The bitter is back

UUUUUUGGGHH, I may as well just get this over and done with. I've been putting it off for days now but have finally summoned the will to recall the details of a rough period for The Hoge, starting with our losing the big final and finishing with Yours Truly lying unconscious in a blistering hot shower.

Having always been a competitive sort I've never taken losing well, but last weekend's loss really was a particularly vengeful square kick in the scrotum. In hindsight we probably got a little too anticipatory about the game - the evidence of that can be seen in the previous post - and it led to more than a little stage fright on the day.

This might sound strange coming from someone who bleeds Bruff yellow and only joined the Vancouver Rowers a few months ago but I was as keen as any long standing member of the club to win the game. 15-10 isn't a shameful scoreline by any stretch of the imagination but we should have won, plain and simple.

In fairness though, it was the first final the club had reached in over 10 years, thanks in part to the injection of no less than six Limerick lads to the squad. The above photo of the Shannonside contingent was taken at a club dinner the night of the final at which we were regularly reminded that there was always room for more Limerick players. Obviously they said it would be best if such players had learned their trade with Bruff but they would also kindly accept those who hadn't had such privileges in life.

A few days after the game, I emerged from the cranky dark hole in which I'd been dwelling and decided to go for a run so as to sweat out some of the excess and abuse of the previous weekend. The only problem with trying to sweat anything out in Vancouver in December though is that the temperature rarely ventures above freezing at any point in the day.

Looking back on it, going for a run wearing shorts and a long sleeved shirt with the temperature several degrees under zero displayed about as much intelligence as wearing nothing but sun cream. At no point during that hideous half an hour did my teeth stop chattering and when my feeble brain started to throb with the cold I realised that a lively pelt home was necessary.

I stood in the shower at home for twenty minutes doing my best impression of a violently shaking Kango drill as my bones thawed. Since my whole body had been numbed by the cold, I had opted only to turn on the hot tap in the hope of feeling returning that bit quicker to my frozen body. Bad idea.

Apparently I fainted as a result of hypertension, which occurred because of blood rushing back too quickly to my extremities as the almost boiling water heated them up. All I know is that I woke up on the floor with a bump on my forehead and the jets coming from the shower burning a layer off my now defrosted back.

Naturally I've taken to wearing several layers if I so much as poke my nose outside the door after that delightful episode.

It's a good thing too because the sub-zero temperatures mean there ain't much grass growing round here so my job title has changed from landscaper to ice-salter/snow clearer necessitating a 4am rise. God be with the days when I'd saunter into the Leader half conscious at 9 in the morning.

Like I said, it's been a rough few days but I must say there is some comfort in the familiarity of recovering my bitterness at the same time. Being content in myself was all well and good but what am I really without my whinge?

It's good to be back folks.

Pondering Finals Past

THIS weekend I will play in a cup final for the first time since I was just emerging from the spotty, cranky throes of puberty.

Unexpectedly, for this final I won't be donning the beautiful and well chosen yellow and wine colours of Bruff (although I won't be the only Bruffian playing) but instead the red, black and white of the Vancouver Rowing Club - which in Canada passes for the name of a rugby club.

And this week, while anticipating the Lower Mainland final, my mind has wandered back to my previous big final days back home in Limerick.

I'm almost sure that my first sporting final was in Croom at an Under 10s hurling tournament with South Liberties. It was memorable for us losing and my accidentally smacking our opponent's captain on the chin with the boss of my hurley during the clash. After the game, I tried to apologise to him for it as he showed his teammates the cup but he told me to get lost. Even at nine years-of-age I had a capacity for sourness that made me wish at the time that I'd cracked his chin into several pieces, thereby preventing his petulant reponse.

After that less than savoury introduction to cup finals, there were a few barren years but a team on which I featured once again climbed to the summit at Under 13s, this time in the oval ball code. For many years, Newport had been the bane of our young lives such was their dominance in our particular grade of underage rugby. That's what made it all the sweeter when we beat them in the North Munster Cup Final in Thomond Park.

