The whole Garth Pukes – sorry, Brooks – thing is yet another example, as though one was needed, of gobshitery and Irishry.
Here’s a summary:
The GAA (Grab All Association) has an agreement with local residents as to how many gigs can be held at Croke Park. It deliberately flaunts this agreement and exceeds the agreed number.
The promoter of the Garth Brooks gigs, Jim Aikin, must know this but sells the tickets anyway - as early as January if comments on The Journal are to be believed.
He only submits his application to hold the gigs in April, which means by the time due process would be excercised by Dublin City Council, we are nearly at the time when the concerts were advertised to take place.
After the process, which takes into consideration residents’ objections, the gigs are refused, as might have been predicted.
Next, objectors are issued with death threats and the TV is full of footage of a large Texan in a silly hat promising he will swim to Ireland to meet with our prime minister to ensure his five gigs go ahead. (Swim, Garth… please).
The bloke who runs those awful O’Carrolls Oirish tat shops is interviewed on RTE news, against a backdrop of green stetsons with shamrocks and Garth Brooks in the shape of Ireland on the front, saying how awful this is for the Irish economy and Ireland’s reputation.
(Never mind the fact that those awful shops have probably done more harm to our image than anything since the odd few thousand incarcerated “unmarried mothers”, “fallen women”, and countless children buggered by our priests, aided by our police force, successive governments, and "The Peeple" in general.)
The whole thing is still rumbling on and you can’t turn on the telly, read a paper, listen to a radio or look at your smartphone without hearing Garth professing how much he loves Ireland and the Irish and how we should ignore our planning laws in order to facilitate a cowboy and a bunch of money-grubbing gombeens.
It’s business as usual, then.