Simon Le Lisbon

Political commentary is not National Disgraces stongpoint. I once famously refered to Bertie Ahern as 'the Fuhrer' and indirectly blamed him for flying a plane into the twin towers. I also proclaimed that a reduction in interest rates would result in anarchy and followed this up with a suggestion that Sinn Fail should probably give up their dream of reclaiming the Isle of Man, and concentrate on more urgent issues such as the abolition of traffic lights.

Because of this, and also due to my pre-occupation with all things 'woe is me', I have steered the good ship Disgrace from the thorny waters of Politics and driven the wheeless ship that I hold captaincy of into less contentious terrain. The Lisburn treaty, which came and passed, pricked the ears of my interest slightly, and I watched with mild amusement as the humans I know debated with themselves about something they didn't understand. As it happens, we said 'eh, like, NO!' to the treaty, which as far as I'm aware would of resulted in the proud nation of Ireland having to 'tighten their belts', if only because by European standards we are 'obese'. There were rumours that a yes vote would result in a shorter head on a pint of Guinness, the re-introduction of the Giant Panda to parts of Monaghan and the status of kite-flying to be changed from 'jolly good fun' to 'punishable by death'.

Libertas, a fun loving gang of coolsters with no link whatsoever to the American Military, were spot on when they said that voting no would result in 'a better deal for Ireland'. In the same way that head-butting your boss would result in a raise.

Because of our No vote, that old Dog 'the Yoo-Kay' (credit fakey) has become a drooling at the mouth, spontaneous-national-orgasm champion of Irelands resistance of the mainland of Europe. They hate everyone you see, and Europe fit the 'everyone' profile very well. The Sun Newspaper, which prints pictures of 'breasts' and contains adverts for services that you would not find in the parish newsletter (unless you're from Ferns) proudly headlined 'Paddy Power!!' today and exclaimed Ireland's slaying of the Euro Dragon. The Observer and Daily Mail of Eire had similar headlines, which backhandedly congratulated us for our resistance, and threw in some pun-tastic racism.

The most worrying thing however is the fact that the Irish Mail on Sunday (I've checked with An Post, they only deliver on weekdays) is giving away a Michael Caine 'erotic' DvD tomorrow. This film, which contains 'cleavage' and 'soft lit, silhouetted scenes of SIMULATED INTERCOURSE' is free for every Irish child and impressionable adult to view, should they choose to buy the paper. Had we of voted Yes, I hae no doubt that we would of been treated to a freebie of 'Battle of Britain' or 'Carry on Oppressing'. At last, and thanks to a film as erotic as the journey from Firhouse to Town, we are finally being treated as an equal of the great United Kingdom..

Anyone for the Commonwealth?

Lansdowne Road Demolition - A Romantic Fools Account

Disgrace was only 10 years old when he first set foot there. In a decade dominated by the Eurovision and cheap Dunnes jumpers, it was a mega structure from another planet. As Papa Disgrace lifted me over the stiles and offered a wink and a pound note to the attendant, I was bug eyed with excitement. Whilst grown men were crawling the streets outside looking for a few hours work, I sat in the luxury of the West Stand, with a very uneconomic hotdog in my hands, simply marvelling at the super arena that contained me. We cheered and laughed (especially when Neville Southall snapped his leg in half in the 12th minute), as Ireland took on the might of Wales in what was then a keenly anticipated 'friendly'. The stadium then was only half full, partially due to most of the men in this country being in America or down at the dole office, so the screams of Mr Southall were beautifully audible. The game ended, and I was treated to all manner of delicacies on the way home. Whilst whole families rummaged through skips and chased stray dogs, I was gorging myself on chips and chocolate. This was my first trip to the grand old dame of Ballsbridge (no, not the 86 year old prostitutes from the Dart station), Lansdowne road.

Over the many years that followed I returned constantly. I witnessed many more leg breaks, but none as exciting as Neville's. I witnessed U2 in Popmart there. The final rugby match. Other stuff too. Always rounded off with chips and chocolate, and as time passed, Caspian food. I never tired of it's beauty. Sure, as I matured, it did too. It began to creak, and certainly got a bit rough around the edges but I still got a thrill from entering through the one of the narrow entrances. But enough about the prostitute.

So, here we are. Modern Ireland. The below pictures show the demise of this great place. Even close scrutiny of the photos will reveal no barber cutted corner boys in guineys suit trousers. No men waiting at the bus-stop with a single suitcase and a one way ticket. No hungry children roaming the streets with nets to catch dogs in. When Jack Charlton emerged from under the west stand that day, he brought with him a new sense of hope. And the country changed forever

For me though, every time I hear someone snap a pencil, I think of it. When I hear some pervert creep up behind me and crack a twig as I wash naked in the forest, I stop and remember.

Neville Southall. Father of the Celtic Tiger