Who is your favourite stand up comedian? Can you nail it down to one? Not a hope I would venture. If absolutely pressed, the best yours truly could do is narrow it down to a shortlist of four – Peter Kay, Dermot Morgan, Tommy Tiernan or Brendan Grace.
If the gun was then absolutely put to the head, the artist formerly known as Father Ted – and Father Trendy before that in a previous parochial posting. Primarily because, as well as the unusually fashionable and ‘normal’ priests, the majority of Dermot’s work was based around political satire.
Thence did one learn about the comings and goings of CJH and Maaara and Dessie O’Mahhhhley and other peoples’ adventures in public parks late at night. Or, my personal favourite, “Michael D. Higgins…the D’s for dodgy!” The latter came back to mind during the past week as disgusting details emerged of how the disgraced DJ Carey committed the worst kind of fraud, deception and preying on victims this writer has ever come across.
I say that so as to distinguish between Carey and, for example, Oscar Pistorious who, bile-inducing though his heinous slaying of Reeva Steenkamp was, only had one victim and family and group of loved ones put through the wringer.
In contrast, even after his admission of guilt to what I think were ten counts of fraud and/or deception, unless there is a longer trial, which can only happen if/when more witnesses come forward with new admissible evidence, we may never know the full number of victims thrashed by the grotesque Gowran gangster.
There really are no redeeming features here. The fact that Carey was in the top handful of hurlers ever to pick up an ash stick isn’t worth the paper it might be written on.
Look, every one of us at some point or other chance our arm to some degree if we think we can get something out of it. But there’s pushing boundaries and then there’s crossing a line into the realm of downright evil.
I cannot believe the above description has just been affixed to somebody who was once one of my most admired sportspersons. Again. The difference between DJ and Pistorious, though, is that there were genuine ambitions of meeting the Kilkenny man. Until now.
Denis Joseph Carey. DJ. Affectionately known as ‘The Dodger’. A winner of everything there is to be won in hurling. Also decorated in handball and, by all accounts a gifted golfer.
‘The Dodger’ could now be changed to just plain ‘Dodgy’. Not only due to the fact that his nefarious dealings caused the failure of businesses and relationships. Also, owing to the fact that he engaged in the most egregious, evil, fraudulant, heartless trail of deception many have ever come across.
There’s not a family in Ireland – or probably anywhere else in the world – who haven’t been touched by cancer at some point. Indeed, yours truly is, at the time of typing, waiting on test results of that nature.
Admittedly, the matter at hand is at the lowest end of the scale of such things, but that doesn’t make hearing the damn word in relation to yourself or anybody else any easier.
Then, you’ve a wrong one like Carey sticking a phone charger up his nose mimicking an oxygen mask as a means of conning genuine, caring, well meaning people out of their hard earned out of nothing else other than greed.
Now, it would be bad enough to be dealing with such dross at any team, but the of Carey’s outing could scarcely have come at a worse time. At a very mundane level, relatively speaking, you can only imagine what it must have been like for his son Mikey, preparing for an All Ireland SHC semi final last week with his father’s dirty linen being aired in full public glare.
As it happened, Mikey Carey had his best game yet in a Cats jersey against Tipp but – aside from the impact all the dung coming out would’ve had on those around DJ – what really made this writer’s blood boil was placing his carry on against the backdrop of poor Ciara McGeean actually being diagnosed with the vile thing, all the while knowing that the other bollox (excuse the French but it just makes me so damn angry) faking it for a sympathy vote just because he couldn’t manage his own responsibilities in life.
Words cannot describe the turmoil Ciara and her family must be going through since the news broke and indeed before she took the brave decision to publicly reveal her diagnosis. In the 33-year-old Portaferry lady we have a real sporting hero, a national treasure and the essence of what a role model should be.
You might often ask yourself what’s in a name, well, it can only be assumed DJ being labelled ‘The Dodger’ had something to do with his skill at evading defenders. But, away from the hurling field, it appears he was that way inclined in terms of his fiscal responsibilities too.
Not so much The Dodger as just plain dodgy. Shame on him. But every good wish to Ciara.
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