Team for the McKenna Cup final.
M.O Neill
A.McCrory
C.McCarron
B.Burns
M.Cassidy
R.McNabb
K.McGeary
C.Cavanagh
B.McDonnell
D.McClure
H.Loughran
C.McCann
D.McCurry
R.McHugh
R.O Neill
Mickey has aged the poor fella.
Agree with him totally in the interview posted above. They got well beat by Dublin but I totally expected that. They were not at that level last year.
Would love to see themselves and Kerry move up a couple of gears this year because otherwise we are just looking at a Dublin vs Mayo final again (not sure how the draw works with super 8s mind you).
Connacht and Munster champs in one group, Leinster and Munster in the other
Great draw for the Ulster winners to get a bye to the final 
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With kavanagh gone will tyrone still be regarded as a bunch of cheating dirtbags?
Yes
What Kavanagh is this?
Hi lads,
New poster here, big Tyrone man of Italian heritage,
Our team for the weekend clash with Monaghan was named. 6 changes from the side that beat Kildare.
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Sigh
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Sorry, Cavanagh. When Brolly’s at his best he has a fine turn of phrase, I remember him remarking on the brother’s ability to ride tackles unless they were inside the 45, then “the invisible man resumed his vendetta” against them.
I hope you reported the post.
They’re still playing that pair of clown shoes Morgan 
Cavanagh is a dullard
I remembered an email containing the following doing the rounds years ago, it still lurks way in the bottom of my yahoo account. As vitriolic as it gets.
Tyrone progress at expense of football.
Sunday was a black day for Gaels everywhere, the nightmarish aberration of 2003 had barely faded from the memory when the horror of that disgraceful travesty was re-enacted in a morbid series of Tyrone appearances on the once hallowed turf of Croke Park. We have all been sullied, shamed and sickened by Tyrone’s callous inability to grasp of any notions of decency, fair play of honour. The integrity of our game has been subjected to a mean spirited and bad natured attack. Drinks sponsorship and the opening of our stadium to soccer seem trivial side issues compared to this development. What next? Should we replace the Artane Boys’ band with The Spice Girls or ask the National Front to put forward a representative to present the cup?
The sense of despair felt by all decent people in the stadium was in marked contrast to the elation of the Tyrone faithful; apelike smiles plastered over vacant faces, fists normally dragging in the mud were raised and clapped clumsily together, barely coherent frighteningly savage cries of “kunnnnnnuhhhhvunnnnnn” echoed around in a hellish chorus of gutteral misguided superstitious reverence. The Tyrone spokesman, presumably employed to provide the articulate and thoughtful insights of the management was asked to give his reading of the game. Peering out suspiciously from under the protruding eyebrow ridges which identify many of his fellow county men, he growled out a few cumbersome clichés about “gyuvvun uh hunndrud un tunn pursunnt,” before lapsing watery eyed into loving, animalistic croons of “kunnnnnnuhhhhvunnnnnn.”
The deafening growls and wails thundering around the place relate to a man who we shall refer to as “Canavan”. In fits of misguided loyalty on the part of his troop of guldering cromag admirers, he also is wittily referred to by the stomach churning platitudes “Peter the Great,” or “God.”
After the match an unusually candid Canavan pondered his relationship with the baying hordes, their pathetic need to indulge in bleary eyed hero worship, and his own need to drown his growing sense of worthlessness in orgies of fame and vanity.
“I had to take the free, it was a no lose situation. To tell you the truth I thought I’d miss, I’d missed an easier one ten minutes earlier. If the ball went over the morons in the crowd would love me. If I missed they’d love me anyway. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time I’d let them down, think of the countless frees I’d dropped into goalkeepers’ arms or kicked wide. Trust me, these clowns barely have the intelligence to remember the good times, the bad times disappear into the dimly remembered misty haze they call five minutes ago. They can’t even remember the sending off in the Ulster Final, or the dozen other sending offs which are bound to happen when you’re a thick headed corner boy with the decency of a sewer rat. These people love me, when I hit the ground they hold their breath until I get up again, you’d think they’d realise that when a Tyrone man goes down he’s more likely to have overdosed than been fouled. Speaking of red necked trailer park drug-taking thrash, can you believe that peasant Mulligan, with his chemical induced grin? He was seriously thinking of stepping into my limelight. I told him to feck away off back to his hair dresser and if he didn’t like it he could take more ecstasy.”
I asked him to explain how the Tyrone game plan had managed to evolve in a county where evolution had overlooked most of the population.
“ 1995 was the key, after thirty-five minutes of loutish thuggery we were two men down and behind to Derry. We discussed the situation at half time, we realised that biting, gouging and stamping, though integral parts of the Tyrone mentality, weren’t going to be enough. The manager shrewdly suggested getting the effing ball, getting it up the effing field and putting it over the effing bar. Then big Art said something profound, “hit the ground running boys!”
“Bloody hell, it was as if our collective stupidity had momentarily been replaced with sage like wisdom. From that day onwards “hit the ground” would be the bedrock of our success. I went out and ran into the first Derry man I saw, I hit the ground and McCusker got the line. After the match I spoke to the scum in the Tryone dressing room. I told them thuggery wasn’t going to be enough (even if your name is McMenamin), diving and cheating were the missing link. Big Finbar stood up at that point, “Aw thought aw wus duh mussunn lunk,” he mumbled. Tyrone football changed that day. Training sessions aren’t just about running anymore, nowadays we have coaches for diving, tumbling, tripping, stumbling and collapsing. We even have a psychologist to help us with our fear of falling. We’ve got so good at it the hardest part was getting Cavanagh convinced he had to stay on his feet all the way through the national anthem.”
One of the most worrying developments following Pat Spillane’s mealy mouthed yapping directed towards northern teams, is that Tyrone have managed to win the support of people from outside their own county. Gaels from the eight civilized counties in Ulster should resist this sinister development. By giving in to this misguided and sinister propaganda one is throwing one’s lot in with a county which represents all the worst aspects of human nature. Picture the average Tyrone fan; silage juice trickling from the corner of the mouth, putrid odours seeping from every pore, the slobbering, slurping attempts to guide sausage suppers into the vile cavernous mouths, the cacophony of angry snorting as they show their appreciation for whatever pathetic antics their heroes have stooped to…and the men are even worse. Such creatures should be despised, studied or pitied, but not encouraged.
Ireland stands on the edge of a precipice, the winds of savagery howl around her and goodness is being drowned in the rising tide of noxious vulgarity. A hideous beast clad in red and white slouches toward us. Only Kerry can cleanse the waters of our land and rid us of this obscenity.
I have reported this post as off-topic and hope other posters do likewise.
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Sean Cavanagh having a right cut off Mickey Harte and co on Twitter
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What did he say, bro?
I wouldn’t listen to Cavanagh. Even if he was erudite, insightful, profound and expressing views sanctioned and approved by Michael d Higgins and the Pope, he’d still be shunned by by every right thinking Irish man.