I can still see our centre celebrating with his hand in the air even before he crossed the chalk after intercepting a Newport pass on the half way line. Even more clearly can I remember one of our player's parents roaring at him from the sideline to stop such classless carry-on as it was Thomond Park he was playing in and not Old Trafford.

The following year brought with it another final day, this time once again in hurling but unlike the Croom catastrophe, this time Liberties emerged victorious. There were however parental remonstrations again on this occasion however as we celebrated our win in the Klinsmann style that was fashionable with jackass 14-year-olds at the time. It was hugely disrespectful to the jersey, we were told, to cover it in muck by sliding along the ground, especially seen as the celebration had originated from a bloody soccer player.

Our Bruff team returned to Thomond Park again the next year for an Under 15s cup final showdown with Richmond but there was to be no repeat of our Under 13s heroics as we crumbled to the boot of one Wayne Murphy who could have dissected the posts with a kick taken from one of the ground's toilet cubicles that day.

Certainly there have been other finals since then that I have been involved in but on every occasion it has been as a splinter arsed substitute. That won't be the case this Saturday however when I'm hoping I'll be able to bring a bit of that Bruff Under 13s and South Liberties Under 14s luck to proceedings.

A Happy Hoge

O GOD I really am in quite a lot of pain. We played a bruising, muddy, bloody semi-final today against the University of British Columbia, one of the two teams that had managed to beat us in this season's league stages.

And while it never feels too delightful to have your back look like a crossword that's been filled in with a blood-red biro, it certainly feels all the better right now, knowing that we won the game and can look forward to a league final in a few weeks time. Having a bucketful of liquor in me at this stage also helps with the pain.

In a way, today's result was almost predicable in its sweetness. It's a happy Hoge you find writing to you this evening/morning folks. Don't get me wrong; I derive about as much fun from my current landscaping career as I would from an unanesthetised castration with a rusty scissors but life for me at the moment is undoubtedly good.

For the first time in a few years I'm starting for a rugby team, and while I've managed to hold on to my knack for throwing lineouts with the accuracy of a blind baboon, I'm actually playing well for the most part.

After a fortnight of heavy snowfall, the ski slopes can now be seen snaking their way down the mountains surrounding Vancouver. I've also spent a good share of my wages on a snow board and other gear so it shouldn't be too long before I'm making a complete tit of myself by travelling exclusively on my arse down a few of said slopes. I can't wait.

I have another reason for being happy too but it would be remiss of me to say anything more at this point than I have encountered a member of the fairer sex who can stand more than a few consecutive minutes of my company and who has had me smiling more often than not lately.

Happy people make for boring writers, I reckon, so you'll have to excuse me if this posting comes across as a little dull. Hopefully I'll have something to be bitter about again soon.

Canada, Episode 11; A band of renegade Shannonsiders

Right. Reason number one that I have been missing from the blogosphere these last few weeks has been that I have joined a renegade band of Shannonsiders that are currently seizing control of a rugby club here in Vancouver.

Between us we have managed to take the club from rank of bottom feeders last year to table-toppers this year.

No less than five of our team's panel of players hail from Limerick and on one occasion all five have started on the same side for the club. Last week we won our last game of the league stages - which encompasses clubs in Vancouver and the surrounding areas - which means we finished in first place. Because we finished first we get a bye this week and the semi finals take place next weekend.

Normally I refrain from using actual names here for fear of retribution, litigation and humiliation but on this occasion I don't think there's any shaming in naming.

So for the record, the famous five who have instilled a bit of Limerick grit into Vancouver rugby are Darren Harris, Ronan Pigott, John-Mark Griffin, Barry Laffan (a fellow Bruffian) and yours Truly.

Vancouver Rowers Club. You're welcome.

Lafino makes his first media appearance

Four months I've been here, hunting out a job in journalism, desperate to feel that familiar ego massage that comes with seeing your name in print. All to no avail.

