byrne Cup final.
Mais tarde sobre no programa, n’s teremos destaques do final do Copo de O’Byrne.
I’m never following that shower again.
Eu sou nunca seguinte que rega outra vez.

French
Drive it in low.
Conduisez-le dans le bas.
Look after the points and let the goals look after themselves.
Occupez-vous des points et laissez les buts s’occuper.
Pull on it, for the love of Jesus!
Tirez là-dessus, pour l’amour de Jésus!
I love you, Cyril, and I want to have your babies.
Je t’aime, Cyril, et je veux avoir tes enfants.

The play’s the thing

Samuel Beckett is one of the most highly respected dramatists ever, his bleak, nonsensical doodlings fascinating critics and bewildering everybody else. But old Sam probably wouldn’t have been the best man to bring GAA to the theatre. We want people to show passion and vim, not stare glumly into dying embers and proclaim the universe to be meaningless. Like, that really puts a dampener on post-All Ireland celebrations.
Contrary to popular presumption, though, Oscar Wilde would have been a great man to chronicle Gaelic games on the stage, and indeed, a great man to have in the dressing-room. He was a big, hefty fella, not averse to throwing a few punches if ticked off, which is always a good start. He was also quite a zealous nationalist. His witty repartee would alleviate any pre-match tension and help strengthen that crucial team bond, while he’d never be short of a piquant quip to direct at an errant referee.
Oscar’s razor-sharp mind and sparkling dramatic skills could combine to produce a penetrating portrayal of the GAA. With a few smart lines thrown in to amuse the plebs.

The Importance of Getting in the First Dig
by Oscar Wilde (aesthete, genius and All-Star corner-back 1894)

Scene: A dressing-room in West London, decorated in the sumptuous, baroque stylings of the age. Two louche young men loll about on chaise longues, smoking impossibly long French cigarettes and gazing absently into the distance. They are dressed in frilly, Spandau Ballet-type shirts, frock-coats and white togs with a stripe down the side. Their boots lie on the ground. Suddenly, one stands and begins to pace the floor, rapping the ground with his hurley.
Lord Dorian McAfee, First Baron of Ballyswaggart: I say, pumpkin. We should really be out there warming up, don’t you think?
The second man sighs in a very effete manner.
The Right Honourable Michilín ‘Bowsey’ Crinklington: Oh, sit down, for God’s sake. The only thing worse than being talked about for missing training is not being talked about for missing training.
Dorian: Quite so, Bowsey, quite so; but Coach Huffingford-Maison will not be pleased. I fear four extra laps to be our punishment.
Michilín (swishing his cigarette smoke through the air): Ah, but there is the nub and the rub, my dear Dorian. The coach is afflicted with the peculiar malady of the middle classes; to wit, the inability to recognise that the condition of perfection is idleness. I myself never put off until tomorrow what I can possibly leave until the day after.
Dorian: Hmm…all this sounds disconcertingly familiar. Almost like you were quoting someone famous… But anyway, the crux of the matter is this – we have a game to play, and The East Indian Tea Company Sarsfields are out there now, ready to play it. Do we want this wan badly enough, Bowsey? Do we want it!?
Michilín (leaping up and grabbing his Micro helmet): Well, why didn’t you put it like that before? There is only one thing I cannot resist, my dear Dorian, and that is temptation. Let’s crush them like bugs!!
He runs out the door screaming wildly, followed by Dorian. Close curtain.

Scene: Dorian and Michilín limp in, covered in cuts and bruises, with glum expressions. Dorian holds a radio from which is heard, ‘That’s right, Michael. Like, we were never at the races. Sarsfields had obviously watched the Lumière Cinematographe footage of the last day, and done what they had to do today.’ The two friends slump onto their chaise longues.
Dorian: You didn’t stay for the post-match analysis, then, Bowsey?
Michilín: No. Nothing bores me quite as much as my own business. I am only interested in the business of others.
Dorian: Well, anyway, it would appear that all our hard work has come to naught.
Michilín: Quite the opposite, pudding. We may be lying in the gutter of championship dreams, but we are looking at the stars…of next year.
Dorian: Yeah, right. Make sure to tell that to my bookie when he comes to break my thumbs, won’t you?
Close curtain. The end.

Don’t know much about philosophy

Hair we go, hair we go, hair we go…

Up until relatively recently, there weren’t really any distinctive haircuts to be seen on GAA fields. This is because up until relatively recently, everybody in the whole world had the exact same style at any one time. It was the law or something. But from the 1970s, things loosened up – man – with flaming sideburns, ‘helmets’ of hair and a veritable smorgasbord of disgusting mullets. The nineties saw the crop orthodoxy prevail to some extent, but this decade has seen signs of renascent individuality.
World-renowned crimper and feared Junior D hatchetman, Pierre de Rocquefort-Higgins, lists his most memorable GAA hairstyles (giving it a little zhoosh while he’s at it):

John Lynch (Tyrone)
Era: 1980s
Style: Enormous, Eurovision-style shaggy blond mane
Fashionableness (yes, it really is a word): Considering the time, and the fact that Ulster is about ten years behind the rest of the country, surprisingly high

Plunkett Donaghy (Tyrone)
Era: 1980s
Style: Not quite as enormous, Eurovision-style shaggy blond mane
Fashionableness: See above

