I donāt think Ray is involved with KK at all, think he just spends all week drinking coffees in Apple Greens waiting for a GAA player to walk in.
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https://x.com/RoyCurtis68/status/1941185283472687434
Wasnāt going to go but after that from Roy, I made a call and Ticket sorted . Iām buzzing . Thanks Roy.
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āMy inadequate words contribute nothing.ā
Roy knows his place .
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Paul would want to go away and have a good shite for himself
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Is paul upset that a random irish journalist didnt post about Jota?
Footix are odd
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Iād say he wants Roy to head over to Anfield and leave an Easter egg at the gate with a Dublin jersey on.
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A life sized inflatable model of alf
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In the moments before battle, Anna Liviaās warrior princes will smear a coating of blue war paint on their granite jawlines, a declaration that they give themselves to the city.
A 5pm, the drums of history will thunder, and Dublin - our timeless city state - will palpitate.
Feel that river of identity course through your veins. The blood of belonging. Allow it to wash over your being, cleansing the mind of doubt.
Our supreme hurling hour is upon us. Destiny beckons. A night of valour and tumult and liberation looms.
Their cudgel hewn from ancient ash, their intent from the branches of their gladiator heritage, they will face down the Rebel army.
Like the Visigoths at the gates of Rome, our Sky Blue tribe stands fearless and poised.
Already, Limerickās green empire has fallen, ransacked, and destroyed, rendered a wasteland, by the rampaging big city CĆŗ Chulainns.
Weāve only just begun.
Hurlingās kingdom, ceded in 1938, shall be reclaimed.
This is the hour for folk tales and family, for the making of history.
The day a city and a county rises.
A new dawn, born on the fifth of July.
So children of Anna Livia, daub the war paint about your jaw and walk to the battlefield accompanied both by your cityās thousand year backstory, and your Oath.
The one that says: Dublin, I give myself completely thee.
Forever and always Sky Blue.
Ath Cliath abu.
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Surely Roy didnāt compose that overblown, hackneyed, cliched nonsense?
That wouldnāt be his form at all.
Thatās his exclusive patreon content
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.
Bandage.
A name whispered through the musty corridors of thefreekick.com.
A titan of the digital terrace.
A Wexford wanderer.
A forehead like a satellite dish ā tuned to mischief, tuned to mayhem.
He ran.
He ran until the world blurred at the edges.
And sometimes, yes,
He shat himself.
No shame in it.
No hiding from it.
The body betrays the brave, not the cowards.
He had opinions.
Fierce ones.
Heād argue that water was dry,
That Dublin was a village,
That Wexford would rise again.
He was wrong. Often.
But wrong in the way only the greats are ā
Loudly. Passionately. Completely.
Bandage didnāt post.
He performed.
Paragraphs like punches.
Snark like scripture.
A mind wired for chaos ā and comedy.
And God, the forehead.
A solar panel for lunacy.
He loved the GAA,
Hated the Sunday Game.
Mocked the lot of us.
He was all contradiction.
All heart.
Now heās retired.
The forum feels quieter.
Dimmer.
Like someone switched off a lightbulb in a chipper toilet.
But his legacy remains ā
In threads.
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Christ I feel like togging out myself and joining the action after those words from Roy! Goosebumps.
By God
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No eulogy from Roy for Sean Doherty?
Bad form
What a fraud
Chicken soup for the soul
Iāve just found Englands answer to Roy Curtis
āThe Palace is a Tipp pubā cc @BruidheanChaorthainn