And then just to add a bag of salt to an already gaping, gangrenous wound, my fellow Bruffian Lafino makes an appearance in the local media before me.

There he is poking his head up from the back of the scrum against Capilanos RFC as seen in last weekend's North Shore news. Meanwhile my head is still stuck inside the sweaty, smelly boiler room that is the front row where no photographer will ever find me.

Life just isn't fair sometimes.

Shame on us

Jody has a bit of a rant today about 'plastic fans' which I don't agree with 100% but is still worth a look.

Much worse than the plastic fans that Jody is bemoaning however are these buffoons who have decided they are going to do all they can to spite Leinster by selling their match tickets and accommodation bookings to Leicester fans for the Heineken Cup final. Seriously, grow up.

This story appeared in the Leader today as well as a few others and it really gets on my tits to see this (hopefully) minority of Munster fans giving the rest of us a bad name.

Surely, Munster supporters can appreciate better than anyone else how much winning on Saturday must have meant to Leinster. Having said that, even those of us who empathise most with our Blue-blooded Eastern cousins' joy on Saturday probably still can't really imagine how good it must have felt.

Because, you see, even during our darkest days on the roller coaster ride that has been following Munster, we could almost always console ourselves with the fact that what we had achieved, Leinster could only dream of.

And it was as comforting as a hug from your mammy to know that even though we may have crashed out of the H-Cup in heartbreaking fashion, Leinster's exit always seemed that bit more shameful.

Munster lose the final? Don't worry Leinster didn't get out of their group.

Munster lost the semi final? Sure at least we're not Leinster getting hammered in the quarters.

Remember when we lost to Toulouse in a tightly fought semi-final in France in 2003? Well I can still recall the soothing feeling I got the next day when Leinster completely and utterly flopped against an unfancied Perpignan side that had brought a mini bus-load of supporters to Lansdowne Road. It just didn't seem so bad when we were knocked out in a gallant fashion at least.

Well, just as I drew consolation from Leinster collapsing in such spectacular annual fashion, for my Leinster counterparts, it must have been a regular source of temple-busting fury.

Which must have made the weekend all the more satisfying for them. Yes because it was us they were finally getting a Heineken Cup victory over after so many years of bridesmaiding but also because, they're much maligned but undoubtedly talented team finally delivered when every variable, pundit and odd seemed so stacked against them.

Leinster have suffered enough for the love of Buddha and besides, the Heineken Cup needs a variety of winners to stay attractive. If anything they've done us a favour because if I know Munster there should be a mother-in-law of a backlash come the start of next season.

The boys in blue deserve their European final and I bloody hope they win it because players as good as Brian O'Driscoll, Luke Fitzgerald and Gordon Darcy deserve to have Heineken Cup medals to their name when their career ends.

Most of all, they deserve our support because we, more than anyone else, should know how they will feel if they do emerge victorious in the final. Shame on us if we can't grant them that much.

Some housekeeping

A FEW matters have arisen over the last few days, that need tending to before I go any further.

As I've said before, I'm leaving and there's nothing you can do about it. I announced my departure to Canada a while back right here on The Spot and within minutes of the posting, a gent calling himself 'chaoloughlin' left a comment, offering to answer any questions I may have prior to my departure for Vancouver.

He turned out to be a fellow Bruff-ite (although one whose acquaintance I hadn't yet made) and an absolute gentleman to boot who has already been a great help. He may well regret having offered his expertise, however, after I spend the next three weeks besieging him with wave after wave of the same banal, mind-numbing questions.

Anyway, I just thought it warranted mentioning. It's soul-warming to get the odd reminder that not everyone is a clueless, self-server with their cranium permanently situated in their rectum.

Speaking of which.

At the start of the month I posted my Lions XV and while it may not have been everybody's cup of Bovril, it was reasonably well received by the diverse barstool-pundit brigade in Limerick. Looking back on it there's definitely a few changes I'd have to make (Wally in, Martyn Williams out) but one decision I certainly wouldn't change is my selection of Stephen Ferris at six.

