Let our joy be unconfined! The Great Curse has finally been lifted on a Gaelic football team
St Patrick atop Croagh Patrick, the little mountain in Mayo
The Wild Atlantic Way or, geographically speaking, the West Coast of Ireland makes its glorious passage from Cork in the south to Donegal in the far north. It is one of the most spectacular and celebrated journeys in the world.
In distance terms it’s about 320 miles but distance is of little consideration when visiting my beloved little island. You gauge it by time and happiness and the people and the memories. And the pints.
Two thirds of the way up, after Galway’s beautiful Connemara, is the county of Mayo with a population of less than 150,000, most of whom have likely phoned in sick this week. As one wag said, the cows will have to milk themselves.
The reason is because of the legendary Gaelic footballer Sam Maguire and the Cup he left in his name for the winners each year of the Gaelic Football Final which little, but mighty, Mayo won on Sunday against the holders, Kerry.
For the first time in 75 years.
The final is played each year in front of 85,000 men, women and children at Dublin’s Croke Park and is always a joyous affair (apart from the time the Black and Tans machine gunned the crowd during the War of Independence in 1920 killing 14 civilians). Aside from the Kerry players and their supporters, it seemed all other 31 counties of Ireland and the wider world Irish diaspora were urging Mayo on.
And all because of the Great Curse.
This is the hex, the stuff of legend, which a priest is said to have put on the team the last time they won the cup in 1951. The story goes that the victorious team were returning on an open-back lorry to Castlebar, the county town, when they came across a funeral cortege. They failed to stop and pay their respects, considered then almost a cardinal sin. This at a time when the priesthood, good and bad, ruled Ireland and yer man said that Mayo would not win the cup “until every one of you are gone to meet your maker”.
The last of those players, Paddy Prendergast, died aged 95 three years ago, but not before discounting the lore of the curse.
Still, it is a good and very Irish tale and sure enough, three years after Paddy kicked his last, his team finally won. Joy has been unconfined, not least because the Chief of Staff hails from Mayo.
Those with family links to the county were quick to praise; President Biden sent his congratulations, so did Canada’s Mark Carney and Grace Kelly would have done if she were still alive. It even united the Gallagher brothers whose mother is from the county.
For those not familiar with Gaelic games – football and hurling – both are played at rapid speed and incredible skill.
I suspect the football game was the result of a one-night stand between a rugby lad and a soccer mum after drink had been taken; it gave birth to a 15-a-side game with a round ball and two halves of 30 minutes. Points are scored by kicking or handing the ball over the bar for one point or three for kicking it under the bar and into the goal net. Players run with the ball but must bounce it after every four paces and can be tackled by shoulder contact but not ankle diving. (Oh do pay attention at the back.)
It is played throughout Ireland and by 87 teams in Britain including London, Lancashire, Yorkshire, Warwickshire and Hertfordshire. What makes it so impressive is that every player is an amateur and gets no monetary reward, not even for winning the Cup.
The 30 players from Mayo and Kerry on Sunday are a mix of professionals, medics, schoolmasters, a recruitment firm founder, corporate managers and students. Somehow they fit in busy day jobs with endless fitness training and matches.
No millionaire prima donna footballers with blacked out Lamborghinis, no hissy fits, no Wags and no crooked Infantino. Just great and honest winners in front of happy families, most of whom were back in Castlebar on Monday to welcome their heroes home.
The team travelled by train this time. No funerals to delay their progress.
*****
So now we know, Andy Burnham is just like all the other politicians. He loves private jets. In his first week he took one from London to Glasgow for the opening of the Commonwealth Games and the following day on to Manchester for the launch of No 10 North.
The cost of the flight to Glasgow is about £8,000 and the leg to Manchester £7,500. So almost £16k blown in 24 hours. For that you reduce the time spent travelling; the fastest train to Glasgow Central is almost six hours against 80 minutes and costs £300 one-way first class. So assuming he took a small entourage of say, five, that would be less than £2k, a quarter of the jet price.
But unlike trains, which arrive in the middle of a city, jets do not (at least we hope not). They use either commercial or military airports in the main and the travel time into town can add another hour. So marginally more efficient but far more costly.
In Burnham’s case, the problem is one of hypocrisy. Throughout the 14 years of successive, mostly hopeless, Tory administrations, Labour called out the use of the government jets like the Dassault Falcon for short haul and the Airbus for international travel. Why not take scheduled flights, they cried.
Quite right too. So what has changed so quickly?
*****
It is difficult to think of who is the worst of the current crop of today’s dud politicians and just in this country (globally Trump is the runaway winner).
I have long favoured Nigel Farage as the crooked winner here but having seen the brilliant Victoria Derbyshire fillet the ridiculous Zack Polanski on Newsnight on Tuesday, he must now take the podium. He refused to apologise for re-posting a stupid Instagram cartoon of a t-shirt with a cartoon of a guillotine and the caption “We’re only making plans for Nigel”.
Apart from not being remotely funny (a major offence in my book) it is stupid coming so soon after the brutal murder of Ann Widdecombe.
Polanski is a prat of all prats. He wants to take the UK out of NATO, is a vegan failed actor whose leading role in a film was as an extra playing Eggy’s cellmate in a film called Bashment (no, me neither).
At least Farage has a full set of teeth.
*****
I’ve asked this before and think I know the answer, but why does the Daily Mail use the Jeff Powell MBE byline on the few bits the old booby writes? He probably insists but that doesn’t mean it should be allowed.
The lovely Ruth Sunderland (fotp) doesn’t need her OBE (a higher honour) when she writes and it is plain William Hague, Daniel Finkelstein and Max Hastings adorning the pages of The Times. Osbert Lancaster was never billed as Sir Osbert when his often inexplicable cartoons appeared in the Express.
All of which gives me the excuse to tell of the time when Larry Lamb introduced his wife Joan to Ross Benson at a Christmas party. This was the brief exchange: “Ross, you haven’t met my wife have you. This is Lady Lamb.”
ALAN FRAME
30 July 2026
