Mayo have an All-Ireland ancient curse similar to the Red Sox jinx

Mayo's GAA team and their ongoing curse!

If the Boston Red Sox were to up sticks from Fenway, McHale Park in Castlebar would be an ideal place for them to go. Because, like the Red Sox for so long, the green and red of Mayo is cursed.

Some people believe it to be a literal curse. So the story goes, a priest was so appalled at the last victorious Mayo team's lack of respect for a funeral cortege that he hexed them all real good, and it would only be lifted when that team all took that great '45 in the sky. One of Mayo's surviving medal winners of that time Mick Mulderrig remembers the whole curse incident differently, as well as remembering the Truman Administration. "It's a load of crap", he reckons. In fairness, he has skin in the game.

What is certain though is that Mayo are congenitally incapable of winning any match called a final that doesn't have the words "quarter" or "semi" preceding it. 1996 and 1997 were heartbreakingly close affairs between Meath and Kerry respectively, and judging by the massive scrap that unfolded in '96, nose breaking too. 2006, which I watched in Westport at my friend's house, was not such a close run thing, Kerry making them look like eunuchs in a strip club. In 2012, I watched in Dublin with a lot of my Mayo friends as Donegal beat them, the only time I've willed Mayo to lose. But in fairness, I had skin in that game.

But this year, with me being safely abroad in Manchester and with Mayo facing the Dubs, I figured the mix of facing a team not wearing green and gold married with my absence from the home sod would mark a watershed in Mayo's loveable loser cache. The Irish Club in Chorlton where I watched did too, as green and red bunting at the bar draped above the Guinness and Magners drinkers in green and red jerseys underneath. Every time Dublin scored, a solitary enclave in the corner made any noise at all. When Mayo scored their goals, chairs were knocked dangerously askew.

But alas as the game went on, Mayo's chances of victory vanished like the half time spread of ham sandwiches. Goalkeeper Rob Hennelly, who if he weren't an amateur would have really earned his money out there on Sunday, was the real stand out player on the pitch. That was their trouble.

And so, as another All-Ireland Sunday night at the notoriously lascivious nightclub Copperface Jacks is bereaved of Mayo fans, there is still hope. Because while they don't have Sam Maguire there is one thing Mayo fans always have: next year.

Remembering the radiant Mira and her buzzing modern Facebook shrine

Remembering the radiant Mira Dabit

Facebook often throws up some strange societal phenomena that just were not situations a few years ago. Most of these revolve around a lot of people finding something out all at once. Things like announcing the end of a relationship can be incredibly awkward, and with birthdays your page becomes bombarded with well-wishes and tributes, which is of course a whole lot more pleasant. And so it was when I looked at the Facebook page of my friend Mira Dabit, whose birthday was Wednesday. It was absolutely festooned with messages.

That simple fact, people wishing Mira well on Facebook, shows another of its' peculiarities: Mira died last Christmas. She would have been 28 this year.

The presence of that page serves to both deflect and heighten that awful reality. Several months later and I've not really accepted that she's gone. Not even remotely. Every so often it'll cross my mind and it'll feel like recalling a nightmare, not something that actually happened. The fact her page is, even now, even several months later, constantly, consistently buzzing with interaction exemplifies how absurd the notion of her being gone is. Except, interaction isn't the right word. All the traffic is one way. You see the sort of things people are writing, even now, daily, and you realise it's not a Facebook wall anymore. It's a very modern shrine. The fact Facebook informs me of her birthday is an unwittingly cruel administrative anomaly.

I hadn't seen her in quite a while, and not having seen her in so long made it all the more unbelievable. She was in Washington DC, heavily involved in the Occupy movement there. Part of me still imagines she's still there, and that's the trouble.

DC was her final adventure, but she lived in many places. Conquered, really. She was from Ramallah, in Palestine. She was fiercely proud of that. She wasn't just a political activist but a historian and traditional storyteller. She loved her country in a way that was deeper and more multi-dimensional than anyone I've ever known. All too often patriotism is an ostentatious show of muscle. Hers was that of a passionate soul.

Outside of the Palestine question, (although not much was, for her) she held political views that I can only really call comically strident. She was the revolutionary's revolutionary. She once quoted Stalin at a workshop while on one of her legendary anti-capitalist tirades. In front of dozens of people. But disagreeing with Mira was never an impediment to getting on famously with her. She once teased me about becoming Taoiseach, and when I did she said she'd picket my office every day.

She also loved Derry. She really connected it with its upstart attitude, its culture, its people, and she called it her second home. Derry loved her too. When word spread of her passing there was a massive commemoration service, and people spoke at length about what she meant to them. And while the expressions were different, the sentiment was the same: everybody loved this effervescent,earnest, intense, fearless hell-raising Palestinian girl who felt like she'd be hanging round the Bogside all her life.

And so it continues, on her Facebook page and beyond, both as I speak and by the time you read this. In fact, in nine months, the tributes haven't stopped. I doubt they ever will.

Remembering two giants, Seamus Heaney and David Frost

Seamus Heaney

As I wrote recently, ten years ago I did my Leaving Cert. And while I mentioned many details of the day, one I didn't mention directly was my English exam. My Paper II's progress was eased dramatically by a question that could have been written for me (and I suppose, in a sense, it kind of was) in the poetry section: write a letter to Seamus Heaney outlining why you love his poems. Easy peasy.

My favourite poem then, as now, is Valediction. And it was to this I immediately turned to when I heard the news that he passed away last week. It closes, "You've gone, I am at sea. Until you resume command / Self is in mutiny". 

Self is in mutiny. It's simply put, yet blisteringly evocative. It's Heaney all over. And on Friday, I was a bit lost at sea. It's an odd feeling, to miss someone you never physically knew, and yet I wasn't alone in feeling that.

As news filtered through of Heaney's passing, my news filter was awash with people paying tribute, all of whom invariably posted their favourite poems of his as well. On a medium that's often noted for being shallow or frivolous, for Friday at least Facebook was a Xanadu of verse. It's a mark of Seamus Heaney's talent and influence that he was able to do that, although small wonder. For people of my age, he's one of the big reasons any of us have a favourite poem at all. 

While still reeling from the passing of Heaney, on Sunday I heard yet more sad news: the passing of David Frost. Frost was one of a handful of people that I saw doing something, and how they did it, and knew I wanted to do it too. The range of the programmes he made was stupefying. He could muck about with comedians like the Pythons or Peter Cook, and also have the ear of some of the biggest names in world politics (he supposedly once greeted a former UN Secretary General with the phrase "Boutros Boutros Ghali, always a pleasure!"). He presented shows all over the globe at a time when TV was very much a domestic affair. His shows were responsible for both the classic Class Sketch with John Cleese and the Two Ronnies, and a game-changing interview with Richard Nixon. He even gave Through The Keyhole, a show involving snooping in famous people's houses, an unlikely gravitas. Referring to his habit for frontier-breaking, he joked about potentially doing a show from space, and kept his sense of humour throughout his life even when he was the biggest of shots. He made an impression on the world.

Seamus Heaney and David Frost have both left this world. But while they were here they shaped it with loving craft. I'm very thankful for that.