Jimmy Barry-Murphy (Cork)
Era: 1970s
Style: Extremely tight buzzcut
Fashionableness: Low, given that every other male in the western world resembled one of the Hardy Boys during this decade. But he looked very cool

Niall Patterson (Antrim)
Era: 1980s/1990s
Style: Leo Sayer bubble perm
Fashionableness: I’ll repeat that – Leo Sayer bubble perm

John Duffy (Donegal)
Era: 1990s
Style: Dashing Last of the Mohicans-style half-pony (breech-load musket and buffalo skin chaps optional)
Fashionableness: Not very, but it still looked damned heroic

Ger Oakley (Offaly)
Era: 1990s/2000s
Style: Studenty ponytail, replete with overgrown, The Onedin Line-style sideburns
Fashionableness: This look will always be stylish among science undergrads, organic farmers and mentally delicate society drop-outs

John Madden (Tipp)
Era: 1980s/1990s
Style: Dapper, boyish Nigel Havers-esque ‘do
Fashionableness: High, if you’re an urbane Wall Street futures trader with a summerhouse at Martha’s Vineyard. Probably less so if you’re not

Anthony Finnerty (Mayo)
Era: 1980s/1990s
Style: Mildly bizarre frizzy hair shaped like a skateboard helmet
Fashionableness: Even lower than the Leo Sayer bubble perm

Roy Malone (Offaly)
Era: 1990s
Style: Messy, jagged Britpop cut
Fashionableness: Painfully hip

Kieran McDonnell (Mayo)
Era: 1990s/2000s
Style: Short ponytail, later followed by cornrows
Fashionableness: Fairly low, but you have to respect any white man who’ll wear cornrows in public

John Horgan (Cork)
Era: 1970s
Style: Frighteningly blond, floppy locks, rather like golfing legend Greg Norman. Or wrestling legend Hulk Hogan
Fashionableness: For the time, high. For now, low. By the standards of the golfing world, astronomical

Colm Parkinson (Laois)
Era: 2000s
Style: Messy, jagged Britpop cut (ref. Roy Malone)
Fashionableness: Hip, though not quite as painfully

And I’ll get the beards in...

Facial shrubbery has been conspicuous by its absence over the last ninety years or so, ever since all those Edwardian gentlemen simultaneously decided to shave off their robust handlebar moustaches to mark the end of the Great War. This is a pity, as many of the GAA’s founding fathers – and one or two of the founding mothers – sported fine, manly beards. The 1970s saw a mini-revival, with Scouser ’taches springing up here and there, but since then, players’ faces have remained resolutely clean-shaven.
With the following notable exceptions:

Jimmy McGuinness (Donegal)
Era: 1990s/2000s
Style: Standard goatee (beautifully offset by cascading dark curls to give an overall Musketeer effect)

Eoin Liston (Kerry)
Era: 1970s/1980s
Style: Big, bristling bear of a beard, as befitted a big, bristling bear of a man

Hughie Emerson (Laois)
Era: 1990s
Style: Sometime goatee wearer. Also sometime wearer of mass of knotted curls

Liam Currams (Offaly)
Era: 1970s/1980s
Style: Trim, full beard, beloved of psychotherapists and geography lecturers everywhere

Setanta Ó hAilpín (Cork)
Era: 2000s
Style: Extremely trendy, finely sculpted beard. A bit like Craig David has

Ciaran Duff (Dublin)
Era: 1980s
Style: Straightforward, no-messing, meat-and-two-veg whiskers

Cult heroes

We have, for a few decades now, been constantly hearing about the ‘cult of the manager.’ But what exactly does this mean in – as members of the political fraternity might say – real terms? Well, the dictionary definition of a cult includes: ‘a quasi-religious organisation using devious psychological techniques to gain and control adherents’; ‘ritual practices centred on sacred symbols’; and ‘intense interest in and devotion to a person, idea or activity.’
Now, if that doesn’t summarise the average intercounty squad, I don’t know what does. With the bossman as the sinister svengali, the players as blank-eyed devotees, and Sam or Liam as the Godhead of their worship, it’s clear that our top stars have been transformed into mindless automatons by power-crazed despots intent on domination. It’s also clear that my life is in danger if I don’t shut up right now.
But what if County Boards appointed actual cult leaders to manage the team? Cutting out the middleman, so to speak. The following counties and charismatic basket-cases might just hit it off:

L Ron Hubbard and CORK – scientist, sci-fi writer, soldier, entrepreneur, messiah…the versatile Scientology founder could be the man to lead the Rebels to another double.

Sun Myung Moon and TIPPERARY – the cracked Korean never stops going on about how he’s the rightful successor to Jesus himself, so should fit in well in a county infatuated with its own lineage and heritage.

David Koresh and ANY ULSTER COUNTY – used to feeling under siege at the Branch Davidian compound in Texas, Koresh could undoubtedly empathise with all those paranoid northerners.

Jim Jones and WATERFORD – after another season of ‘so near and yet so far’, even chugging back a bucket of poisoned Kool Aid might start to seem tempting.

Marshall Applewhite & Bonnie Nettles and MAYO – the founders of the Heaven’s Gate cult were evidently able to persuade people that eternal bliss was but a short distance away, despite all the evidence suggesting otherwise. You see where I’m going with this.

Charles Manson and CLARE – technically not a cult leader, but Manson exerted a virtually messianic hold on his followers, who were willing to do anything for him. The right man to arrest the post-Loughnane slump?