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Paul Galvin: We cannot have young lads looking at Messi thinking that kind of suit is a fun way to express yourself

Kerry's finest talks awards shows, fashion faux pas and the inevitability of a drunken stumble

by Paul Galvin | January 15, 2014

So Christmas came and went, the New Year came and is staying for a while, and now we’re all looking at each other with faces longer than the sleigh ride to Lapland (3,832.2 kilometres if you’re wondering and I know you are). What next? How do you muster a passing interest in life again when the pudding is gone and you’ve discovered a little pouch down by your nether regions like the one a kangaroo has for keeping joeys? Just how do you kill January?

With the Ballon D’or, that’s how.

It’s awards season everywhere*.

(*By everywhere I mean in two places: Hollywood and Zurich)

The Golden Globes were held in Hollywood and the Ballon D’or in Zurich. It’s all people seem to be talking about on the street*.

(*By ‘people’ I mean my Twitter followers, and by ‘on the street’ I mean on Twitter)

Just the job to pass the month. Ronaldo stole the show at the Ballon D’or this year but it could just as easily have been the Golden Globes. That D-Squared tux, those eyebrows, his son running on stage, his mother in the audience, the tears (below). Pure Hollywood drama and movie gold.

Ronaldo and mum

The Ballon D’or is the award given to the very best footballer on the planet or just the world depending on how given to hyperbole you are. Has an award ceremony ever generated more confusion than the Ballon D’or? I think not. So many questions.

Who will win it? Messi or Ronaldo?

Who deserves it more? Messi or Ronaldo?

Is there transparency in the voting process? Messi or Ronaldo?

Where is it on? Messi’s or Ronaldo’s?

And so on and so forth.

Political shit like that doesn’t interest me, to be honest. I have a few more searching questions. Pertinent questions that no one has the balls to ask. Questions that need answers. Questions that Twitter users the world over are vexed about.

Like the spelling. How do the hell do you spell it?

Ballon D’or or Balon D’or?

Ballon d’Or or Balon d’Or?

Ballon d’Oro or Balon d’Oro?

What the hell is going on?

Which is the correct spelling?

What even language are we talking here? French? Spanish? Gaelic?

Why is there not a síneadh fada on the Ó like in Irish? FIFA needs to just call it the ‘Golden Ball’ for everyone’s sake as Ballon D’or is a complete pain in the hole to write. Every time I go to write it I make a balls of it.

Lionel Messi suit

Grammar aside, there are other issues to be raised. The dress code, for instance. The must be, ahem, addressed. I’d like to know what the dress code is for the Ballon D’or. Is it or is it not black tie? If it is black tie (and I’m led to believe it is) then why is Leo Messi allowed show up in a burgundy suit (above)?

Burgundy be damned! Black tie is black tie. We can’t allow this kind of anarchy to reign in the world. People making their own choices in life, expressing themselves through fashion, enjoying how they dress, having fun with clothes! NEIN, NEIN, NEIN!!!

Messi 2013 Ballon D'or

Next thing we’ll have young boys being influenced by Messi and learning that fashion is a fun way to express yourself as an individual, a great medium through which to meet people, a way to start conversations, a healthy pastime and a viable career option. Dolce & Gabanna by Messi, if you fancy.

Last year was the same. Messi turned up wearing a polka dot blazer and bow-tie (above). Messi, Messi, Messi. Goldenballs himself. Does what he wants. Has to be different. He’s getting ideas above his station that man. Notions. He’s into the fashion now. Attending shows. Friends with Dolchaaaaay and Gabaaaaanaaaaa. Wearing red suits.

We wouldn’t put up with that shit here in Ireland. No sir. We’d mock Messi into submission in no time. He wouldn’t survive at the All Stars.

Anyhow the real point here is this freedom of expression must be tackled and destroyed before it gets out of hand.

My experience at the All Stars awards

Speaking of tackling and destroying, I’ve been to an awards show or two in my time.

Yes indeed. I’ve seen things. I’ve got stories. Most of which you could never print anywhere. Like that time the TV presenter walked past me on the way to the jacks, full as a monkey, and got a fit of staggering to his right hand side as he walked across the dancefloor.

His new route took him on direct course for an elderly couple who were old-time waltzing at their own leisurely, Junior B pace. Those of you who have been seized by this affliction, i.e, you have been told about it or watched footage of it the following day, will know that the thing about the sideways stagger when intoxicated is that the process is impossible to reverse once you lose equilibrium.


Essentially you are a human car crash waiting to happen (see above), a drunk slave to the velocity that is generated by the loss of balance multiplied by your own body mass multiplied again by your own useless, gormless, graceless attempts to reverse this hopeless loss of control, which in fact only accelerates the very velocity you’re trying desperately to decelerate.

Scattered like skittles

It’s a lethal and dangerous combination and, an example, if one was needed, of the dangers of walking too fast when full of drink. Always leave for the jacks on time is the lesson here. Do not rush as you’re sure to capsize. Speed in this case equalled distance to the jacks, over time spent drinking, multiplied by body weight.

To give it its correct scientific formula, SPEED = DISTANCE FROM THE JACKS ~ TIME SPENT DRINKING x BODY WEIGHT. The body weight in this formula being a variable which has a direct effect on the speed making each case study specific to the individual. But enough of the higher level maths.

Long story short, the inevitable happened and the elderly couple were met down the middle from behind, scattering like skittles across the dance-floor. My friend, the TV personality was lucky however. He could have had a nasty fall. Instead the clash straightened him right back up to equilibrium and re-routed him in the direction of the jacks.

My friend deserved an award

He didn’t stop to survey the wreckage. He had another piss to take. I laughed heartily as soon as I knew it was OK to. We wouldn’t be needing neck braces for the dancers which helped the laughing process no end. Had they been hurt we could not have laughed as much clearly. Both were assisted back to an upright position. It was the end of the dancing, but only the start of the laughing. A golden moment in the history of awards season.

If ever a man deserved an award it was my friend from television. Someone give that man a Golden Globe… Or a Ballon D….. Look, just give him the Golden Ball.

(This may or may not have happened. Similarities to any person or persons, dead or living, or events recounted here are purely coincidental)

Paul Galvin is a man from Kerry who plays a bit of football and writes. He can be found on Twitter here.

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