TIPPING POINT:Sport can't just exist, there will always be a shilling in it for somebody somewhere, writes MALACHY CLERKIN
IN NOVEMBER 1999, Dublin staged the MTV Europe Music Awards at the Point.
(Suggested slogan: We had joy, we had fun, we had Bjork in Ballymun.) I worked in a bar that thought itself a bit of a player on the Dublin music scene at the time, the kind of joint that got thrown into the hotchpotch of places where it was rumoured one of the celeb-filled after-parties would go down. In the week leading up to the gig, we would slyly wink and tap our noses anytime a punter came up to ask if it was true. Sworn to secrecy, bud.
But yes, absolutely.
On the night, the guest list inevitably turned out to have rather less wattage attached than had been billed. We got a couple of the Vengaboys, if memory serves. There may well have been a B*Witched girl – can’t remember if it was B* or Witched. We definitely saw the tiny Scottish TV presenter Edith Bowman knock back a tequila. But that was about the height of it.
At one point, a gaggle of young hopefuls came to the door asking the bouncers if Puff Daddy was inside. The lads on the door – hard chaws from Clondalkin who had more fun on a Saturday night than anyone they let past the rope – fell about the place.
“Sorry girls, haven’t seen him,” said Cushy. “But Duff Paddy is just gone to the jacks there.”
The girls came in anyway. Everybody did. We sardined a huge crowd into the place and whenever anyone asked if Mary J Blige was coming, we said you just missed her. But not to worry, the dude from the Fun Lovin’ Criminals is about somewhere. Swear to God.
So when the good people of the Dandelion bar got it in the neck last week for letting it be known that the city’s hurlers would be celebrating in their establishment after the Leinster final, this column felt a small pang of kinship. Only a small one, mind – after all, we weren’t fool enough back in the day to put out a press release quoting Puff Daddy himself. Or even B*Witched.
There’s a way to do these things. Putting careless words in Anthony Daly’s mouth a few days before he sends a team out to play Kilkenny is not one of those ways. In these days of message boards and social media, shovelling out a press release seems almost laughably antiquated too. Quiet words here, dropped hints there, a few posts on Hill16.ie and they’d have rustled up a crowd. By inviting the masses to a “celebration” (their word), all they did was get people’s dander up.
Still, these things happen. Always have. Heard a story during the week about the Wexford team that went to play the 1952 Leinster final against Dublin.
They were defending provincial champions, and alongside the Rackards in the side were the Flood brothers of Cloughbawn. Martin and Tim had been part of the Cloughbawn side that won county titles in ’49 and ’51 and so Martin went into the game as team captain.
That Wexford side was heading towards the apex of its popularity. Back in Cloughbawn, it was decided the Floods would put on a spread for all comers after the final. The shed where they kept the threshers on the family farm was bedecked with purple and gold, with provisions made for any and all who wanted to attend. It was an innocent attempt at a party to celebrate a team they all felt a connection to, but even so you can take a guess where this is going. Dublin 7-2 Wexford 3-6.
That was nearly 60 years ago. The thresher sheds change but people still get ahead of themselves. The difference now is that they do it to turn a buck.
As long as whole industries are based around monetising every last layer of joy to be found in sport, this kind of thing will always go on. Remember the unalloyed glee we rolled about in back in March when that Nike ad was leaked on the internet of England rugby players celebrating the Grand Slam? That’s just the Dandelion bar business dressed up in shinier clothes.
This is what happens when non-sports folk try to pitch to actual sports folk. They ignore the nuances. To a Nike ad executive with nice cufflinks and a huge knot in his tie, it makes complete sense to have the England players film an ad ahead of time. Once the Six Nations ends, the players go back to their clubs and it’s too late then, so get it in the can. And if England happen to lose and the ad somehow makes it to daylight, it’s the players who look stupid for agreeing to it.
But it’s kind of depressing all the same. Sport can’t just exist, there will always be a shilling in it for somebody somewhere. And we can accept that, but, still, you’d at least expect the shilling-hunters to do their research.
There was a Barry’s Tea ad about five or six years ago that was a particularly clunky offender. You know the one – clean-cut, über-serious footballer gets pulled aside by gnarled old gah manager in the dressingroom and told to call up to the house after training because he has something he wants to discuss. CCUSF is convinced he’s going to be dropped from the side, but team-mate beside him gives it, “But sure you’re playing better than ever!” In the end, of course, he’s made captain.
That ad was always profoundly irritating. Our man had been playing for the team for seven years, we were told. He was playing better than ever, we were told. Yet here he was, gulping hard at the thought of going to see the manager after training because he was afraid he was going to be dropped.
And we were supposed to buy the notion that this ball of nerves, this miasma of self-doubt, was captaincy material? It just didn’t chime.
Just like the notion of Anthony Daly inviting half the city to a celebration four days before the Leinster final was even played didn’t chime. Whoever came up with the idea of lashing out the press release missed a fairly important nuance, ie, if you’re going to be presumptuous, do it in a walk of life other than sport.
Next time lads, a sly wink and a tap of the nose. It’s all you need.
