It is time to talk about Ming, and his Mong.
Think Ming from Flash Gordon – a white man who looks almost Asian because his greasy hair has been pulled so tight. I have no idea what Ming’s real name is. All I know is that every time I see him at the Dublin football matches, he is wearing the same clothes as last time, Papabear makes a lot of huffing and puffing noises, moves away from Ming, and has begun calling him Mong, quite loudly.
The stench is getting worse.
Ireland has been basking in a heatwave, and not just a namby-pamby one where it doesn’t rain for two days in a row, no a fully fledged, 30 degree, no rain for weeks now, sunshining, humid, fetid heatwave. What this means is that if you don’t wash, smell stale on a good day and wear the same heavy clothes for the last six months, do weed and don’t use deodorant, you will have a mong coming from you that is so smelly it is almost sweet, and can cause a grown man to sneeze with tears in his eyes.
This is particularly difficult at Dublin matches where the seats are tightly packed at Croke Park. Should you find yourself sandwiched between a group of Dubs, already sweaty from the mid afternoon sun, it is best if you take the necessary sanitary precautions, and wash yourself. Failing that, prepare to be left standing alone as the group, gathered in the smoking area at half time to dissect and discuss the finer points of the game, slowly take the necessary steps away from you in order to take good clean breaths of cigarette smoke, rather than your body odour.
Discussions on the matter continued way into the night at the pub, despite the fact that Dublin had overcome one of our arch rivals, the horrible Meath and it’s equally horrible followers in a match which saw Dublin fall apart in the first half, but come into their own in the second. It was tense, it wasn’t easy, we won the day but it was ropey for a while, yet the topic of conversation was what does Ming’s mong smell like, where does it come from, how can we extinguish it and who is going to say it to him.
Lilsister says it’s his jacket.
Californiadreamin says it’s weed.
Papabear says it’s never washing, ever.
The Clipper says it’s not using deodorant.
Pointyshoes says it’s an inherited problem – the house stinks.
Scarydancer says he’s just a filthy bastard, and I have to concur with that.
Who will be the one to say it to him?
Lilsiter says she doesn’t know him well enough.
Californiadreamin says the smell of weed doesn’t bother him and we’re all mad.
Papabear says he’s happy to say Ming your Mong is disgusting but he’s not the most gentle of people and we all say no to that.
The Clipper says it should be Californiadreamin or Pointyshoes as they’re his friends.
Pointyshoes says he is clean, it’s the smelly house he’s in, and you can’t say that because it’s his parent’s house.
Scarydancer sighs and I say it should be Californiadreamin because he can say I can’t smell anything but others have commented but Californiadreamin takes a sup of his burbon and declares he will not, under any circumstances, say anything to anybody. Then he asks if anybody is going to sing because if not he will kick off with some Eagles.
Thankfully the band come in and we can all pretend he never said anything about croaking up.