After a Six Nations that put him on to several Teams of the Season, nobody found it surprising that I would pick the barstorming Ulsterman on the flank. Nobody, that is, until scottishpride voiced his displeasure in the comments section on the post this week.

"you dont know what you are on about, stephen ferris shouldnt be in the squad let alone the starting line up, cwatson, s.burger, j.smith, k.kankowski and peirre spies would absolutly nail him, he wouldnt stand a chance out there."

Even without the ridiculous name (apparently you can take pride in being a poor man's Ireland), scottishpride would still seem to be from the loony strain of toons.

How anyone watching Ferris in action in the Six Nations could possibly think he is anything other than a Lions frontrunner is beyond even my simple mind.

Even those viewing with absolutely no knowledge of the game would have told you he was clearly one of the best backrowers in Europe.

Even a monk from the Gelug school of Tibetan Buddhism who has spent the last 50 years massaging the Dalai Lama's corns and emerged to see his first ever game of rugby this February would say;


"Hory Shit! He's got the Rions jersey in the bag!"


Perhaps scottishpride would have preferred if one of the Scottish backrow made the tour, bringing the nation's entire Lions representation up to three. Not even your fellow Scotsman (and Lions head coach) Ian McGeechan would agree with you though.

Kiwi Golf

WHAT with the weather being so nice and my departure from these shores growing ever closer, myself, Coynie, McGoo and The Kiwi decided we'd try something new and take on a round of golf.

Being under the age of 40 and still somewhat able-bodied, it's rare enough that our crew would go on such an excursion. However, through a bit of dumb luck the Kiwi had gotten us a free round at a beautiful course just about three quarters of an hour away from Limerick.

While walking through the city in his flip flops, shorts and T-Shirt (as is a New Zealander's wont on a freezing cold Irish afternoon) The Kiwi was stopped by another native of the Land of the Long White Cloud.

"You know you'd pass for a New Zealander," said the lady.
"That's because I am a New Zealander," replied our Kiwi.
"O well, if you're looking for work or just a free round of golf then you should come out to XXXXXXX golf course, my boyfriend's the green keeper there," said she.
"Alright then I will." said he.

So just like that - in an economic climate where the average Irish person would accept 10 cent an hour for a job taste-testing septic tanks - The Kiwi had managed to get a free round of golf and a feckin' job to boot. As if taking (although sampling is probably a better word) our women wasn't bad enough, now the foreigner had started robbing our jobs and free golf rounds also.

But all was forgiven on Saturday morning when The Kiwi told us he'd booked us all in for a 3.15 tee-off time at the course. Coynie agreed to drive and just as we left our lair, The Kiwi said that we'd to stop at the shop for provisions.

A bottle of water, a few bananas, maybe even some sun cream given the weather. These were the things we expected our resident New Zealander had meant by "provisions". What we didn't realise is that what he actually required was 18 cans of Budweiser which he intended on us drinking as we played.

"Well how do you play it here then?" he asked upon hearing the gasps and seeing our expressions, as he struggled to fit all that canned fun into our golf bags.

But being the sorts that are open to new experiences however, we said we'd give The Kiwi's different, more rock star-ish approach to golf a go. Being the disgruntled designated driver, Coynie didn't speak much on the way out while the three of us got the party started.

Now before you go thinking we made an absolute disgrace of ourselves on the course, hollering abuse at other (paying) golfers, climbing the trees and defecating in the holes, don't worry.

While we may have gotten a few funny looks, adorned as we were in flip-flops, bruff rfc warm up t-shirts and occasionally putting with just one hand because the other was holdin a can of Bud, the feathers at the course remained relatively unruffled.

I'd recommend Kiwi Golf though. It mightn't make you the most accurate or well-mannered player in the world but it certainly livens up the sodding game.

Keith Earls arrested

Don't worry, our boy wonder hasn't resorted to a career of crime just yet. This is pretty hilarious and realistic looking though. Make sure to maximise the page when it opens so it can be read.

