Sunderland Football Club, Roy Keane, Niall Quinn, and the various nouveau celebrities of the Irish Cricket Team. I salute thee on your relatively moderate levels of success thus far. I also genuinely wish you all the best of luck in the future. Pride is deserved. Decorum advisable, and so far applied.
General public of Ireland. Explain the following... Chartered Aer Arann flights to Newcastle? Roy Keane now being unable to fart without it making the Irish Examiner? Cricket pitches being proposed for Tallaght and Shannon? Roysh on man, loike. Totally.
Perspective? Thou be a fickle mistress.
The bandwagon explodes into the distance in a cloud of dust. The New(ish) Journalism is silenced by a mindless cacophony of hooting and hollering... Mexican waves engulf the Stadium of Light... Junkets empty the Golden Vale of shareholders and syndicates, for these are the days of New Rome, rejoicing in a maelstrom of mid-table mediocrity (at best)... Cricket bats are plentiful amongst the young of Tallaght... All the while, The New(ish) Journalism stands idly by, his bodhrán in hand. A meek Banner Roar teases up from his toes. "We're no longer the whipping boys of Munster." A wry smile crosses his face. He turns his back on the cloud, now a mere speck on the horizon.