He's our Paddy! He's not your Paddy.
Published 08/05/2013 | 05:00
When it comes to golf and, indeed, Rory McIlroy, I operate a system of benign indifference – if there is nothing else on the telly I'd probably watch them, but that would be the extent of it.
And I suspect that most of us who aren't golf nuts feel pretty much the same way – it's a perfectly pleasant walk in the park which is, according to those in the know, completely addictive.
And as for McIlroy? Well, he displays the ruthless, unforgiving demeanour of a winner – something that is all too often mistaken for rudeness by stupid people – and everyone I know wishes him nothing but the best.
As long as he declares for us for the Olympics, of course.
But there are other issues. Adding yet another professional sport to the Olympics is a further defilement of the corpse of the Games.
Despite the success of last year's London event, the reputation of the Games seems to fall with every tournament and the introduction of professional sports such as tennis and football (to name but two) have further destroyed its spirit – and golf will surely just add to that cheapening of the brand.
Let's put it this way, 99pc of those who will take part have geared their entire lives towards Rio. Every moment of their day – every time they get up at 4 in the morning to do those lonely, cold laps in the pool or the hard, winter yards in freezing, unheated gyms they do for one thing – the dream of the Olympics. Not for the money. Not for the fame. Just to be there.
How many footballers would rather win the Olympics over the World Cup? If you're Andy Murray would you pick the Olympics over Wimbledon? Come to think of it, would the average golfer have gone to bed at night dreaming of the Masters or the Olympics?
Which brings us back to the whole McIlroy mess, which was amped up last week when he said he wouldn't be representing Ireland in the forthcoming golf World Cup.
According to some people who should know better, McIlroy is just a West Brit, Prod (he is neither) who played amateur and under-age with Ireland and therefore he somehow owes a debt of loyalty and the Brits have no right to claim him as one of their own . . .
Really? Because if ever there was a nation that was expert at exploiting any link no matter how tenuous and, frankly, embarrassing (Obama, anyone? or God helps us, the tragic procession of Muhammad Ali through the streets of Ennis) to the auld sod then it is surely the Irish themselves.
But as ever I have a solution. You wanna jeer McIlroy? That's your choice. But at least be consistent – so I presume the next time you watch Ireland in a World Cup qualifier, you'll boo and jeer James McLean, Marc Wilson and James McCarthy? Or, when he returns, Darron Gibson? Shane Duffy when he makes the senior breakthough? All the other Republic players who came up through the ranks – and were trained by – other countries?
Kinda hard to put a 'hands off' sticker around McIlroy when we seem to be hoovering up every half-decent footballer from the Six Counties and Scotland, don't you think?
Well, I never heard the likes. . .
So, kids today, eh? This is the moment where you're meant to sigh out of the side of your mouth, roll your eyes in resignation and simply declare that you despair for the future.
Now a new report into the attitudes of young people in Britain has held its hands up in horror.
The researchers have concluded that young people a) want money for doing nothing; b) object to hard work and unsocial hours and; c) feel that if they do have a boss, then they should be left alone to express themselves.
As you can imagine for a second, this has caused much hand-wringing about the state of modern youth.
But hang on for a second – today's young people want to stay in bed all day, arse about without a care in the world while receiving money for nothing and watching the telly all day?
Truly the youth of today are wise in their ways.
We have much to learn from them . . .
Oh, what's the phrase again?
Look, I know we weren't meant to laugh and all, but you have to admit, yer man John Dickinson sounds like he'd be a bit of a laugh over a pint. He's the guy who made something like £50m selling a device that found landmines.
Except it didn't. In fact, it was meant to find golf balls. And it wasn't even very good at that.
He has since been condemned as one of those mean and nasty heartless cases who makes money from war zones.
And remember the name of the group that bought a load of these – the UN. Yup, the UN spent millions on . . . a plastic toy that costs 20 pence to make. And we are meant to fund and trust this squalid, cynical disgusting organisation?
Frankly, I'd scrap the whole thing and start again with a loosely 'Western' organisation that requires strict democratic stress tests before being allowed entry, but that's being racist, apparently.
I bought a toy replica of an assault rifle at a county fair last summer. When it didn't fire the plastic bullets the way the guy running the stall had assured me it would, I deserved everything I got because I hadn't checked it myself.
So, tough cheese on me for buying something that didn't work. Hey UN, here's a new phrase for you: Caveat Emptor.
They sure about that?
I'm glad Boston bomber Tamerlan Tsarnaev is dead. I'm sure you are too.
In fact, the only regret is that he didn't die before he carried out his act and once his brother has given up all useful information then I doubt anyone will really care if he is never seen again, either.
But the liberal American Left – some circles of which had been openly hoping that those responsible for the attack were white, home-grown males – continues in its struggle to prove to everyone that they still have the market on compassion – even for bombers.
Bostonians should not celebrate Tamerlan's death, one commentator said, because: "He is still some mother's son."
Well, having seen his mother, Zubeidat, rant and rave on camera about her sons' innocence, all the while being an Islamic extremist who calls for Jihad, I'm going to guess that Tamerlan's lawyers don't call the Ma as a witness for the defence . . .
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