Bernard Dunne and Brian O'Driscoll

irishbegrudger

(taken from www.rant.ie)

Not since a scrawny Peader O’Mailahain won five golds (long jump, high jump, triple jump, and the defunct disciplines of sideways jump and on-fire jump) in the 1932 Olympics in Bruges, has there been a better weekend for Irish sport. I have never been happier or prouder to count Bernard Dunne and Brian O’Driscoll among my close personal friends.

Granted, I’ve never met either man, but it’s a free country and I can do what I like. I can christen us The Three Musketeers. I can claim Best Man honours at their weddings (regardless of their marital statuses). I can invent poker nights we’ve had, holidays we’ve shared, slappers we’ve roasted, stag dos we’ve debauched, strippers we’ve accidentally killed — there’s not a damn thing the other two musketeers can do to stop me.

Whilst Benzer and O’Driscollzer are undoubtedly my two oldest and dearest (fake) friends, our (fake) friendships have not always known such firm bedrock. I freely admit to posting a jar of my own faeces to Bernard in 2007, following his knock-out to Spaniard Kiko Martinez. I was hurt by the loss. Not just emotionally, but physically: I wagered 20,000 samolians on Bernard to win, defaulted on the debt, and was visited in my lair by a posse of goons who dealt me a ferocious mauling. Baseball bats were the unimaginative weapon of choice that morn, although one creative goon did drag me up the stairs by my penis (the accidental lengthening was welcome, but I’ve never since achieved an erection without use of a splint).

Perhaps sending Dunne a poo jar was rude, but no lasting offence was intended. Similar jars found their way to Roy Keane, Sonia O’Sullivan, Ken Doherty and Michelle Smith, and I still count those people among my closest personal (fake) friends. My anger flares and I send a jar on reflex (I like to maintain a steady float of roughly two kilograms of poo in postal circulation at any time). It’s a superficial rage, doused as quickly as it first sparks.

What rakes my conscience worse than those micro eruptions, is the note I mailed Brian O’Driscoll in the aftermath of Ireland’s disastrous world cup campaign in 2007. Accompanied by a single bullet, I wrote…

Dear Brian (1979 - 2007),

Oh, how I now regret all the rainy nights I’ve prowled your residence, rifling through your garbage, taking clothes from your line, trying them on and slow-dancing behind your shed with an imaginary Glenda Gilson. You weren’t worth it. I could have been stalking somebody worthwhile, like Twink, or Glenda Gilson.

All the unwanted pizzas I ordered you. Eighty or ninety heavy breather calls in the wee-hours. Shadowing you on family trips abroad. Never once did I complain, because I understood we had an unspoken contract: you would produce on the field of battle, and I would give you a ‘A’ lister quality stalking service; the kind of attention to detail that would have Enya tripling the security detail in her Dalkey fortress.

I write this note in a bath of ice, drunker than an alcoholic, playing Russian Roulette with a claw-hammer. This is where your failure has corralled me. Rugby was my life. Oh sure, I’m not claiming to understand the nuances of the offside rule (or any rule, if I’m honest), nor would I be bothered watching anything other than the internationals. And I readily admit to only recently noticing that John Hayes isn’t Keith Wood. But if you chopped off my head, rugby would ooze from my torso (and probably leak slightly from the head part too).

Now I’m not threatening you Brian. That’s not my style. But I’m definitely going to kill you, and you can take that as a direct threat. So put your house in order and prepare for death. You’ll be rucking and scrumming in heaven by the next full moon,

Warm Regards,
The Angel of Death

The note was undoubtedly an overreaction, especially considering O’Driscoll was the best of a bad lot. Naturally, the rest of the squad got jars in the post, but O’Driscoll should have been exempt.

‘Tis all water under the bridge now. Dunne and O’Driscoll have cemented their legacies with performances that drew deep from the twin wellsprings of gutsiness and genius. Show me a petition to erect city centre statues to these Spartans, and I’ll sign it. Parade them on an open top bus, and I’ll applaud them. But it remains the duty of every Irish begrudger to stay at DEFCON 5, ready at all times to round on the Bernard Dunnes and the Brian O’Driscolls for the flimsiest of reasons. Fear of our fickleness is ultimately what keeps these potential losers sharp. If Dunne gets knocked out in his next fight, or O’Driscoll falls inches short of the try line, they need to know that we (the people and the press) will turn on them like disgruntled vampires with rabies. I’m willing to do my part. Are you?

dak

Should this have been posted in "sport" ?

irishbegrudger wrote: »

(taken from www.rant.ie)

Not since a scrawny Peader O’Mailahain won five golds (long jump, high jump, triple jump, and the defunct disciplines of sideways jump and on-fire jump) in the 1932 Olympics in Bruges, has there been a better weekend for Irish sport. I have never been happier or prouder to count Bernard Dunne and Brian O’Driscoll among my close personal friends.

