"And now," began Nancy, every syllable perfectly formed, hair up in a bun as always for the radio, "with the time approaching 8.30, welcome to our mobile studio for It’s Noel What Knows, You Know, covering the major Gaelic games issues of the day."

And, with a provocative slowness that stopped traffic all over the country: "This week’s edition comes from Main Street, Cloyne."

The sound engineer opened the dropdown mike, and listeners heard the booming chorus from the huge crowd outside the satellite cruiser: "YES NOEL CAN – YES NOEL CAN – YES NOEL CAN."

They were all there, every race and creed, every class, make, and shape of a pilgrim: corner-backs and county board delegates, full-forwards and Fianna Failers, referees and rogues, debt collectors and descomisados (Nancy told them they’d get their death of cold, the bad night that was in it), black-and-whites of Midleton and green-and-golds of Newtown, and more besides.

The crowd segued into a round of Noel The Builder, Yes He Can, and, latterly, Noel The Fixer, Yes He Can. One roared: "Noel, be our Fat Controller and get the hurlers back on track."

I didn’t take a blind bit of notice, of course, apart from issuing what Nancy dubs my ‘Papal wave’, but a gobsmacked Donal Og Cusack muttered from behind his mountain of publications: "I heard the old people talking about you, Noel, but this is Ringy stuff. Doutcha boy. You’re up there with Ben O’Connor. Legend, man."

We had serious business to transact. I was hurling at the crossroads long before hope and history ever met there.

I never saw an Obama play for Moneygall, and there weren’t many Moneygall teams I hadn’t seen, and a lot of them only average too – something I pointed out to them just three weeks ago when I was drafted in to help their quest, successful as it happens, for this year’s Tipp. Junior championship.

America may have got its first black president, but some things weren’t going to change in Cork, unless I did something.

"Frank Murphy, you first," I started, turning to the man on my right, angelic as a contemplative nun, "would you agree Cork county board made a right royal mess of this process. Could you not have let on you were listening to John Gardiner and Donal Og, kinda style? In one ear, out the other?"

Frank lifted up a cue card with the words: No Comment – And Don’t, Under Any Circumstances, Quote Me On That.

"Surely to God, Frank Murphy, you read my first book Winning Styles of GAA Governance? A mess, therefore, Frank Murphy, of the board’s own making, agreed?"

Frank pulled another card: Talk to the hand, Noel.

I continued, not one to be brow-beaten: "But could this have been avoided with greater foresight, Frank Murphy?"

Frank’s cue-card: Gone fishin’.

"Donal Og," I continued, getting into what Nancy calls my inimitable stride, "What’s this all about? Like a good man, tell me?"

Donal Og: "One night a player had no towel to stand on after coming out of the shower. Another guy was given a Jeep Grand Cherokee – with only half a tank of juice. It had the uninhibited rush of on-road power, and the elevated sophistication, alright, but, like, it wasn’t even in his favourite colour. Incredible.

"Can you believe that? Flagrant abuse of amateurs. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, as you know yourself, Noel."

He went on in that vein to the first ad break, and right through it when the rest of us were having a cup of tea in the fist. When we came back, he was still jawing on. I could take no more.

"I’m real angry," I barked, "I’m like Loughnane listening to Cregan in ’97.

"Jawn Gardiner may have got an easy ride off Miriam O’Callaghan, Donal Og, but that’s not how Nancy and I operate.

"What is this all about? All this Vince Lombardi stuff, Zen and the Art of the Short Puck-out, rhyming couplets, alliteration, positive affirmations, mantras, assonance – I put it to you the real game here, Donal Og, is that Cork hurlers, buoyed up from nailing down the Government money through the GPA, are now actively pursuing grants from Aosdana as well.

"It’s about money-for-poetry, Donal Og. Isn’t that right?

"I say vendetta, but then I regretta, eating my bruschetta, with a girl called Loretta – yada, yada, yada. It’s pay-for-play, dime-for-rhyme, Donal Og, isn’t it?"

Nancy, sharply: "By the way, I thought Miriam’s Camogie pinafore didn’t suit her at all. Made her look frumpy. We were always told that was a complete no-no at the Colour Me Beautiful classes."

Donal Og was flummoxed. He hadn’t a word. I leaned back and enjoyed my triumph. "I’ll see you all in Fermoy in a fortnight, then. Nancy and I are reffing it," I said.

Donal Og, sheepishly: "Sound, Noel."

Frank’s card: We absolutely promise we won’t be caught not listening again, Noel.

I fixed Frank with a steely look – not for nothing does Nancy calls me ‘the steel-fixer’ – and slammed the door behind me with a loud thud. Nancy opened it again and followed me out.

There came a surge of autograph hunters. One roared "I have a dream."

Michael Moynihan, Nancy, Cathal O’Reilly, and I pucked around for a few hours in the field, and it was past midnight when Nancy beat the crowd away from the Sunny. We hit off listening to our tape of Joe Connolly’s 1980 speech, the best I’ve ever heard.

Christy Cooney rang me on the landline next morning. I warned him I wouldn’t always be around to pick up the pieces.

Noel knows the score. 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 him down on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)

Comments (0)

Subscribe to this comment's feed

Name

Title

Comment

smaller | bigger

Write the displayed characters

Add Comment