Spud Hughes is a hard man to get hold of in any hemisphere or timezone. That’s how it is with international entrepreneurs and media moguls. My appointment with him was at 7:30 this morning, Eastern time, and it is fair to say I was hardly awake and barely dressed by the time I struggled on to Skype fifteen minutes late.
“You’re a holy show” Spud declared, as he watched me run my fingers through my haystack hair and wipe the gunge from the corners of my eyes. He got the expression from his mother, the blessed Eileen. My father would have termed it an unholy mess.
Holy show? Unholy mess? They both mean the same thing. Are they also an everyday example of the differing perspectives and use of language between the Catholic and Protestant peoples of Northern Ireland? Discuss.
Am I focusing on the wrong thing here? Is this less a matter of sectarian linguistics than an inconsiderate male attack on female early morning appearance? True, I had not taken the trouble to hide my bingo wings; hoist my bosom closer to chin than shin; or mask my eyebags. But then neither had he and he’d had his breakfast. I made no comment on his aspect.
On what grounds should I take umbrage? Discuss.