Three little things and a whole load of nonsense
Until we can drag him back down to the stagnant pool of cynicism we swamp about in, that is.
“I was thinking...” he starts off, “You’re too fond of that single-issue column form altogether. Have a go off the three-topic lay-out.”
“Ah, I’m happy where I am,” comes the meek response.
“Do it,” comes the curt rejoinder.
“You didn’t happen to read,” I attempt with what dignity I can muster, “My magisterial effort about the disappearance of command and control as a managerial m.o.?”
“Three,” he says, holding up two fingers and a bronzed thumb. “Three.”
Grump.
Little did your columnist know, when picking up a Sesame Street DVD recently, that he would soon have his youthful innocence smashed, thanks to the unveiling of the above-named gentleman.
Mr Spinney is the man who operated Oscar the Grouch for many years, basing the great rubbish-dweller’s distinctive delivery on the taxi-driver who brought him to the audition.
Unfortunately...
(“Wait a second,” says the sports editor, “What’s this? Who’s this woman Carol?”
“It’s a man,” I say, rolling eyes theatrically, “You never heard of J Carroll Naish, the great actor?”
“I’ve heard of Jimmy Carroll and Declan Nash. Was your man from Limerick? No? Stick to the sport, if you please?”)
There are more than two nations in this country these days, and it was never more evident than in last Saturday night’s chat show on RTÉ, when Brendan O’Connor met Dan Shanahan, recently retired Waterford hurling star.
This column freely declares an interest in the exchange, and Mr Shanahan in particular: as President Kennedy said about a press photographer during his 1963 visit, that man is a good friend of mine.
Accordingly it was unfortunate to see the show’s host show what we might describe kindly as a tenuous familiarity with Shanahan’s career, and the GAA as a whole.
To be fair, he confessed as much early on, and the flapping hand was also a bit of a giveaway. But you probably didn’t notice, given you were all probably watching through your non-flapping, interlaced fingers at that point.
Dan was on publicising his new book, and for a host of reasons which owe much to Luigi Pirandello and are far too involved to get into here, this column guarantees that it is a good read. I particularly recommend the description of meeting a man wearing a pig’s head when hungover.
Well, everybody else has chimed in, so we felt we were more than entitled to pontificate. Why not?
(“I’d prefer you didn’t,” says the sports editor, “Don’t you always say ‘I don’t follow the game myself’?”
“You’re thinking of Gaelic football,” I say, “Now can I please proceed? Otherwise I’ll have to put an old skewering of the Compromise Rules or the All-Stars into the microwave for a reheat.”
“Anything but that. Continue.”)
In any event, I come not to praise Wayne, nor to bury him, but to offer his wife, Colleen, a way out.
Apparently a new organisation has been set up in America, by an NBA player’s wife, which aims to co-ordinate superstar athletes’ schedules with those of their wives, so that the former don’t have quite as much free time on their hands which could be turned to activities which would be No Good.
We understand the impulse behind that, though a smart aleck would point out that when you have to work that hard at marriage, then at some point it just becomes... work, surely, and ends becoming a marriage.
(“Sesame Street, now marriage advice?” says the sports editor, “Are you trying to kill me? I look for sport and you turn into Jeremy Kyle’s message for the day.”
“I meant to ask, how was the holiday?”
“The holiday?” he says, “What holiday?”
Welcome back.
Contact: michael.moynihan@examiner.ie Twitter: MikeMoynihanEx.