Click here for the funniness.






Update: For some reason, the text and link on this post wasn't showing up when you came on to the site. I've had a word in Mr Blogspot's ear this morning though and I think the problem has been remedied.

The Hoge's Lions XV

Right, I've been thinking on this one for a while.

Seeing as I eat, sleep, breathe, write and occasionally even play rugby with the best yellow and wine-jersey'd club in the country, I feel a weight of expectation on my shoulders when it comes to predicting my Lions XV.

Obviously no such expectation lies with Mr Chalkboard, however, who sees rugby as a town in Warwickshire first, and a sport second.

Viewing his Lions selection gives a whole new meaning to fantasy rugby (as in "You're on the kind of hallucinogens that induce intense fantasies if you think Rory Best is going to travel let alone start for the Lions. May I have some please?").

Judging by his team, Chalkey used a blindfold, darts and a dartboard covered in the names of every rugby player in Ireland, England, Scotland and Wales to make his selection.

I however have applied more stringent criteria. Some decisions have been agonised over for days, made me irritable, caused rashes, seen me wake up on the bedroom floor weeping my eyes out as I splutter snot-drenched apologies to all those players who have landed on the wrong side of a close call.

But after many sleepless nights, some consultation with friends (leading to the cessation of some friendships) and a liberal helping of medication, I have come up with my fifteen.

Before I name them though, I feel honour-bound to make apologies to John Hayes (the paddocks are too hard in South Africa for the Bull I feel), Luke Fitzgerald (it would be too much or a risk to have two slight wingers so Williams just about shades it) and David Wallace (Not a traditional 7 which we will need this summer, a genuine chance at 8 but Heaslip just about gets the nod).

I should also point out that I reckon the upcoming Heineken Cup games will have almost as much of an influence on the final tour contingent as the Six Nations tournament. But since I lost my powers of premonition many moons ago, I can only base it on what we have seen so far.

Feel free to comment or draw up your own competing selections.

1. Gethin Jenkins (Wales)

2. Jerry Flannery (Ireland)

3. Euan Murray (Scotland)

4.Paul O'Connell (Ireland)

5. Donncha O'Callaghan(Ireland)

6. Stephen Ferris (Ireland)

7. Martyn Williams (Wales)

8. Jamie Heaslip (Ireland)

9. Mike Blair (Scotland)

10. Ronan O'Gara (Ireland)

11. Shane Williams (Wales)

12. Tom Shanklin (Wales)

13. Brian O'Driscoll (Ireland)

14. Delon Armitage (England)

15. Lee Byrne (Wales)

Veggie watch. Day 6

Only one day to go and although I've been genuinely surprised by how tasty some of the veg dishes were over the last week, I can't wait to sink my teeth into a big juicy burger, sending all the blood-tainted juices dripping down along my chin.

While at home on the farm the other day, I unsettled a cow by staring at her for a little too long, allowing just a hint of drool to creep out of the corner of my mouth.

Jaysus Moocow I could have a lump taken off your arse and fried up in a pan with onions before you'd even know what had happened.

The last few days have been consumed with such temptations but in fairness has also consisted of a few pleasant culinary surprises.

Miriam and Caitlin, my two dedicated veggie friends, made me up a delicious vegetable curry over the weekend, consisting of samosas, cocunuts, broccoli and a wide variety of ingredients I had never even heard of. I mean what use could I ever have made of lentils in the past?

The greatest temptation of Hoge came on Saturday evening however. After celebrating the greatest day in Irish sport with wreckless abandon, I found myself in front of that lovely new kebab shop in Baker Place, conveniently located next to the Wicked Chicken.

Like I had done with the cow a few days previously, I made the kebab shop workers feel very uncomfortable indeed as I stood, as if in a trance, staring at that sexy rotating lump of greasy lamb, thinking about all the things I'd like to do to it.

