Sunday 20 January 2019

How I'll save hurling from 'Fifty Shades'

I'm sure some of you who are reading this are surprised at the hard line I have taken for a supposed liberal. I have changed to the far righteous because I love hurling. (Stock picture)
I'm sure some of you who are reading this are surprised at the hard line I have taken for a supposed liberal. I have changed to the far righteous because I love hurling. (Stock picture)
Billy Keane

Billy Keane

I'm pretty certain sex had to be given up in the old days. I do know weddings were banned during Lent. Definitely dances weren't allowed either by the Church.

As for me, as if anyone cares, I'm giving up Sudoku and broccoli on Wednesday. I'll probably have to check in to the Betty Ford Clinic to wean myself off.

I suppose I had better warn you all. There might be more sex in this piece, although I'm not sure after what Ryan Tubridy went through. Poor Ryan is getting a desperate mauling from the sanctimonious and the censorious. He did warn the viewers there would be steaminess. I watched 'The Late Late Show' and I thought it was harmless enough - a bit of fun.

Just a flick away was the row of the 900 channels. Busty babes were talking dirty to men with their mobile phone in one hand, at €3.43 a minute, and there wasn't a word of censure. Just a few miles away from anywhere in Ireland there are sex workers suffering. Maybe I missed something but I didn't hear anywhere about anyone writing in to RTÉ about their sorry state in our State.

'Fifty-one Shades of Grey', or whatever it's called, is on in the cinema. It should be banned for Lent. When the book came out the local builders' providers ran out of duct tape and there wasn't a blindfold to be had in town. There was an opening for a handcuff shop. And then I got this WhatsApp from someone I had been trying to contact and it said "sorry, I'm tied up at the moment".

I was going to go on Thursday night to see 'Fifty Plus One', for work, but I didn't. I would have given it a bad review anyway over the hurling. I'll get back to the hurling in a minute and it's pretty shocking too and very upsetting as well. I realise there are two ands in the one sentence but I'm too distraught to punctuate. Hurling is sacred and is the finest and purest of sports, going back to thousands of years ago in Ulster. It is the ancient game of the Gael. And wouldn't you think Ulster would be much better than all the other provinces, seeing as they got a head start of a thousand years? No Ulster team has ever won the All-Ireland Hurling. But that's not the point.

I was sort of supposed to go to write about the dirty movie but I couldn't really head in to the cinema on my own. The poet Paddy Kennelly described a village as being too small for secrets. So there I'd be in my woolly hat, trying to look inconspicuous, and men and women baten the arses off each other up on the screen with hurls or whatever it is they use to bate each other.

The cinema in Tralee is showing the movie in 3D and I'm guessing there will be vibrating seats, enhanced Dolby moaning, and body parts flying at the audience as if you were going the wrong way on the M50.

It's mostly women who are going. The women are worse than the men now that they have grown fond of sex. They weren't allowed to enjoy sex in the old days and not just at Lent. Women were just there for having babies.

Many will go home after the trip to the cinema for more of the same. Farmers will be forced to wear leather underpants with clothes pegs on their nipples, worn out from pulling calves in the appendage-shrivelling cold of February, dead of night.

Everyone here is under suspicion. Didn't I see a woman buying a fly swatter in the hardware shop? There are no flies in February. So I ask if the swatters are on sale. Like as in when Christmas decorations are on offer in the days after Christmas. "There are no sales in swatters…ever," said the shop assistant, suspiciously. I hope she doesn't think I'm a bottom slapper.

And watch out too for people in pet shops who don't own pets. It seems some of the followers of Chris Grey like to wear dog collars in bed and are brought for walkies on a lead. Where will it all stop? The next thing is they'll be buying up lampposts. And what fun is there in baten people anyway? Or tickling them with feather dusters? Or licking chocolate off bodies - aren't you supposed to be off the sweets for Lent? And ruining the TV reception during big matches with portable pleasuring devices?

I'm sure some of you who are reading this are surprised at the hard line I have taken for a supposed liberal. I have changed to the far righteous because I love hurling. The clash of the ash when two hurls break like jousting lances in an All-Ireland final is the sound-surround of the elemental and holy game. Every sceptred timber splinter is a sacred relic from the true hurl in The Land of the Gael.

The sacrilege was committed by a man who played the game at the highest level. He has been turned. The former hero is now an adult changeling. His holy-hurling soul was stolen by the pernicious literature and the 3D cinematic imagery of despicable decadence. The hurler was a man among men. He won Celtic Crosses so he did. Ate bacon and cabbage. Drank porter. Played 25. He had a belly once for 15 years.

We got to talking about the ancient game of the Gael. And do you know what he said? I can barely write with the sorrow wailing inside of me, worse even than that endured by The Children of Lir and the Mayo football team. The hurler said: "I would prefer the sound of a wet bedroom slipper on a bare arse to the clash of the ash."

I have decided to found a Society for the Preservation of the Missionary Position. SPOMP - a sort of An Taisce for sex - will save Ireland, 'The Late Late', and hurling. So get SPOMPing all through the 42 days of Lent and longer.

And if you're into sex games, well what's wrong with the traditional Irish past-times like spin the bottle and jumping off the wardrobe on to a cushioned porter belly?

Irish Independent

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