A question of snort

The end of year review is always the most difficult article to write for hotpress. Trawling through the vaults desperately trying to remember anything interesting that happened to me, anything interesting that happened to anybody else or just anything that happened at all, for that matter, can be a somewhat soul-destroying experience, particularly if like me, you have trouble remembering what happened last Friday, never mind some event of earth-shattering importance that took place way back in February.

Last year, I overcame this problem by simply forgetting to write an end of year review. Nobody seemed to mind or notice and that was that. I didn’t have to write one, you didn’t have to read one, everyone was a winner.

This year, however, I have been forced to adopt a more responsible approach, having just fielded a telephone call from the editor’s assistant, who informed me that hotpress had completely forgotten to let me know that they needed my end of year review today, and could I please have a comprehensive analysis of the important political and cultural events of the last 12 months, in my own words, within the hour … please.

So, having written "2002 AD" on the top of a blank sheet of paper and stared at it for a few minutes while sucking on a biro, here are the first five things that leapt to mind when I thought about 2002. In the cosmic scheme of things, they may not be important, but for some inexplicable reason, they’re obviously important to me.

What’s Up Boys doesn’t win the Aintree Grand National

Not Bindaree wins the Aintree Grand National, you’ll notice. Oh no. They say nobody ever remembers who finishes second, but I can guarantee you that if, in years to come, somebody asks me who finished second in the 2002 Aintree Grand National, I’ll remember. It was What’s Up Boys.

After he’d finished a heartily respectable fourth (or was it seventh?) in the Cheltenham Gold Cup, I’d become utterly convinced that there was nothing without wings and an engine that could beat this heroic, plodding grey over the four-and-a-bit miles and thirty odd fences that constitute the Aintree Grand National. Having given the matter much thought without any help from grown-ups, I concluded that he wouldn’t fall because he’d never done so before, and that he’d run all day because he’s one of those gutsy (or stupid, depending on your point of view) triers that wears down his opposition through sheer grit and determination. Indeed, so convinced was I that I was on to the proverbial "good thing" that I backed my convictions with my biggest bet ever at odds of 16/1, win or bust.

He came second. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d finished last. Or fallen. But no, What’s Up Boys chose this of all days to run the race of his life. He plodded along gamely as I expected he would, he jumped the last in front as I expected he would, and – despite his best attempts - he proceeded to get collared on the run-in as it had never occurred to me that he might..

As metaphors for life go, the 2002 Grand National had it all for me: a very good thing nearly happened but went horribly pear-shaped within sight of the finish line. But at least nobody died.

The Queen Mother died

Okay, so somebody died, but it doesn’t really count when it’s a very, very old, rich woman who passes away peacefully in her sleep on a Saturday afternoon. My abiding memory of the Queen Mum’s death was one of indignation. Everywhere I went in London, English people remarked that I, as an Irishman, must be thrilled to bits that a member of the British Royal family was dead. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Upon reading about the old dear’s daily routine in a newspaper and discovering that she took her first gin of the day at 11am, I couldn’t help but think that it’s more centenarians that take their first gin of the day at 11am the world needs, not less. Hats off to the Queen Mum, may she rest in peace.

John Leslie got fired
It may have happened some months ago, but I remain utterly mystified as to why John Leslie got sacked from his job as co-presenter of This Morning. All sorts of allegations have been hurled in the general direction of the smarmy Scotsman in recent months but as yet, the only thing that has been proven beyond reasonable doubt is that he is a purveyor of very poor quality television programmes.

If the future of everyone involved in the business of making television shows depended on their output being subject to regular quality control checks, the walls of our dole offices would be bulging and there would never be anything on the box save for the occasional good movie and endless re-runs of Seinfeld. And then where would we be?

For what it’s worth, a friend of mine went out on a date with John Leslie once. A very beautiful non-celebrity, she happily concedes that the only thing he forced upon her back at his place were old videos of himself presenting Wheel Of Fortune.

Angus Deayton got fired

This is much the same as John Leslie’s story, except Angus hasn’t been accused of any crime. (Unless you count snorting your way through blizzards of the devil’s dandruff while having sex with prostitutes, which, although illegal, don’t really count). I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if every entertainer lost his or her job because of their predilection for jazz salt and ladies of the night, the world would be an infinitely duller place and we’d have to go back to telling stories around the fire for kicks. Poor old Angus has nothing now and is unlikely to get further work advertising credit cards, now that the men in suits at Barclays know what he was really using them for.

Niall Quinn and Roy Keane wrote autobiographies

Except they didn’t. Both were ghost-written, of course, by Tom Humphries and Eamon Dunphy respectively. And while there can be little doubt that Quinner’s is the more accomplished, the contrasting versions of the same story in both tomes made for compelling reading.

Furthermore, Niall Quinn and Roy Keane both have their own opinions on how international football teams should prepare for the World Cup, and although it’s genuinely difficult to disagree with either point of view, I invariably side with the former, because his way of preparing for the World Cup incorporates a lot more all-night drinking sessions than Roy’s way, with the added bonus that you still get to play in the World Cup.

I’d met Niall Quinn briefly, years ago, when we were both hammered. I met him again this year and it was much more civilised. He bought me a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee in a hotel in Durham and I gave him a set of carpet bowls to help him while away the twilight years of his retirement. And while he’s an undoubtedly lovely man, I’ve yet to decide whether the fact that this encounter was one of the highlights of my 2002 is a good or a bad thing.

Our Hero
Cork man Ronald O’Regan stripped naked and ran halfway up the pitch at the North Cork Championship hurling match between Castletownroche and Kildorry. Yes, before you ask, he is named after the former American president, poor fellow. Anyhow, he won €500 from friends for his heroic feat. Better still, he was inundated with offers from women in the county looking for ‘Chippendale types’ for their hen nights!

He says it was all a bit of fun. “Our team was losing at the time and they told me that it gave them a boost. I was conscious that there were kids at the match, which is why I wore a sock. I got a tremendous reaction and I have become a bit of a folk hero down here.”