Entertainment Ireland

12 November 2009 (Premiership Preview)

"I'm going to let it go to public vote": Simon Cowell reopens a wound long healed with the aul enemy when he keeps in human Cornettos, Jedward.

"You would swear the way the public service sector is being treated that their Grandparents were in the Black and Tans": Batt O Keeffe, Education Minister does his best to allay fear of strikes by channelling a unemotive source of analogy from the past.

"Ask not what your can do, but yourself that matters. I am not a saint": Finally, least embarrassing honorary Irishman, Giovanni Trappatoni looks to the future as Ireland prepare to battle with France and attempt to restore pride in Ireland.

I have knitted myself into a very tight situation. I'm fine. Stitch one. Frightened. Still alive, which is nice. Weaving my own island nightmare. Purl one. Must keep alert. Plain one. I keep channelling Major Danby in 'Catch 22.' "You'll have to keep on your toes every minute of every day. They'll bend heaven and earth to catch you." Purl two. I am the sheepishly woollen Yossarian intent on escaping from this foxhole, but also clearly aware that the F.A.I. Special Squad is still turning every table, combing every corner and clearing every field to find me. Although, let's face it, they've probably stopped for lunch and that generally takes a fortnight, so I do have time on my side. Plain two. A hairy hard-case caught between the wrath of the F.A.I. and being stuck in this den with my new friends, a motley crew of furry banditos, hell bent on cardigan carnage. Stitch two.

"You've been stitched up lad."

"Sorry, have you even been listening to me," I muttered. "I'm trying to repair the damage done by your claws. This jumper is ruined." He scuttled towards me, wielding a can of 'White Lightning' between his paws. "Here, have some of this, it'll help calm the nerves. The local T.D. swears by it. He always has a couple of pints before he goes for a drive. We've seen him and Boglin (please refer to AranMan 7) ploughing into town on that digger, ten sheets to the wind." His sharp smile rippled across his face like a Bentley grill. I was beyond platitudes at this point and replied, "Well, I find that very hard to believe, considering that I'm having this argument with a hairy little dandy sipping on strong cider." He had taken to wearing a little black waistcoat, token handkerchief poking out of breast pocket, hand watch, and spotted cravat, he had begun to resemble a pointy little mini Mick Fleetwood. "How do I know its not drugged?" I enquired, as I led the can to my lips. "You're talking to a fox, my friend. Don't worry, it doesn't get any better than this."

The fox hole that has become my home for the past week is adorned with framed pictures of Megan Fox. A bust of her face sits contented in the corner, surrounded by candles, a necklace of flowers draped on the neck, red lights for eyes and a small piece of chocolate placed in her open mouth. "What's that," I said pointing to the shrine. "That is our divine one, my friend." As he said this, he leaped off the little chair he was perched on and strode purposefully towards the statue, before rearranging the flowers on her neck. "Megan is our

 

leader, our spiritual guide and the chosen one to take us out of our underground subsistence. She will take us towards the light and no longer will we be hidden from the world." At this point he launched his paw towards her face in a Nazi like salute, then dropped to his knees, mumbling some repeated mantra low in his lips. While he knelt there humming, I looked around the hole. Most of the time I've been held captive the animals have ensured that I remain blindfolded. Today, he had a change of heart and removed my cover. I have been in the dark for most of this and, apart from the Megan Fox pictures that are lit by candlelight, I have seen very little, until now.

Amongst the detritus of woodland living and the proceeds of many smash and grab missions; mounds of broken twigs, lengths of torn fabric, old boots and shoes, loads of old boxes and containers fashioned into furniture. Hanging like a hammock in the upper corner of the hole was a large bra. This huge boulder holder looked like it's previous owner could have been Miriam O'Callaghan, the outstanding cups big enough to keep Mr. Fox's two cubs comfortable as they slept. Amongst the many bits and pieces hanging on the wall was a school

 

report belonging to none other than, legendary Leeds midfield dynamo Johnny Giles. According to his teacher, the soccer elder statesman was a, "model pupil who exudes a real honesty... John is so honest we have installed him as Head of the Tuck Shop Committee. He proved his worth last week when a little rapscallion by the name of Eamon Dunphy attempted to abscond with a packet of Mint Humbugs, a Peggy's Leg and a Pearson's Nut Roll. John saw the pupil place them in his school jacket without paying and immediately, without hesitation tackled the boy sliding a full five metres across the hall, catching the crook's ankles shattering them instantly. Needless to say Dunphy was punished for his thievery."



Most bizarre of all in this retro vault was an album of 'Greatest Hits' by our former Taoiseach, Mr. Bertie Ahern. This, previously thought lost and discarded to the bowels of hell LP, was staring me in the face. As I sat crouched against the wall and turning my head so I could read the track listing I couldn't believe how prophetic it was. "This brand new compilation," it read, "Hosts our Finance Minister as you've never seen him before. 'One Night Only at The Olympia,' is a collection of some of our favourite songs covered by Bertie in his own inimitable style." A run down of the songs says it all;

Side A
Free Money - Patti Smith
If You've Got the Money, I've Got the Time - Willie Nelson
Money Changes Everything - Cyndi Lauper
Taxman - The Beatles
How to be a Millionaire - ABC
Been Caught Stealing - Jane's Addiction

And finally my eyes fell to a small framed picture on an old box of Tayto crisps. The subject was a torso and head shot of a male in military fatigues, and holding a machine gun aloft, his face covered with a balaclava. Underneath, and etched on a small brass plaque attached to the frame was a message. "Erin Go Bragh. Keep up the fight soldier. From The Desert Fox." Oh Lord, am I now under the control of a splinter paramilitary group? I remembered the name The Desert Fox as a pseudonym for a guy called Dessie O'Hare, once described as "the most wanted man in Ireland." This gnashing Vulpes humming in the corner means business...

AranMan continues next week...

ARAN MAN'S PREDICTIONS LAST WEEK
Aston Villa v Bolton 15:00 (2 - 1)
Blackburn v Portsmouth 15:00 (2 - 0)
Manchester City v Burnley 15:00 (2 - 0)
Tottenham v Sunderland 15:00 (2 - 1)
Wolves v Arsenal 17:30 (0 - 3)
Hull City v Stoke City 13:30 (0 - 0)
West Ham Utd v Everton 15:00 (1 - 1)
Wigan v Fulham 15:00 (2 - 1)
Chelsea v Man Utd 16:00 (2 - 2)

ACTUAL RESULTS
Aston Villa v Bolton (5 - 1)
Blackburn v Portsmouth (3 - 1)
Manchester City v Burnley (3 - 3)
Tottenham v Sunderland (2 - 0)
Wolves v Arsenal (1 - 4)
Hull City v Stoke City (2 - 1)
West Ham Utd v Everton (1 - 2)
Wigan v Fulham (1 - 1)
Chelsea v Man Utd (1 - 0)

(AranMan got 4 correct this week, one better than last week's paltry 3 *shakes petty cash jar*. There's no Premiership matches on this week due to International games)

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