Christmas night, I had Nancy on the ropes with a flurry of jabs to the body, and wanted to finish the job, but the phone rang.

Reluctantly, I paused the fight. It was the club chairman. "Noel," he explained, "Mary Kirby is home from Fran Sancisco, and wants to play in the Marrieds v Singles tomorrow.

"She has a friend home, a Dublin girl, and she’s wondering if she could play too." I replied: "Didn’t we often have guest players?"

The chairman broke the real news: "They want to play for the Marrieds. They’re Mrs and Mrs since a September trip to the Caribbean.

"What’ll we do? You know what the Kirbys are like.

"That crack over the piece of ground from the Land Commission. The row with the school. Dangerous crowd. Anti-everything. They’d go on Joe Duffy in a shot."

Nancy fainted, before recovering to make me a gammon and marmalade sandwich. "Noel," she asked, "what are you going to do?"

I couldn’t call it off due to a waterlogged pitch, this being the driest Christmas in decades. No-one of note had died either. Ever since I devastated them in Ballybore District Court with the CCTV footage, the boy racers haven’t dared to even think about doing doughnuts on the pitch again.

I knew this could be the death knell for our noble St Stephen’s Day tradition. Once, when I was single, a motion was passed to allow me play for the Marrieds, struggling after seven consecutive defeats. Nancy drew a mean stroke as I powered through the middle, and the incident left a frisson of tension in the early days of our courtship.

Somewhere during the wee hours, I awoke. Walked to the pitch. Sat in the memorial stand. Pondered the Kirby affair.

Nancy arrived with a bowl of porridge. I remained in deep contemplation.

If we tolerate this, I wailed. A high-profile figure like myself could not be seen to establish a dangerous precedent. Same Sex Unions were a political hot potato and my every move would be monitored closely.

But, equally, I knew if I weren’t careful, the Kirbys would be onto Claire O’Sullivan and I’d be lampooned be on the front of the Examiner under ‘Noel on controversial solo-run as happy couple get red card in Ballybore."

Then the usual, wearying rigmarole of Matt Cooper, Cathal McCoille and he trying to let on he knows something about hurling, Arthur Murphy, the lot. I’d done it all before, a thousand times, and always held my own, of course. But I couldn’t fight this battle in my usual uncompromising way.

The Noel Nous, as Walter P McMorrow often labelled it, was required now.

And then, just before dawn, it came to me. Like a blinding flash. I made a few phonecalls, and found that certain issues were mired in doubt. Ever the strategist, I pounced.

I telephoned the Kirbys and re-assured the mother that, of course, Ballybore GAA Club would be delighted to have Mary and her wife on the Marrieds team. "As welcome as the first flowers of spring," I told her.

"Noel," she exclaimed ecstatically, "the girls were worried. Not everyone around here is as enlightened as your good self."

We soft-talked for a few minutes before I played my trump card. "Teresa," I said, "give me Mary’s wife’s name and their address in California.

"Walter P McMorrow will give this a write-up. With the internet, the American media will definitely pick up on it in a big way. It’d be a lovely bit of publicity for them, and for Ballybore too to be seen to lead the way in this unprecedented matter."

She fell silent. There was shuffling in the background before, finally, she answered:

"Noel," she said, "the girls are just saying here, the fine, fresh day that’s in it, they might drive to the Cliffs of Moher instead, but they’re very thankful for all you did to get them clearance, maybe next year instead."

Mrs Kirby said she would even make a donation of €50 to the club for the spirit of Christian tolerance we had shown.

"How did you manage it, Noel?" the chairman asked, as we put out the flags yesterday afternoon. I fixed him with a withering look, before replying:

"The old saying, don’t reach for the honey without smoking the hive – and you don’t go on Jay Leno without a green card. Even a brazen Kirby knows when to pull in her horns."

We had a mighty St Stephen’s Day game. Last night, Nancy and I resumed our duel.

A volley to the ribs, two to the chest, and then, the coup de grace, the vicious uppercut to her chin, and down she went like an empty sack.

"A mighty yoke, that Wii," she shrieked.

I reminded her I owed her that trimming since a Stephen’s Day battle ago, and we laughed before wiring into each other again.

NEXT WEEK: Noel reveals the secret programme that has ensures Ballybore children are born at the right time for under-age. The January, If You Can At All programme has served the club well. Noel can delay births due from November 14th onwards. As we speak, Eileen McCabe is three weeks overdue with twins. Can Noel swing it?

Noel believes in winning in style. Or any way at all, in a tight corner. Email him at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; or track his runs on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)

Comments (0)

Subscribe to this comment's feed

Name

Title

Comment

smaller | bigger

Write the displayed characters

Add Comment