(The final collection of clips from the DV archive never before seen online - 2005-2007)
July 2006.
Roy Keane’s passage.
Alongside all football comes humour, and Ireland has in George Hamilton the greatest exponent of the Colemanball since the eponymous David Coleman started talking nonsense decades ago.
The following gems are all Hamilton’s own:
“And Hyypia rises like a giraffe to head the ball clear!”
“The midfield are like a chef, trying to prise open a stubborn oyster to get at the fleshy meat inside!”
“He's pulling him off! The Spanish manager is pulling his captain off!”
And my personal fave:
“Redondo is blocking Roy Keane's passage!”
*
April 2005.
"When I was your age, I could flyyyy…!"
It’s the Cheltenham Festival, so I’m on my way to the bookies at the Westside when I stop in my tracks.
A young woman is helping an older lady out of the back door of a small silver hatchback parked next to mine. She appears to be having some trouble, so I hang back.
Gradually she emerges, clutching an extravagant wad of €50 euro notes.
For a moment she stands like a statue, her body pointed toward the shops as a gun dog at a kill, her eyes slowly moving along, scanning her prey.
“It’s over there, Ma, the blue building on the far right!”
Assimilating her daughter’s directions, yer wan marches at high speed towards the bookies, hand with cash held high above her head. A more confident stride I’ve never seen.
How great it is to be living in Ireland, where an older lady can feel safe waving her dosh around like that.
The front door of the same Nissan opens to reveal an older gentleman, who looks like he stepped out of an Irish Tourist Board advertisement.
Impeccably dressed with tweed jacket, flat hat and blackthorn cane, he turns his freckled lined face to me, and I smile back.
As he talks, his eyes betray the weariness of age, although they shine too, with humour and a sparkle of gentle wit.
“Ye’ll have to be patient young man!”
“Oh, absolutely!” says I, not feeling particularly young, and eager to put him at his ease. “There’s no rush,” I offer, “It’s a lovely day, and the races don’t start for another hour!”
By now he has swung his legs out of the car, and I hesitate to offer a helping hand, because he has about him an air of individuality and independence.
He stretches out his arms in well-practiced manner, and assuredly lifts himself out and up onto his feet.
“Ah, yes, everything takes a little longer than it used to … ” he explains, as he turns back into the car to reach for his cane, “… and on occasion, that can be a very good thing!”
The septuagenarian’s double entendre surprises me a little.
He walks right up to me, and engages me eye to eye.
“Mind you …” he intones, somewhere between a wistful whisper and a challenge, his breath on my chin, “… mind you, when I was your age, I could flyyyyyyyyy!”
As he says ’fly’ he lifts his voice and raises his hand high to the sky, and for a second or two, I believe he could.
We both laugh and wish each other good luck on the gee gees. I’m delighted to be living in Ireland, where a gentle encounter with a perfect stranger leaves me enthralled, charmed and inspired.
*
March 2006.
“He’s my God, not yours!”
Last week I was attending a training course in a Galway hotel. When tea break time came around, there were three tables laid out with cups, coffee and tea urns.
On top of each table lay a piece of paper clearly stating the different company names for whom these cuppas were allocated.
A small group of women arrived, and much to the consternation of the young Polish lad running things, they started to lay into another company’s coffee.
He turned to them, waving his hands in the air.
“Sorry sorry no! No please no! This is not for you! This is not your coffee. Please to wait five minutes! I have your coffee then! Thank you!”
Even in less than perfect English he made his point politely and impressively. Everyone backed off, save for three older ladies who carried on as if he didn’t exist.
“Please no! Please no!” he repeated, “Then there is not enough for others! Please just wait two more minutes.”
The women completely ignored him and as he walked away, frustrated and upset, he muttered under his breath
“Jesus Christ!”
Immediately, one of the older ladies turned, waving her finger at him:
“Don’t you go cussin’! He’s my god, not yours!”
However much I think I understand our species, ye lot can still knock me backwards.
Never mind the fact that yer man was very likely a Catholic too, the utter crassness, bigotry and blind ignorance of her comment sent my head reeling.
My god, not yours. My god, not yours.
Having tried it out for size a couple of times, I decided that her simple sentence summed up perfectly the situation in the world today.
