Rioters leave me feeling cheated, looted even

GAA: HE'S COUNTY - A WARTS AND ALL DIARY FROM INSIDE THE CAMP:HER NAME was Andrea and, like every UK PR woman who ever called me, she managed to make "hello, Rod" sound like a come-on. "Hello Rod," she said, lingering on the d, "are you in a position to take a call, or will I try you later?" The way she uttered those words, it sounded like she had come straight from recording Now That's What I Call Double Entendre.

I braced myself for the inevitable “our client is a major European brand name trying to bump up its presence in the Irish market, and our sources say you are a leading figure in the Gaelic football world, and we’d like to talk to you about possibly having you as one of the faces of the campaign blah blah blah . . . ” I could see it all unfold in front of me. Two long ones up front, in sterling thank you very much, a day photo-shoot up in Dublin, and wear their gloves for the next year.

But there came a twist. “Our client is a large automobile manufacturer” – she named them, but you know yourself what the Times are like about that kind of thing – “and the deal would involve you availing of a courtesy vehicle for the next year.” And then she named the car and asked if I was anywhere near my PC. I was.

She emailed a link. Mother of God. Oh, mother of God. Words fail me. Take ‘flash’, multiply it by a thousand, and you’re edging close to the right stratosphere.

“Would you be okay with that clause?” she said.

If she’d asked me to crawl on my hands and knees to the photoshoot, I’d have agreed. “Let’s see,” I replied, coolly.

“The only problem is that we’re working on a tight timeframe, we are doing the photoshoot next Tuesday. You see, and I hope you don’t take offence here, but we had a player from the county Cork” – ‘korhk, as she massaged, rather than pronounced, it – “team but it seems they’re out of the cup early this year, is that right, so we’ve changed our plans.” Take offence? I’ll just take the keys. We did the deal. Three long ones.

Sweet.

“Name the time and place, and I’ll be there,” I replied.

Time was 7.30am. Place was Dublin Airport and a flight to London. The Cúl Camps would just have to go without.

The itinerary arrived Friday evening. Not exactly a who’s who of Irish sport, but pretty impressive all the same. A Premier League player who struggles to make benches for pre-season friendlies; a rugby head hoping to get the call-up for New Zealand; and some female runner whose name I hadn’t heard before, but who showed up pretty well in the google images search.

But, if we weren’t bringing turf to the bog, there was certainly some fresh sods at the far end. “The photoshoot will take place in conjunction with the English beach volleyball team, who will be in London for a 2012 warm-up game. You will appear only in swimming gear, which we will provide. If you incur any preparatory costs (fake tan, hairdressing, etc) please bring receipts with you and we will reimburse you on the day.”

Google images got another hammering. I dialled straight into the message minder of our esteemed manager – he still hasn’t copped that one – and told him I’d miss the Tuesday night speed session due to a family engagement.

Saturday, dropped into Jenny from the Blocks hairdressers. She did a super job on the hair. “What about a wax job on the legs, Rod?” she asked.

Before I know it, she was tearing strips off me. She nearly took the thigh tat and all. Home for lathers of Florida Gold, and Sunday morning, in front of the full-length mirror in my room, I looked a million dollars, if I did say so myself.

The phone rang. “Hello Rod,” but there was no sultriness in Andrea’s voice this time. “I’m really sorry, and I hope this doesn’t disappoint you.” She sounded like a young one trying to muster up the courage to break it off with her boyfriend, and half-hoping he’ll cut in and turn the gun on himself, to save her the hassle. “I can’t compromise the safety of any of our people.”

London rioters, I hope you’re happy now. Young people in sports clothes behaving badly denied me the opportunity to behave badly without any sports clothes on.

And so Tuesday, instead of bigging it up with Zara Dampney (go on, google image her yourself, we may as well all suffer together), I was in Páirc Mac Dreary, wire to wire, orange as Holland, and enduring wolf whistles and “ooooh, smooth pins, Rod” from the lads.

A Kilkenny hurler will get the car now. “We’ve put the photoshoot back a fortnight, and apparently Kilkenny are certainly to last that long, whereas your team is more of a 50-50 shot,” explained Andrea.

So Mr Kilkenny will be one of the ‘helmets of the campaign’. He’s so anonymous that his own mother walks by him on the street.

I’ve nothing to show for it all, except Andrea’s number. I google imaged her. Disappointed, obviously. I hadn’t the heart to claim for the hair, wax and tan.

A bad, bad week. I feel cheated. Looted, even.