Granted, I’ve never met either man, but it’s a free country and I can do what I like. I can christen us The Three Musketeers. I can claim Best Man honours at their weddings (regardless of their marital statuses). I can invent poker nights we’ve had, holidays we’ve shared, slappers we’ve roasted, stag dos we’ve debauched, strippers we’ve accidentally killed — there’s not a damn thing the other two musketeers can do to stop me.

Whilst Benzer and O’Driscollzer are undoubtedly my two oldest and dearest (fake) friends, our (fake) friendships have not always known such firm bedrock. I freely admit to posting a jar of my own faeces to Bernard in 2007, following his knock-out to Spaniard Kiko Martinez. I was hurt by the loss. Not just emotionally, but physically: I wagered 20,000 samolians on Bernard to win, defaulted on the debt, and was visited in my lair by a posse of goons who dealt me a ferocious mauling. Baseball bats were the unimaginative weapon of choice that morn, although one creative goon did drag me up the stairs by my penis (the accidental lengthening was welcome, but I’ve never since achieved an erection without use of a splint).

Perhaps sending Dunne a poo jar was rude, but no lasting offence was intended. Similar jars found their way to Roy Keane, Sonia O’Sullivan, Ken Doherty and Michelle Smith, and I still count those people among my closest personal (fake) friends. My anger flares and I send a jar on reflex (I like to maintain a steady float of roughly two kilograms of poo in postal circulation at any time). It’s a superficial rage, doused as quickly as it first sparks.

What rakes my conscience worse than those micro eruptions, is the note I mailed Brian O’Driscoll in the aftermath of Ireland’s disastrous world cup campaign in 2007. Accompanied by a single bullet, I wrote…

Dear Brian (1979 - 2007),

Oh, how I now regret all the rainy nights I’ve prowled your residence, rifling through your garbage, taking clothes from your line, trying them on and slow-dancing behind your shed with an imaginary Glenda Gilson. You weren’t worth it. I could have been stalking somebody worthwhile, like Twink, or Glenda Gilson.

All the unwanted pizzas I ordered you. Eighty or ninety heavy breather calls in the wee-hours. Shadowing you on family trips abroad. Never once did I complain, because I understood we had an unspoken contract: you would produce on the field of battle, and I would give you a ‘A’ lister quality stalking service; the kind of attention to detail that would have Enya tripling the security detail in her Dalkey fortress.

I write this note in a bath of ice, drunker than an alcoholic, playing Russian Roulette with a claw-hammer. This is where your failure has corralled me. Rugby was my life. Oh sure, I’m not claiming to understand the nuances of the offside rule (or any rule, if I’m honest), nor would I be bothered watching anything other than the internationals. And I readily admit to only recently noticing that John Hayes isn’t Keith Wood. But if you chopped off my head, rugby would ooze from my torso (and probably leak slightly from the head part too).

Now I’m not threatening you Brian. That’s not my style. But I’m definitely going to kill you, and you can take that as a direct threat. So put your house in order and prepare for death. You’ll be rucking and scrumming in heaven by the next full moon,

Warm Regards,
The Angel of Death

The note was undoubtedly an overreaction, especially considering O’Driscoll was the best of a bad lot. Naturally, the rest of the squad got jars in the post, but O’Driscoll should have been exempt.

‘Tis all water under the bridge now. Dunne and O’Driscoll have cemented their legacies with performances that drew deep from the twin wellsprings of gutsiness and genius. Show me a petition to erect city centre statues to these Spartans, and I’ll sign it. Parade them on an open top bus, and I’ll applaud them. But it remains the duty of every Irish begrudger to stay at DEFCON 5, ready at all times to round on the Bernard Dunnes and the Brian O’Driscolls for the flimsiest of reasons. Fear of our fickleness is ultimately what keeps these potential losers sharp. If Dunne gets knocked out in his next fight, or O’Driscoll falls inches short of the try line, they need to know that we (the people and the press) will turn on them like disgruntled vampires with rabies. I’m willing to do my part. Are you?