What better way to describe a crusade than: ‘My god, not yours!’
Ever since the Cold War ended, the West needed a new official enemy.
Islam and Christianity have been exploited by those with vested financial interests to be the colours of our new war.
Make no mistake: it is a crusade.
*
June 2007.
Gee it’s good to be back home!
When I return from England I’m so knackered I can function only after a long self-indulgent soak in a lovely hot bath.
Ahhhhhhh blisssss... now a flick of the radio, catch up with what’s going on in Ireland ...
‘... he claimed that he had been falsely accused of being molested by priests when he was a boy ...’
Accused of being abused?
How does that work?
Ahh, yes, back in Ireland.
*
August 2007.
Ireland’s angriest man wants the Irish to apologise to the English!
Climbing into a Galway city taxi yesterday, I encountered the most abusive and angry person I have ever met in my life.
A local man of slight build, he started hissing and spitting as he turned his car around, temporarily blocking the traffic emerging from Cross Street.
At first I took his torrent of ‘effs’ and ‘cees’ to be nowt but a burst of road rage, the like of which I suffer from myself, but it continued throughout the journey.
“Fucking bastards can’t bloody drive. Stupid fucking fuckers. Look at the way he’s parked, bastard. Who does that cunt think he is?”
For a moment, as we drove down Dominick Street, silence dwelt briefly and happily inside the cab.
And then I went and spoiled it all by thinking perchance a little light conversation might ease our journey.
“Well, at least it’s stopped raining. Looks like we’re going to have a lovely afternoon.”
“Don’t talk to me about the fucking weather. I am so fed up to the back teeth with this bollocks country and its fucking weather, God almighty. And look at the state of those grass verges. That fucking council of ours, they make me sick. Lazy fucking pigs. Fat bloody pigs getting rich while we wallow in the muck they leave for us. Look at those grass verges. All fucking weeds and bloody litter. Really, makes me sick. How dare they sit up there in their bloody council chamber talking bollocks and taking fucking bonuses while they leave the city to rot? Cunts. Pigs and cunts the lot of ‘em. And look at this abomination. Tell me now, what bright fucking spark decided to paint the Prom yellow? And were we asked? Were we fuck! And did we even know until it was done? Did we fuck. Ruined Salthill they have, the pigs. And the city. Lovely it was, and now it’s gone to shit. Shitty fucking Galway run by a chamber of pigs, ignorant cunts and filthy fucking liars. I tell you. I fucking tell you. And look at the state of the grass by the car park. Ignorant pricks. What did they expect with 100,000 people watching the Air Show? Did not one of them think that might fuck up the grass? Makes me sick. I have had it with this fucking country. And yes, we have the Big Wheel now, but only after they had to fight the fucking council for the right to power. Yes, huh. I’ll tell you one thing I know. There’s not much I know for sure, but some things I do know, and this thing I know for fucking sure. Oh god yes, that I do. They wouldn’t listen, but if they had, I can tell you, this fucking mess of a country wouldn’t be in the fucking mess it’s in. One thing I know. Old Garrett was right. Oh yes, you might laugh, but let me tell you, old Garret was right with what he said back in the ‘80s. If only we’d have listened to Garret.”
Clearly the man was fishing for a question. I was worried that if I didn’t give him what he wanted, he might have a heart attack, or worse, I might be considered a filthy fucking ignorant cunt-prick myself.
“So what did Garret FitzGerald say back in the ‘80s?”
“I’ll tell you what he fucking said. He said that we should go cap in hand to the English, and apologise! Yes, that’s what he said, and that’s exactly what we should fucking do. Go cap in hand to the English, apologise, and ask them if they wouldn’t mind taking the country back, and maybe please make it better again.”
Was I really going to take him on?
Nearly home, exhausted by his tirade of abusive language, I was feeling a better, more wholesome human being with each disgusting phrase and tortured clause that hammered into my ears.
“Wow! Did old Garret FitzGerald really say that? He - I - wow! Well, bugger me!”
“Yes he did. And he said a lot more besides. Fucking pigs. Lazy fucking pigs and stupid fucking cunts. That’s what we have become!”
“Keep the change!”
“Why, sir, you’re a gentleman and a scholar!”
©Charlie Adley
24.05.2026
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