Alone, All Alone

How appropriate it is that it's Tipperary, the Premier County and the location of Hayes Hotel, Thurles, birthplace of the GAA, that should provide us with what could very well be the most revolutionary happening in GAA officialdom since the introduction of the qualifier system.

The facts, insofar as they can be ascertained, are these: aware that his side were playing Fermanagh in an elimination game this Saturday, Andy Shorthall, manager of the Tipp football team, asked the County Board, or, more accurately, the Mid Division Board, whatever in the Christ that is, to postpone a Mid-Tipperary senior hurling championship match between Loughmore and Thurles Sarsfields that was to have been played last night. The reason for Shorthall's concern was that he had two players on his panel, whom he needed for Saturday's game against doughty Fermanagh, playing for the hurling clubs, and he did not care to have them split and shattered hurling outside Nenagh in the gloaming of a late summer's evening so the fixture list of the Mid Division Board looks neat and tidy.

So Andy Shorthall asked that the fixture be postponed, allowing the Premier County to have its best players to wear its colours and uphold its honour against Fermanagh. And the Mid Division Board said no, we're not moving nothing, so there.

A depressingly common occurance. Lots of counties appoint lots of managers all over Ireland but, when it comes to streamlining the system and getting everyone in the county behind the manager, they just leave the poor dumb hoor twisting slowly in the wind. Then, when whatever county it is comes tumbling out of the Championship, the Knights of the High Stool remark to one and other that they always knew that fella was only a bollocks, or, in our Celtic Tiger times, go posting abuse like billy-oh on the Internet.

But Shorthall obviously doesn't fancy being a martyr, and how the Tipp board must bitterly regret appointing him now. For Shorthall is the sacrificial lamb that bit back - instead of throwing his hands in the air, Shorthall called the Board's bluff. He told the Board that if he couldn't have all his players, he'd quit, and that's exactly what he did.

Him, all his selectors, and, as of last night, all his players. There is nobody left to play football for Tipp, and, in consequence, Tipperary have offered Fermanagh a walkover in Saturday's fixture.

I heard on the radio where some buck from the Tipp County Board said that the players would come to regret this awful day (implying, of course, that the players were bad, bad men for turning their backs on Tiobráid Árainn). As far as I'm concerned, those Tipp men are heroes, and the first winners of this year's Championship.

For God knows how many evenings those footballers have dragged themselves away from warm firesides or the promise of cold porter to go running up hills and down valleys for the honour of the Premier County, all the while with an assortment of goons and rogues slapping them on the back and telling them what great men they were. But, when the backslappers were asked to cut these men a break, and give them some chance of flying Tipp colours in triumph after the game against Fermanagh, they all disappeared into the night to a man.

All that support for the minority game of football disappeared into the night. It was all so much hot air. Tokenism at its best.

So the players were right to stand by Shorthall, who was only standing by them in the first place. They'll probably suffer for it down the line - see what being the chief mutineer in Mayo in 1992 did for Peter Ford's chances of managing the Mayo football team since? - but it takes men to stand up and be counted, to say that that they're not there to be patronised or pushed around any more. Well done Tipp, the Premier County.

Mallacht na Cispheile ar ár bPeil Féin

Ins an alt riatla a scríobhann sé ar leathanach deirneach na Irish Times gach Sáthairn, deireann Keith Duggan go mbeith tionchar mór ag an chispheil ar an pheil Gaelach dá dtabhartaí an seans do. Is mór an meas atá agamsa ar Duggan - ceann de na iriseoirí is fearr in Éirinn faoi lathar, dár liomsa - ach b'fhéidir gur chaith sé an-iomarca uair i Meiricéa. Mar 'sé fírinne an scéal ná go bhfuil tionchar mór ag an Chispheil inniu, ach is drochthionchar é, drochthionchar a chuirfidh brón ar an contae a úsáideann é sula mbeidh an Craobh críochnaite.

'Sé an luas an rud is tabhactach sa bpeil - luas smaoinigh, luas gluaiseachta. Ach, in ionad luas, éiríonn an imirt go mall faoi tionchar na cispheile. Nuair atá imreoir ag imirt peile, is gá dó an liathróid a úsáid go tapaidh. Go glic, gan dabht, ach go tapaidh - má fhágann sé leis an liathróid, beidh sé buailte briste nuair a schroicheann na cúlaí. Gluaiseann an liathróid i bhfad níos luaithe leis an cic ná leis an dorn - ba cheart do gach peiledeoir beir ar an liathróid, feachaint suas, agus cic mór a thabairt don liathróid comh fada agus comh cruinn mar is féidir. Dá gcaithfí an iomarca uair an liathróid a chur faoi gluaiseacht níl faic déanta ach seans thugtaí den cúlaí a bhailigh le cheile, agus luíochán a ullmhú don fear bocht faoi deireadh leis an liathróid.

