The Aintree Grand National

Folk get irrational
About the Grand National,
It makes the whole country go crazy.
We’ll urge on a horse
On that Liverpool course
Or berate him for being so lazy.
O’er Beechers they’ll crash
With a cut and a dash
And we’ll stand and we’ll scream at the blighters.
But why do I always
Pick three-leggéd donkeys
That have an old twinge of arthritis?

The hat comes around
And I feel duty bound
To pick out a horse’s name from it.
And when its inspected,
I find I’ve selected
A nag that’s called “Luminous Vomit.”
The boss picks a flyer,
A good, honest trier,
Oh why do the gods have to slight us?
And why do I always
Pick three-leggéd donkeys
That have an old twinge of arthritis?

The starting line’s raised,
And great trails are blazed,
With most of them set for a fall.
The air’s tight with tension,
But never a mention
Of “Luminous Vomit” at all.
The names are related,
I wait with breath bated,
I’m hopping around like St. Vitus.
Oh why do I always
Pick three-leggéd donkeys
That have an old twinge of arthritis?

The enclosure is filled
And the owner is thrilled,
And the bookies all smile with great cunning.
But there’s only one snag –
I can’t find my nag,
Is it fallen? Refused? Or still running?
How I long, how I long
That my horse will run strong!
Just once may it spur and delight us!
But why do I always
Pick three-leggéd donkeys
That have an old twinge of arthritis?

Ballad of a Gambling Man

It started as the odd little flutter,
With some change I kept inside my hat,
And every so often, I’d put a
Few shillings on this horse or that.
My wife was dead set against gambling,
The thoughts of it made her quite ill,
But on Saturday morn, I’d go rambling
To see my old mate, Willie Hill.

All ye, who are travelling to Cheltenham,
Pay heed to my caution’ry tale,
For once I had land
And a bank balance grand,
But I had no perception of scale.

The stakes soon began to get bigger,
I was betting the bulk of my pay.
With ev’ry damned wager, I’d figure
A big win would see me okay.
My wife, she was getting suspicious
For my pay packet seemed pretty thin,
But the stories I told, quite fictitious,
Meant she gullibly took it all in.

So you, waging fortunes at Cheltenham,
Though you think it is par for the course,
Just imagine the hurt,
I lost more than my shirt,
On the back of an old piebald horse.

No longer were days long and sunny,
Oh the bookies are true friends to none!
I was great when I’d plenty of money,
But they blanked me when I was undone.
For Joey and Willy and Paddy
May seem very pleasant and nice,
So long as you remember, dear laddie,
That their friendship will come at a price.

So you, riding gung-ho at Cheltenham,
Hoping hard for that one perfect strike,
Remember Sod’s Law –
Sure, you never once saw
A bookie out riding a bike.

At the Curragh, I met a sharp dealer,
And I laid out the deeds of my house.
Then, after another Tequila,
I said that I’d throw in my spouse.
I looked at the going minutely,
And studied the formbook with cunning,
Then plumped for a horse resolutely –
As far as I know, it’s still running.

Oh you, spending thousands at Cheltenham,
Just hear out this impassioned plea.
Please don’t overspend
Or else you might end
A wandering minstrel like me.

My wife took the news quite serenely
As I packed up my suitcase and left.
Her new man moved in very keenly,
And I stood outside, quite bereft.
I’m sleeping among the hydrangeas,
Hoping someone will throw me a crumb,
And I’m begging for pennies from strangers,
Still hoping the big one will come.

So you, on the slow boat to Cheltenham,
In your quest for some zest in your life,
Please don’t be a booby,
Forget about Ruby,
And spend it instead on your wife.

Will Jessica Kurtin Ever Pull Herself Together?

I’ve never been partial to watching fine horses
Jump stupid-shaped fences on stupid-shaped courses.
I’m left rather cold by a faultless clear round,
And give a loud cheer when a bar goes to ground.
But best of them all is the horse that refuses!
Oh, how the recalcitrant gee-gee amuses
When the rider’s sent sprawling, demolishing railings,
And the crowd roars approval on viewing his failings.

But recently there has been talk of skulduggery,
Drugging and doping, and chemical thuggery.
Accusations abound as to who might administer
Illegal biotics, and other things sinister.
The riders all claim that they have no idea
Why the tests on the horses don’t come back all clear,
And the trainers and vets are all equally puzzled
As to how all these dodgy narcotics are guzzled.

There’s just one solution – it must be the horses
Who buy all these drugs from their undisclosed sources.
Last week at the Horse Show, you could see a few jumping
With quivering fetlocks and adrenaline pumping.
And it’s rumoured that one unidentified nag
Was caught in his stable with a brown paper bag.
The world must be warned for there is no mistaking
The problems inherent in equine drug-taking.

They say you can lead any horse off to water,
But not if he is a confirmed cocaine snorter.
And would the police trust their own horses if
They were found to be smoking a massive great spliff?
Yes, where would we be if the horses and dunkies
Went stealing in Tesco’s like desperate junkies?
And why aren’t the Drug Squad in Dublin out stopping
The show-jumping stallions who practise pill-popping?

Oh, narcotics and horses, they never should mix –
There’s much better ways to be getting their kicks.
The world laughed out loud at the ludicrous tale
Of the American stallion that didn’t inhale.
But we mustn’t be harsh, and we mustn’t forget
The way that these horses get saddled with debt.
For everyone knows, once addiction has started,
A foal and his money are very soon parted.

Tour de France

Once again, the Tour de France
Is won by Mr. Armstrong, Lance,
Who captured all the famous scalps
On his traversal of the Alps,
And well deserves that yellow top,
As cream of this year’s cycling crop.
For seven years his swaying bum
Has brought him to the podium,
And all the rest, though fast and fit,
Are surely sick of watching it.

