Cat got your tongue @Mac
I thought ceist was the go to guy these days?
@Ceist whereâs the best bottle shop in Haroldâs cross?
Hi there! As an AI language model, I donât have a physical presence and therefore, I donât have personal experience or knowledge of physical locations. However, there are several bottle shops in Haroldâs Cross such as The Corkscrew, 57 The Headline, and McHughâs Off-Licence. You can also check out online reviews of these shops to get an idea of which one might be the best fit for you.
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Can you post it up?
Subscriber OnlySportAmerica At Large
Remembering Dropkick Murphy, the fighting doctor hailed by drunks and punks
Emily Sweeneyâs entertaining and forensically researched new book about a celebrated Boston character is a delicious slice of Irish-Americana, writes Dave Hannigan
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Wrestler and qualified osteopath Dr John âDropkickâ Murphy executing his distinctive move on Jim Maloney in 1939
Thu May 25 2023 - 05:00
In the second half of both their careers, Corkâs Danno Mahony and Bostonâs Dr John âDropkickâ Murphy remained box-office enough for a showdown between them to top the bill at the Sports Arena in Lynn, Massachusetts. Billed as a rematch pitting âa pink-cheeked son of the Emerald Isle and czar of the mat behemothsâ against âone of the fastest workmen in the ringâ, the contest followed an epic contest in which the pair had grappled for over an hour up in Halifax, Nova Scotia. On this early summerâs night in 1940, the Corkman came out on top. After a fashion.
âIn the main slambang of the evening, it was a rough performance, for Danno is no longer the good-natured Celt of his first appearance in this country,â went one report. âConsiderable hair-pulling, strangling and what-not kept Lloyd Stewart, referee, diligently employing himself as human crowbar to pry Danno from the rough stuff. Danno took the first fall by the Irish whip but the dear doctor won the second with a dropkick. The Irish whip again prevailed for the ex-worldâs champ in the third and rubber session.â
Danno will be known to Irish fans, one of those quasi-mythical, sepia-tinted names from the sporting long ago. A giant from Ballydehob, he sailed to America, was sold to the public as a broth of a boy and returned in triumph as heavyweight wrestling champion of the world in 1936, brandishing a diamond-encrusted championship belt supposedly worth $10,000. Like so much about wrestling then, that value was no doubt exaggerated. As for Dropkick Murphy? Well, you might have heard his name mentioned far more recently. In a very different context.
Dr John âDropkickâ Murphy at Bellows Farm in Acton, Boston
There was something of the WWE pantomime about the way President Joe Biden strutted on to the stage outside St Muredachâs Cathedral in Ballina last month. Making his ring walk to the stirring strains of the Dropkick Murphysâ Iâm Shipping up to Boston was clever theatrics and smart politics. For a man battling legit concerns heâs too old to run for re-election, being soundtracked by an Irish-American folk-punk anthem took years off him. Not to mention just about everybody watching had heard this stadium staple at some sports event or other over the past two decades.
Ken Casey composed the song, inspired by an unpublished fragment of a Woody Guthrie lyric. He has also written the foreword to Dropkick Murphy â A Legendary Life, Emily Sweeneyâs evocative new biography of the true original from whom his mighty band took their name. Christened plain old John Eugene Murphy by his parents, Jimmy, a gas fitter, and Cicelie, a tobacco stripper, in blue collar Medford, just north of Boston, in 1912, he gained enduring fame through his various monikers and fascinating second life, all of which is detailed in this book.
[ Whatâs on your rider? Ken Casey of Dropkick Murphys ]
Labelled Dropkick for delivering two-footed shots to opponentsâ faces before landing in an upright position, the honorific of doctor was appended because he used wrestling to pay his way through medical school during the Great Depression. The money was so good that he remained in the ring for years after graduation, some newspapers referring to him then as âThe Boston Medicoâ, others preferring the more traditional âman with the cast-iron toesâ.
Politicians and journalists in 1930s America suffered periodic bouts of indignation about the brazen fakery involved in the âsportâ since most contests were decided well in advance. One state even insisted promoters classify these faux fights as âexhibitionsâ. Still, anybody willing to work a rigorous schedule and put on a memorable show could make bank. Quickly. Murphy traipsed up and down the east coast for years, often sharing bills with Mahony, Crusher Casey from Sneem (another legend in the arena), and Pat OâShea, a Carlow native.
Dr. John âDropkickâ Murphy with two of his sons, David (left) and Richard (right) at Bellows Farm in Acton
His dedication paid off. The same year he fought Danno in Lynn, he purchased an 80-acre spread in Acton that, after opening as a health farm, evolved into New Englandâs go-to sanatorium where alcoholics received long-term treatment until 1971. In an era when newspapers still advertised mail-order magic pills to cure the disease and one Massachusetts town built a mobile cage to parade drunks through the streets, the good doctor took a more holistic and scientific approach.
One employee told Sweeney, whose forensic research shines through an entertaining book that is a thoroughly delicious slice of Irish-Americana, that the distinctive surnames often made the patient roster read âlike the Dublin phone bookâ. Recurring visitors to the facility included Runyonesque sots such as Narco Norman, One-eyed Murphy and Home run Brady, and, with discretion assured, Boston politicos often checked in to dry out, including one dapper power broker who arrived in some disrepair.
âEveryone knew him, including Murphy,â writes Sweeney. âHis handlers explained the situation: He had been playing golf in Dublin, Ireland. One too many drinks, he began getting drunk. His aide frantically placed a call to the State House seeking advice and was told curtly: âBring him back â immediately.â The avid and inebriated golfer boarded a plane and flew across the Atlantic, landed at Logan Airport, and travelled in a limo to Dropkick Murphys. The golfer was out cold. Twelve hours ticked by and his eyes fluttered open. He stretched his arms, yawned, looking for his clubs. âWho am I playing today?â He thought he was still in Ireland.â
He had, of course, been shipped up to Boston.
Dropkick Murphy â A Legendary Life by Emily Sweeney is published by Hamilcar Publications and is available now
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Iâm out of the country 
Absolutely raging
Fuxxake