Lighten Up: From Golden Oscars to Golden Wonders
Farming columnist Denis Lehane says Hollywood star Cate Blanchett was blown away by his rustic country charms. Picture: Emma McIntyre/Getty Images.
I'm only just back from the Oscars, and to say I'm shagged would be an understatement.
The head is still spinning from all the free drink, the ears still ringing from all the Oscar noise.
For those who have never been to the Oscars before, let me tell you all about it.
It's like the Ploughing only without the mud. It's like Tullamore, only without the Tanoy.
The traffic going down Hollywood Boulevard on the morning of the event was astronomical.
Lucky for me, I got parking in a field beside the main rig.
I used my old press credentials to get past the tight ring of security. I told them I was "Aul Lehane from the Examiner."
I didn't have to say another word.
"This way Mr Lehane," a large bouncer said as we bypassed all the riff-raff.
Soon I was sitting in the main auditorium. Cate Blanchett was on my left, some old geezer, a relic from movies long since forgotten, was slouched on my right.
"Tell me," says the charming Miss Blanchett. "Are all Irish farmers as sexy as yourself?"
"Ciúnas awhile, my dear woman," says I, for I knew the action was about to begin.
And sure enough, up shot the curtain, and out came the stars galloping one after the other. They were like bullocks going into a sales ring at Macroom Mart on a Saturday morning.
'Twas like the mart in many ways, only with a little more razzmatazz.
Soon the old codger alongside me was asleep and now resting his worn-out head on my shoulder.
And I suppose I could have left him sleep, but I could stand him no longer.
He snored all the way through Cillian's acceptance speech.
He belched and released wind while applause was coming from all quarters.
It was a dazzling display of bad manners at a time of great jubilation.
In the finish, with a gentle poke of my elbow into his face, I woke up the old-timer.
He was drunk for sure, so I helped him to his feet and took him outside to get a bit of air and perhaps sober him up with a few chips from a van which was idling nearby.
"Three cartons of chips, please," says I. "And a burger with extra sauce for Miss Blanchett."
"Well, is it yourself?" Came a familiar Cork shout from the chip van.
'Twas none other than an old friend of mine, a man who had immigrated to the US many years ago, and was now making a fortune selling chips to celebrities.
He told me that movie stars were stone mad for chips and burgers, especially if the spuds and the beef hailed from the old sod.
"Hollywood is crazy about Ireland now," he said.
And as the van rattled away, we talked about the old days.
He told me that movie-making was a lot like shearing sheep in that the actors would be savagely hungry once the day was over.
"Chips and burgers are what they live on," he declared.
"And you can forget about your money," he said, "It's all on the house tonight."
And with that out the Oscar brigade came. Glitterati of every description, leaving the joint in droves, like cattle leaving a shed at springtime. All headed for the chip van. They surrounded it like hungry calves around the paps of a good milker.
Reminiscing no doubt about the night, but gladly forsaking the golden trophies now for the golden chips and beef of dear old Ireland.
The whole event, of course, made me proud to be Irish.
But then again, we have always had every reason to be proud to be Irish.