Tá brón agus buartha ar an Spailpín go bhfuil galar na cispheile ar larr ina chontae féin. Rachaidh Maigh Eo i gcoinne Gaillimh ar an 27ú Meitheamh, coicís ón Domhnach seo chugainn, agus leigh mé ar an Hogan Stand gur úsáid Muigh Eo an seachad gairid chun an liathróid a thabhairt amach óna gcúl féin i gcluiche i gcoinne an Mhí tráthnóna inné. Sin galar na cispheile, agus má dheannann Muigh Eo iarracht an seafóid cheanna a úsáíd i gcoinne Gaillimh, titfidh an Seoigheach orthu cosúil leis an iolar ón sliabh ins an dán cáiliúl le Alfred, Tiarna Tennyson.

Gearr síos na líonta, agus dean cliabh don ásal dóibh. Níl maith eile leo.

The Big Fellow Rises from the Grave

While An Spailpín was out for an evening's constitutional just now, he was struck by a most remarkable sight - a swarthy young man was approaching him wearing a Michael Collins t-shirt. It was that picture of Collins in his Free State General's uniform, the one with his hands clasped and his head looking off to his left. The slogan on the t-shirt read "You've read the book, you've seen the film - now join the party."

"Those crazy Shinners," I thought, "whatever will they think of next?" Imagine then, my surprise when the chappie passed me, and I espied the Young Fine Gael logo on the sleeve.

Do you suppose the Tories would have a better chance of winning the next election if they put a picture of the Duke of Wellington on their t-shirts? No; neither do I.

McWilliams Dicit; Mondus Audit

David McWilliams explains modern Ireland in one thousand words. Depressing certainly, but what superb analysis.

Van Helsing? No Fangs!

If anyone needs definite proof of the devastating impact of correct evening dress, consider society’s embrace of The Undead, after the vampire population proved to scrub up so well.

In the original Romanian and Eastern European legends on which Bram Stoker based his story of Count Dracula, the undead showed all the signs of persons that were very dead indeed, and had been dead for quite some time – mouldy of dress, unsteady of gait and unsettling of pallor. Stoker’s genius was to make his vampire an aristocrat with a title, a revolution that reached its zenith when Universal studios put the Count in perpetual black tie and eliminated that ghastly palm hair.

And the vampire has been with us since. Of Universal’s horror stable of the thirties, the wolfman hasn’t been seen as a titular character since Lon Chaney, while The Mummy and Frankenstein’s Monster have only one reappearance since the Britain’s Hammer movies of the ‘fifties, and with vastly different results – Kenneth Branagh’s Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein bombed, while Stephen Sommers The Mummy, to run with a metaphor somewhat, brought a moribund genre back to life. But, irrespective of the ebbing popularity of his monstrous compadres, the vampire has always been with us, from Bela Lugosi’s and Christopher Lee’s Count Dracula in the ‘thirties and ‘fifties respectively, through the Lost Boys of the ‘eighties (the clear progenitor to the vampires slain by Buffy the Vampire Slayer, of course), Neil Jordan’s Interview with a Vampire in the ‘nineties, the disastrous Dracula 2000 at the turn of the millennium, and now Stephen Sommers’ Van Helsing.

The reason the Vampire Movie has proved so popular has to do with the balance it strikes between the remarkable power of the vampire, a power that we all aspire to in some way, and the awful price that the vampire pays. The vampire is our tragic hero, the man who has reached too far and paid a terrible price.

It is this tension, between the aspiration of being all-powerful (and irresistibility to Pre-Raphaelite women, of course), and the price that must be paid for that power, that is, the lost of one’s humanity and condemnation to eternal torment, that makes vampire movies so involving, that keeps encouraging us to suspend our disbelief for another two hours. The vampire is different to us in just a tiny degree, but it is this tiny degree, our essential humanity, that makes all the difference.

All the best vampire movies explore this tension. Count Dracula, in Francis Ford Coppala’s 1992 movie, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, isn’t so much a demon from the fiery pit of Hell as a fool for love; it is his unrequited love for Elisabeta – “I have crossed oceans of time to find you” – that makes us feel his tragedy, and therefore care for what happens him, while still thrilling to the horror of the events at Grimbsy and, most grisly of all, Keanu Reeves.

Even at a time and a place when all conventional standards of behaviour and morality are in abeyance, such as 1987, the essential tragedy of the vampire remains in the gory glory that is The Lost Boys, the Brat Pack punk rock vampire movie. Although Kiefer Sutherland’s vampire band begin the sea-change of vampires rather enjoying their vampiric ways that reaches its height in Buffy, Jason Patric as Michael Emerson is always aware of what he must surrender and leave behind to become a Lost Boy, and from this tension comes the drama.

It is the lack of this tension, a lack of a human equivalent to measure the vampire against, that is Van Helsing’s greatest flaw. It is undeniably one among many, but this is the most telling, and ultimately the most damning.