Thankfully though, I renewed my devotion to temperance and decided on five bags of garlic mushrooms instead, but not before promising the lump of lamb I'd be back next week to make its acquaintance.

First blood drawn: Ireland 1 - Wales 0

A quick diversion from my adventures in vegetable-land if you don't mind.

On Wednesday of this week, I picked up a call to our newsroom from a Welsh chap named Dafydd. He is organising a mass piss-up in Wales called Celtfest and was hoping to attract Irish rugby supporters by getting some publicity for it through the Leader.

He said that he had already contacted two PR companies in Ireland but that they hadn't followed through on promises made and were no longer answering his calls. I took pity on him and explained that our County Edition was already finished but that I could try and get an article into the city edition while stressing that I couldn't guarantee anything.

Dafydd didn't bother saying thank you but did say that if I got an article in, he could guarantee one of my mates a ticket for the match itself. He was quite pushy and impolite but I put that down to his being messed about by the aforementioned PR companies. I would subsequently find out that this was just Dafydd's way.

Unfortunately, due to space constrictions, we were unable to put anything in the paper (although I did write and file an article) and yesterday evening I explained the situation to Dafydd in an e-mail. This morning I got a response from him that infuriated me into putting manners on the insufferable gimp.

I let the sequence of emails do the rest of the talking, starting with my explaining the situation to Dafydd yesterday evening and finishing with my final email back.

On 19 Mar 2009, at 15:57, John Hogan wrote:
Dafydd, unfortunately I was unable to get anything into this evening's paper. Apologies for that, I did write an article but because it's St PAtrick's weekend there wasn't enough space in the paper to put it in, due to the volume of photos from parades around the county. Apologies for that, hope the day is a success and that we're left with more reason to cheer at the end of the game than our Welsh counterparts!

Regards,

John.

From: Dafydd Evans Sent: 20 March 2009 01:14

To: John HoganSubject: Re:

forget it your the third irish person to let me down

On 20 Mar 2009, at 08:25, John Hogan wrote:

You've got some cheek. You contact me the day before we go to print asking for prominence in a regional paper for an article that has no regional significance whatsoever.
I went to the effort of writing you an article and due to extraordinary circumstances it doesn't get in. I was actually going to ask you if you wanted the article to be prominently placed on our website today but rest assured instead, I will delete the article and waste no time in telling the considerable number of people I know going about your petulance.
Don't dare contact this paper looking for publicity for any of your mass piss ups again you ungrateful little twit.

Too far? What do you think folks?

A moral victory

"A JAAAYSUS there's mildew on these shorts Johnny, I can't wear them," said McGoo, as he peered into a bag of rugby gear that had last seen daylight during a game against Cobh in early January.

After a night of what one could fairly describe as less-than-appropriate preparations, an early morning seconds match was about as welcome to myself and my housemate as a very thorough colonic irrigation.

But guarantees had been made and promises had to be kept so the two of us tripped and stumbled around the house, picking up items of gear - some with mildew, others without - and cursed the Irish team for having an afternoon match with the Italians meaning our game would have to be played at 12 noon.

Twelve noon? For a rugby match? Only a few hours after you've finished up drinking, dancing, sleazing and sweating the night away at a ball in the Clarion which - in fairness - was in aid of charity and therefore could justify any amount of porter consumption?


You heard me right. This wasn't going to be pretty for anyone involved, particularly the unfortunate second rows packing down behind me for the next hour and a half.


McGoo and I left our bunker on Ballinacurra for what should have been the short walk to Greenfields where we were scheduled to play Young Munsters. Unfortunately our bearings seemed to have been still a little discombobulated when we set off and we ended up getting quite lost in Ballinacurra, looking for a rugby pitch that we've each played on maybe 20 times over the years.


Thankfully, before long we recognised the backside of the Catholic Institute on our travels which we then circumnavigated to get back on track. Coynie had rang us by this point to say that he was on his way and was feeling as fresh as a daisy because he'd spent the previous night at home, taking it easy. The degenerate.


