With the rebranding of David Beckham, via a swift immersion in American popular culture and a transfer to Real Madrid, it's perhaps time to examine the image of An Irishman's Diary. Is it relevant to young people?
Does it say anything to the youth culture of today? Fortunately, your current diarist is fully aware of the need for a thorough personal rebranding.
We're not quite ready for Real Madrid yet, nor even Barcelona. But even David Beckham began at the bottom. So we are in consultation with Longford Town, where we expect to sign on soon. After a few weeks on the dole there, we hope to get a job cleaning boots in that shimmering palace of incendiary young males which is Longford Town FC Stadium, Burn-a-Boy.
It is of course inevitable that a young football star in the throbbing megalopolis of football that is Longford will attract young female admirers, who are After Just One Thing. I've been warned to watch out for Biddie McGrath, who tends to cut loose on pension day, and I'm told that hostelries for miles around close on the day of the Legion of Mary Ladies' annual outing, the owners locking up their sons and withdrawing to the roofs with shotguns.
No doubt Biddy and I can come to some amicable arrangement over her underwear. As yet, I have been unable to interest Paris Soir, Vogue or Anna Wintour in photographic rights of myself in Biddy's thong; but no doubt they are holding off, hoping to get a better deal on what is positively my last offer, a world photographic exclusive: a series of pictures of me in Biddy's bloomers, me with Biddy's hose-stockings, and me with Biddy's teeth - €1 the set. Very well, I will accept 50 cents. All right, going free.
My exclusive deal with Biddy doesn't mean I can't pose with groups. I was - alas! - unable to join the Longford Legion of Mary in its nude protest for peace some time ago, but I was with them in spirit. Perhaps we can exchange a few tips about hair. Braiding for me is (strangely) not so easy as it once was, and still is for David Beckham; but perhaps we might all go in for a nice tight perm, say - after, of course, one of those utterly convincing walnut dyes that at a certain age you girls seem to go in for.
With no disrespect for Longford Town, in the longer term my horizons stretch beyond that riparian jewel beside the River Camlin. My agent, Seamus Slither of that famous company of theatrical promoters Slyme, Sleaze & Slynke, assures me that there is considerable interest in my services in the glamour clubs of Nobber, Bohola and Dripsey. Of course, when asked by members of the fourth estate about my future regarding such places, I withhold my counsel with a small supercilious smirk, brushing an invisible speck of dust from my irreproachable Mechlin cuffs.
There is also a question of endorsements. I do not feel the time is quite right for me to set about smashing David Beckham's relationship with Adidas and Pepsi Cola. However, there are on-going talks concerning Biddy's home-made corn pads, and these in the longer term might prove productive; but they are Biddy's, she wears them still, and I personally feel their worldwide marketing potential is limited.
The same goes for her plimsolls, which she was given on her 21st birthday at around the time of the Mother and Child Scheme. They're in good nick - just a few holes here and there - and would be perfectly serviceable after a steam cleaning and a boiling in disinfectant and deodorant for a couple of hours. Whether they would sell in Barcelona is, however, open to doubt.
Now for the drinks endorsement. Both Coca Cola and 7-Up are playing hard to get. That's all right. Seamus assures me that this is usual in the endorsement business. Biddy's cousin Pa, in the meantime, has given me a small promotional opportunity, selling chocolate and "minerals" (as we in the trade say) from a pram at the Listowel fleadh. It's a tempting offer, I have to say, because the career opportunities which could result are diverse indeed.
So, I could take the cultural route which would inevitably open up once my dancing skills had been discovered, and thus could set myself up as a rival to Michael Flatley. And my beguiling tenor voice, which would inevitably be revealed in a late night seisiún - there's no holding me after a couple of Britvics - would inevitably propel me to displace Domingo in the Three Tenors concert before the World Cup Final. Or I could simply find my way there by staying loyal to my true self and becoming a soccer superstar.
These are challenging times for those of us in the heart of popular culture. Which way do I go? Bohola? Termonfeckin? Dripsey? And what about Biddy's cousin Resumpta? She has offered me her basque to pose in. Do I say yes to Resumpta and no to Biddy? And then there's the Longford Legion of Mary? Do I pose with them in the nude for peace, or with Ballybunion Opus Dei?
The worst thing about all this is the pressure of being a celebrity. You have no idea. Only Posh and Becks and Naomi and Calista and Bruce and Arnold and Madonna and Leonardo have a clue what I'm talking about. Ah. You see. Now I have a headache coming on. Please. I would be alone. . .