TIPPING POINT:GAA moved to put that 'sledging' incident at the Laois-Armagh game back in its box but it just shows how partitionist this island actually is

EVER WONDER why it is Great Britain, as distinct from say, fabulous Britain? It is a centuries old term to differentiate the island of Britain from the “lesser Britain” territory which approximates to modern Brittany. So at a stretch it could be argued that four million Gauloises-puffers around that end bit of France are theoretically entitled to describe themselves as British. In the week that’s been in it, I just thought it might be useful to throw that into the mix.

Actually on face value, those green patriots from the renowned hotbed of militant republicanism that is Laois were on slightly shaky ground when it came to describing their orange brethren from Armagh as British. A pedant might point out that Great Britain is actually England, Scotland, Wales, a few hundred assorted rocks, but not the Isle Of Man or the Channel Islands. And definitely not the North of Ireland.

Hence the UK consists of the United Kingdom of Great Britain – and Northern Ireland.

But such literalness is to ignore the geo-political subtleties that those midland Montaignes no doubt had in mind when pithily describing their brothers in Gaeldom as “British bastards”. You see, over the years, the term “British” has become synonymous with the UK, and in many circumstances practically accurate, for instance in terms of Olympic team description.

That’s one of the most alluring aspects of language, its fluidity.

Anyway, since the county board Gaels of Laois and Armagh are brothers-in-Brit-hating-arms again, the Wittgensteins of Durrow and Portarlington can retreat to their philosophical ivory towers, safe in the knowledge their latest intellectual skirmish can officially be assigned to freedom-fighting history alongside Soloheadbeg and Crossbarry.

Unofficially, though, it’s a different story. Sam Johnson described language as the dress of thought. The GAA might have scrambled the words back into their bland PR box but the emotions behind them ain’t going to go away anytime soon. Insults are always most effective when niggling at a vulnerability. And only those living in cloud-cuckoo-land for the last half century, or those toeing the establishment line, can ignore how partitionist this island actually is.

Where Armagh probably realised they were on a loser was with the “racism” line. Most reports on the matter put the “R” word in quotes, partly for technical reasons, but also I suspect because no one really bought into it.

We have been here before. In terms of racial abuse, so much depends on the context. Luis Suarez calling Patrice Evra “negrito” a dozen times was offside. Tiger Woods calling Pádraig Harrington “Paddy” isn’t. David Cameron calling Enda Kenny “Paddy” most definitely would be.

At its dark heart, racism is about power, and the moronic need to denigrate others in order to bulwark whatever inadequacy fuels the insult in the first place.

The British jibes definitely got under the Armagh skins, and the residue of the controversy has revealed how widespread such digs are when teams from “down here” play teams from “up there.”

The partitionist vibe is clearly not all one way but it’s hard to escape the conclusion that much, if not all of it, is fuelled by a need to wind-up rather than do-down.

Throwing the racism label on that belittles genuinely sinister cases, something the GAA brass would do well to consider in the light of Ireland’s increasingly diverse society.

What the whole thing has clearly outlined though is that time, modernity, boom and bust, and all the rest of it has done nothing for the standard of GAA sledging. When it comes to the flower of Irish manhood, style and subtlety still count for nothing in the face of bludgeoning ignorance.

One hurling luminary’s favourite ploy was to place a battered forefinger under an opponent’s nose – this was in the pre-face mask days – and enquire of said opponent if he could detect the bouquet of his distaff sibling.

There are plenty that regard that stuff as hilarious, part of the game, the very essence of Wildean wit – especially when it isn’t directed at them. The world has got far too PC they sneer, uttering PC the way they would VD. And since humour is a very personal thing, and in the words of the old song, what cannot be cured love, must be endured love, then let them at it.

But in terms of quality sledging, the GAA stuff will always be a cumbersome broadsword compared to cricket’s rapier like thrusts.

Popular repute has it that the word sledging comes from Australian cricket in the 1960s but “banter” on the pitch is as old as sport. It just seems cricketers do it better. And the best cricketers don’t feel the need to it at all. Or if they do, it’s to deliver the perfect riposte.

This corner’s favourite yarn concerns Viv Richards, the swaggering, gum-cudding West Indian batsman, who would have to be in anyone’s top 10 for coolest sports figure ever. Sledging was not his style at all.

Instead he used to mosey down the crease, glance at whoever was bowling as if he’d just scraped them off his shoe, and then rap his fist off the bat to let the guy know what he was going to do to him.

However during his Somerset days, Richards was involved in a game with Glamorgan where the misguided bowler Greg Thomas got lippy after the great man missed at several balls.

“It is red, round and weighs about five ounces, in case you were wondering,” Thomas informed Richards who promptly hammered the next delivery out of the cricket grounds and into a nearby river. Sir Viv always had a rather lordly manner. He turned to Thomas and said: “Greg, you know what it looks like, now go and find it!”

But even the coolest character in cricket knew that sometimes you just have to make allowances for those not possessed of the same style. Famously during a Test match in the West Indies the renowned Australian mouth Merv Hughes tried to unnerve Richards by staring at him malevolently after each delivery. It’s hard to believe the Antiguan was unsettled by such cheap theatrics, and it was probably embarrassment as much as anything that made him blurt out.

“Don’t you be staring at me, man. This is my island, my culture. And in my culture we just bowl.” To which the mouth of the south came up with the admittedly pretty snappy riposte: “In my culture we just say f**k off.”

So all together – “What cannot be cured love-must be endured love – and now I’m bound for Queen’s County!”