Any hope myself and the equally red-eyed, dry-throated McGoo had of taking it easy on the bench vanished when we walked in the door to see that - including our good selves - there were only 13 players. One more was coming, we were told, and chances are we would have to play the whole game with just 14 men.


"The ref won't allow this, it's madness. Isn't there some rule about having to have a full team?" I thought.


Not so, as it turns out. The referee came over to us just before kick off to ask if we had any more players coming and, upon hearing our answer, let out a very audible snigger and a "fair play to ye lads" but did not call off the game.


Off he trotted to get things underway while I stood there just sneering at him, like he was the Governer who could have saved me from the chair but said he'd watch me sizzle instead because it'd be better craic. The monster.


So, like a heavily wounded and outnumbered army, we took to war with about as much chance of winning as Maggie Thatcher in a 12-rounder with Floyd Mayweather.


But, like a team of highly-motivated hobos, we hassled them like a persistent wife, hit rucks as if there was chocolate in the middle, and despite our numerical disadvantage stayed in touch - and for a while, ahead of - Munsters.


Now wouldn't it be lovely if this story finished with us achieving an impossible victory? Well, unfortunately it was not to be but a final scoreline of 33-26 wasn't too shabby at all considering the various numerical, organisational and sobriety issues on our side.


And if Munster's close loss to the All Blacks in November is anything to go by, moral victories are still hugely appreciated in these parts so we can hold our heads high. I just can't help thinking what we could have done with 15.

Rugby matches, tiddlywinks and gay pride parades all set for Croke Park in 2009.

Two years ago - when I was still just a wide-eyed student of journalism dreaming of one day getting to report on Limerick city council meetings - I wrote a letter to a national newspaper, arguing that Croke Park should be opened up for the Heineken Cup semi-final if Munster and Leinster were to clash at that stage.

At the time, Lansdowne Road was not available and both teams had qualified for the quarter-finals. As it turned out, neither went any farther so my argument was moot.

However, that didn't stop a barrage of abusive letters - one of them 12 typed pages long - being sent to my address which, in my naivety, I had allowed to be printed in its entirety. I treasured each and every one of these hate-spewing letters as proof that I was capable of getting a reaction out of people with just a few words by firmly laying out my position on something.

That the reaction I provoked was - for the most part - one of temple-bursting rage made it all the better. One letter started off 'Dear Idiot'. Several of my abusers called me a 'West Brit'. If memory serves me correctly, only one provided me with a return address.

It was glorious. I could almost hear them lashing their hurleys in fury against every solid surface in their cave after reading my letter to the editor.

One particularly warped individual from the North even predicted that opening up Croke Park was just another ploy by the Brits to get their grubby mits back on the republic and I was just too darned stupid to see it.

Of course my letter also prompted a number of well laid-out, reasonable reponses. But they were mostly sent to and printed in the newspaper that had printed the original letter. Two subsequent letters from Your Truly were also printed as the argument grew legs over the next fortnight.

Anyway the point of this is that once again the scenario has arisen whereby Munster and Leinster could well face off in a European semi-final and there may be no choice but for the game to be played outside of Ireland.

I'm aware that there is every possibility the GAA could open up Croke Park for such a fixture. But I'm also certain that there are still those whose eyes will water, toes curl and rectums tighten at the very idea of the ground opening up not only for internationals but also for provincial rugby games. I'd like to hear your reactions again guys.

With that in mind, I will once again lay out my position that Croke Park was built with the money of taxpayers (many of whom have never even watched a GAA game) and - if not quite a national stadium - then the ground should at least strive to serve the interests of all Irish citizens, GAA supporters or not.

If demand is sufficient amongst the Irish public to make an event commercially viable and it doesn't conflict with an existing GAA fixture or present a serious threat to the stadium and its surface, then it should take place in Croker whether its a Heineken Cup game, the Tiddlywinks Championships or a gay pride parade.

No home address this time I'm afraid, so abuse will have to be restricted to the comments section.