Kerry dancing with delight

IF YOU THINK the English Cup Final is important or who takes the pennant in baseball or even whether the Australians ever win a Test Match again, then let me tell you you're talking small talk when it comes to the All-Ireland Football Final.
The moment 1 say "AllIreland" the aficionados will know that I speak not of Association Football but Gaelic Football. Last week — or was it the week before — it was Kerry versus Tyrone, South versus North: the uncrackable Nobility against the glued-together Peasants.
John Saunders of Irish Television came swooping into Malahide, the North Dublin village where the Kings of Kerry were staying, prior to battle. He picked on two residents (nearresident, in my case) to give their pre-match pontifications.
011ie Campbell, undimmed but unplaying star of Rugby, made knowledgable and pithy comments, plumping, of course, for Kerry. Yours truly said Tyrone would win. Not only that, but win with a goal in hand.
At the end of the first half, yours — astonishingly — was uncannily correct. Unfortunately, games don't end in the first half, and, by the time the final whistle sounded, 011ie and every other right-thinking expert had been correct. Heroic Tyrone had been beaten. I always did prefer the underdog.
However, before Kerry supporters and their friends, who may have seen that prefight piece of television blow their life's savings on sending me letters casting doubts upon, among other things, my sanity, let me just mention one thing. The last seconds of my interview with John Saunders were cut by some unfeeling editor. Having made my prediction, young Saunders said "And where arc "you off to now, this Sunday morning?"
"I'm off" said I "To say a prayer for Tyrone, because you couldn't expect them to do it on their own, could you?"
Unfortunately, I'd already been to Mass and never got round to saying that prayer. Just imagine, we could have defeated Kerry, if only I'd gone to late Mass!
SEASONED TRAVELLERS acquire additional vanities over your average pedestrian or once a year package-Columbus. I once knew a daft but darling sports writer called Bill McGowran of the London Evening News, who used to buy extra luggage labels to stick on his suitcase so that he'd have more to show than Peter Wilson of the Daily Mirror — Peter himself being given to subtler forms of egoism.
For quite some time, I was puzzled as to why, a year or so ago, aeroplanes on take-off and landing began to extinguish the main cabin lights. I just didn't like to admit that 1, the sophisticated traveller, didn't know. Finally, curiosity overcame pride and, of course, the answer was sensible and simple.
In the event of an accident on the ground and the passengers having to slide down the chutes, their eyes would already have adjusted themselves to the semidarkness. A subtle but, no doubt, useful safety device.
Imagine then, the other evening, when Aer Lingus and I glided into Heathrow Airport as the sinking sun poured a dazzle of golden light over the tarmac and the buildings and the autumn countryside. Just before landing, our lights went out. Somebody's watch must have said it was sunset. Seems a bit like the same kind of logic that has a landlord I know switch off the central heating on the first day of May, even if it's snowing outside.
I WAS delighted to be invited to speak at the Variety Club's Tribute Luncheon to Frank Bruno, that cuddly, British Heavyweight with the Jamaican charm of his Jamaican-born mother.
This most open-handed of charities for children continues to have a charming black spot, believing that no one has to go back to work after lunch. At twenty minutes to four (arrival time twelve-twenty pm), I hissed a thank-you to the Chief Barker beside me and scarpered for the minicab.
David Frost, who had not been one of the orators, had beaten me to it. His chauffeurdriven Bentley slid forward and he leapt in, a blur of spotted socks and flashing tie, and disappeared.
All I took away from Bruno the Bear's Lunch was a new Three Bears Story . . Mamma, Dadda and Baby B returned home to find the house had been turned upside-down by intruders.
"Who" said Mamma, "has been at my porridge?"
"Who" boomed Dadda, "has taken my porridge?"
"Drat the porridge" said Baby Bear, or juvenile words to that effect, "what about the video?"