And, as the Champs Elysées cheers,
Our minds fly backwards several years,
To that great day when Stephen Roche
Made his Parisien approach.
When Ireland watched him cycle in,
As though out on a Sunday spin,
Afraid that this most friendly chap
Would blow it on the final lap,
And let go of the handlebar,
Or be run over by a car.
Oh how it gave our hearts a lift
To see him not arrive adrift.

And yet, the memory that really
Stands out isn’t Stephen’s wheelie,
But rather at the presentation,
When the leader of our nation
Tried to steal the rightful thunder
From our Irish cycling wonder.
As Charlie waved his arms aloft
(And here in Ireland thousands scoffed)
Millions, staring at his face,
Thought Mr. Haughey won the race,
And from Bangkok to Yucatan,
They wondered how so old a man
Could triumph on so long a trek
With such a hard and wrinkled neck.

But I, whose energy is spent,
While cycling up a slight ascent,
And must dismount to take a pill
When halfway up a little hill,
I must salute those gallant men,
Who sprint up hills and down agen.

But one quite nagging thought persists
About these sporting masochists –
They pump those legs up mountainsides,
Ten thousand feet and more besides,
In hot and very humid weather,
Backsides made of hardened leather,
Pedals strapped onto their feet,
Sweating madly in the heat,
Muscles straining, brows perspiring,
Gulping air and slowly tiring,
Resisting every urge to throttle
The wag who hands an empty bottle,
Panting as the climb gets higher,
Praying they don’t burst a tyre.
A thousand miles and more they do it –
Why on earth do they go through it?
Why do they persist in straining,
Yard by yard without complaining?
The only reason I can see,
That they’d endure the misery
Of heat and strain and hurt and bugs,
Is if they all were high on drugs.

The Demise of the Dubs

So sad! The blue and navy flags
Have all been taken down,
No sign of all those Dublin wags
Across the pubs in town.
The dreams of Sam have faltered
And they troop back into work.
The mood has greatly altered
And I’m trying not to smirk.

My wife is Dublin born and bred –
We have our vocal tussles.
She says I should live in a shed,
I ask her for some mussels.
But, like her fellow city folk,
Today she’s all done in,
And I light up another smoke
And try hard not to grin.

Each year the Dubs espouse the view
That this could be their season.
Their optimism sparkles through,
Without recourse to reason.
But once again, they’re second best,
Again they’ve missed the boat.
Each August time, they get depressed –
It’s so hard not to gloat.

Why do people love to see
The Jackeens getting pipped?
They dance around the pubs with glee
Whenever Dublin’s whipped.
One shouldn’t laugh when they are panned,
One really should be bigger,
But Jeez, one’s only human and
One’s trying not to snigger.

Their population’s treble that
Of any other county,
But every year, the champagne’s flat,
Without that yearned-for bounty.
Tyrone enthralled the nation
They were hungrier and fitter.
It’s a sad, sad situation
And I’m trying not to titter.

The further that the Jackeens go
Within the competition,
The louder are their wails of woe,
On seeing their demolition.
The rest enjoy the yearly show
Whenever Dublin blow it.
Oh yes, it’s very sweet although
I’m trying not to show it.

The Ballad of Kevin McBride

As pugilists go, he was always a big ‘un,
Though he lived in the shadow of Barry McGuigan.
The second-best boxer to come out of Clones,
The chance to turn pro was a bit of a bonus.

Thirteen long years as a heavyweight pro,
This journeyman boxer took many a blow.
As brave as a lion, his World Title hopes
Were very soon battered and hung on the ropes.

He battled for money, he battled for pride,
Though few knew the name of bould Kevin McBride.
Like Rocky Balboa, he’d not garnered fame
And did not enjoy universal acclaim.

They set him up nicely for one final fight,
A whipping boy, primed for Mike Tyson’s delight,
Another statistic on Tyson’s CV,
Though plenty of cash to be made from TV.

But Monaghan’s hero did not read the script,
By the end of the fifth, Tyson knew he was whipped.
And for Kevin McBride, he achieved lasting fame
As the man who put Iron Mike out of the game.

The Ballad of Francie Bellew

– Laois v Armagh Quarter Final 2005

Oh gather near
So you can hear
The things I have to tell you
About the Ar-
-Magh superstar
By name of Francie Bellew.

The Laois men came
To wide acclaim,
But none of them did fancy
The battle royal
On Croke Park soil
Against old warhorse Francie.

This mighty man
Jumped, caught and ran,
As though he were a chis’ller.
At times inspired,
He never tired
And really played a sizzler.

“You try your best,”
He cried, possessed,
“But this time I’ll repel you!”
And though Laois tried,
They were denied
All day by Francie Bellew.

He mopped up all
The dropping ball
From Munnelly and Clancy.
Poor Laois were left
Bemused, bereft,
Dispirited by Francie.

While others on
Armagh’s team shone,
With goals and points well taken,
Defensively,
He led with glee
And thus brought home the bacon.

If you searched hard
To find a yard-
-Stick of perfection, well you
Just couldn’t stray
From that display
By vet’ran Francie Bellew.

Its true Laois scored,
A poor reward,
The goal was somewhat chancey,
But by and large
Their entourage
Was gobbled up by Francie.

When Laois attacked,
Their men were tracked
And tackled as required.
Their game-plan was
Destroyed because
Bould Francie was inspired.

In life, you’re sent
To some extent
To where the fates propel you.
But giants there
Could not compare
To mighty Francie Bellew.

So travel to
Far Timbuktu,
Descend the mighty Yan-tse,
You’ll never find
A man to mind
A forward line like Francie.