Just to wind up, so to speak: it has been a right pleasure to see you called out as a thundering hypocrite. You had no problem with Labby putting on his hauteur hat about intellectual/academic capability. But when Labby ran into a severe buffeting and headed back for shore, realising he was way out of his depth, you piped up, all irate at my temerity in counter raising the same topic.
You are like a lad, face smeared with Chiversâ finest, murghling: âHow dare you like strawberries!â
In an effort to take on @Malarkey in a debate I popped out at lunch to buy a thesaurus, I got back to the office only to find out all the pages were blank!!! I have no words to describe how angry I am.
I attended, with my father, the 1992 All-Ireland club Gaelic football final between Doctor Croke (Kerry) and Thomas Davis (attempted squatters). Following the conclusion of this game, the second replay of the All-Ireland club hurling semi-final between Kiltormer (Galway) and Cashel King Cormacs (Tipperary) took place.
My father and I were seated in the upper deck of the Hogan Stand, towards the Canal End goal, probably between the 20 and 45 metre lines at that end of the pitch, maybe six or seven rows back from the front. I was seated at the right hand of my father (one of the few occasions in my life I have been on the right). In the seat immediately to the left of my father there was a Kilkenny man, Iâd guess in his late 20s, possibly early 30s. He was on his own and was a fine, strapping, handsome man with darkish hair. I think he may have been there for the second half of the Gaelic football game but it was clear he was primarily there for the hurling game.
During the hurling game, it became apparent that he was deeply emotionally invested in the outcome and was rabidly supporting Kiltormer. He regularly conversed with my father and a bit with myself, although mostly with my father because they were seated next to each other, and came across as very personable, articulate and extremely knowledgeable about the game of hurling. As the conversation ensued, he pro-actively confirmed his rabid support for Kiltormer, a club and area to which he had no personal connection, and his total disdain for Cashel, purely as a result of them being from Tipperary. In between conversing with us, a stream of pro-Kiltormer and anti-Cashel invective spewed forward from his mouth at a lowish volume, this became amplified whenever there was a score or when the referee blew for a free to either team. The man was clearly under the influence of no mood or mind-altering substance whatsoever, apart from utter hatred for Tipperary.
When Kiltormer scored the clinching goal late in the game, the rage-fuelled joy that overcame the man was a sight to behold. He leapt out of his seat and waved both his clenched fists in the air purposefully and energetically, and may have done a little dance on the spot, he certainly then crouched forward as he stood so that his clenched fists were waving close to where his knees were. His demeanour was one of pure joy mixed with utter relief. When the game ended he appeared to be in a very good mood and conversed with us again before acknowledging us with a farewell gesture as the crowd as a whole left.
Itâs a little difficult to believe this yarn, given that a few years earlier Galway had timbered the fuck out of the Cats in an AI final, with two proud son of Kiltormer doing a fair bit of the timbering. Kilkenny and Tipp were hardly rivals at the time, given Tipp had just emerged from their almost two decade famine.