If Stephen Sommers is to continue in his monster movie vein, perhaps his next project ought to be Robert Louis Stephenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, as Sommers’ dilemma not dissimilar to that of the misfortunate Dr Jekyll, the man who experimented so successfully that he could not replicate his results. When The Mummy became the breakout smash-hit of the summer of 1999, Sommers’ was catapulted onto Hollywood’s A-List; miserably, it seems that in The Mummy Sommers caught lightning in a bottle, and he hasn’t been quite able to figure out how to do it again.

The problem with The Mummy Returns was easily identifiable – it was about so tall, and wore short trousers. Taking no chances on anything being left out in Van Helsing, Sommers cooks up his movie in the same fashion as a good Irish stew, where the more is always the merrier.

It doesn’t work out. Van Helsing’s costume is designed to be either iconic or, more depressingly, easy to replicate as an action figure. Instead, the many layered Hugh Jackman looks like a man who’s expecting a cold snap, and has wrapped up really warm just in case. Kate Beckinsale is in a worse dilemma – she spends a lot of the movie running, leaping, fighting and swinging on ropes in a costume that might have required Olympic training just to draw breath. But she does look pretty, so we may forgive Sommers that.

What we can’t quite forgive is his third act, which Sommers stuffs with the brio of a schoolboy left alone in the gobstopper factory. Ideally, subtitles should roll under the action to remind the dazed viewer of what’s what; instead, the viewer just settles for booing lustily as the plot lurches from one bizarre extreme to the next.

Fans of true, teeth-chattering horror know that the sequel can only be worse. Those that love the children of the night, and the sweet music they make, will have to search elsewhere for their kicks. Miss Beckinsale’s own under-rated mean and moody Underworld perhaps?

Raiders of the Lost Ark - The Adaptation

Marvellous, beautiful article from Vanity Fair, republished in today's Guardian, about three Mississippi schoolkids who were so enthralled by Raiders of the Lost Ark that they decided to film it themselves, shot by shot, with themselves as the protagonists. Treat yourself - makes you feel like cheering.

I’ll Be There for Yuck – Friends Finally Ends

Seinfeld, the Johnny Depp to Friends’ Tom Cruise during the nineties, was famously considered ground-breaking in terms of the TV sitcom genre because Seinfeld was, famously, “a show about nothing.” In years to come, once the glamour has dissipated from Friends’ remains, scholars will discover that Friends too was unique in its way, it being a “comedy without jokes.”

If the tide of our times needed a metaphor for how remarkably shallow we have become, the ten year popularity of Friends, the show without jokes, wins the watch. It’s shocking how popular that awful thing was.

Was there every a bigger pain in the ass than Ross in Friends? The only thing that made sense about the whine-Gellar was that he was palaeontologist by profession – who else but one who studies bones professionally could possibly be related to so scrawny a woman as Courtney Cox? I’m not saying you can count her ribs, but the woman is in severe danger of kidnapping by skiffle bands looking for a new washboard. And she was so lovely, and so normal, in Scream and the first Ace Ventura movie. Such a shame.

Tony LeBlanc is clearly a poor man’s Tony Danza, and more to be pitied than censured. The biggest lug of the six of them has to be Matthew Perry, who does more mugging than the average citizen of Tallaghtfornia. The man is shocking – it’s as if, when he sees a punchline in his script, it has a physical effect on him, rather like the passing of four of five bags of Portland cement might. He quivers, he shakes, he delivers his line and then he shivers to a halt, like a jelly doing a regular sixty miles an hour that has suddenly spotted a radar gun.

Why? It’s not as if he didn’t know that a joke was coming. Friends has (or more correctly, “had” – what joy to use a past participle in relation to Friends at last!) the most telegraphed jokes in the world. First you hear a distant rumble as the joke approaches, rather like someone rolling a bowling pin through an air-conditioning vent in a many-storied office. Then the regular boom-boom-boom begins as the joke nears, a sound not dissimilar to the start of the Rapture I believe. Finally, the Big Funny arrives, soundtracked by Aaron’s Copeland’s Fanfare for the Common Man, the tune that so bothered the apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Matthew Perry does his little St Vitus Dance, and then, thirty seconds later, the man in the air-conditioning reaches for his second bowl, and so the long day rolls on.

Friends has contributed one sentence to our lingua franca. It is this: “So, I was, like, Oh my God!”

You’ll notice that this seven word sentence means precisely nothing, which is an achievement in composition in itself, although one of dubious merit. You’ll also notice that two of the seven words, or twenty-eight and one half per cent of the sentence, relate to the first person; the first person nominative, “I,” and the first person possessive pronoun, “my.” This says a lot about the axis around which the world of a Friend revolves.

Friends was never about comedy; it was about narcissism, the tyranny of beauty and the joys of self-love. It will not be missed.