I stayed up until after three in the morning watching the Super Bowl earlier this week, which, for a man who can’t explain what a ‘third down conversion’ is, represents some admirable dedication.

The game itself, where the Seattle Seahawks hammered the New England Patriots, was about as entertaining as watching paint dry on a gate, all field goals and punts and lads in massive helmets colliding with each other at a hundred miles an hour while I sat there eating like an American.

But the halftime show. Lord above. Bad Bunny, a Puerto Rican rapper whose real name is Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, performed almost the entire thing in Spanish, complete with sugar cane fields, a live wedding on stage, Lady Gaga popping up for a salsa number, and Ricky Martin because, well, Ricky Martin. He finished by listing every country in the Americas, waving the Puerto Rican flag and holding up a football with ‘Together We Are America’ written on it, while millions of people watched. It was not a performance mired in subtlety.

Turning Point USA had organised an ‘All American Halftime Show’ featuring Kid Rock as an alternative, which is a bit like offering someone a plate of warmed up Smash when they’re already eating gourmet quesadillas. Trump, watching from a party in Florida (where, deliciously, they were showing the actual halftime show and not the alternative), took to Truth social with the CAPS LOCK on to call it ‘absolutely terrible’ and ‘a slap in the face to our country,’ adding that ‘nobody understands a word this guy is saying.’ Roughly 500 million native Spanish speakers might quibble.

Bad Bunny had refused to tour the US all year over fears that ICE would raid his concerts, and at last week’s Grammys he accepted his Best Música Urbana Album award by declaring ‘ICE out!’ before adding ‘We are not savage, we are not animals, we are not aliens, we are humans, and we are Americans.’ Then he showed up on America’s biggest stage and sang in Spanish for thirteen glorious minutes.

The Artane Boys Band will need to up their game during the summer.

McSweeney’s on the move

Morgan McSweeney, of this parish, who essentially built a PM out of Keir Starmer from spare parts and sheer determination, has finally fallen on his sword. The Downing Street Chief of Staff from Macroom resigned on Saturday, taking full responsibility for advising Starmer to appoint Peter Mandelson as ambassador to the United States, a decision that has gone about as well as wearing a Kerry jersey in a Cork pub.

For anyone not following the saga, Mandelson was sacked as ambassador last September when it emerged that his so-called casual acquaintance with Jeffrey Epstein was more of a regular penpal situation involving leaked government information and payments running into the tens of thousands. McSweeney, who had championed the appointment, suddenly found himself holding a very poisonous chalice.

What next for the Macroom man? His family are Fine Gael to the bone. The man grew up playing football for Macroom GAA before heading to London as a youngster and somehow ending up running the country. These things happen. But if he had the skill and gumption to convince Labour to believe in itself again after Jeremy Corbyn’s failed asparagus revolution, you’d wonder if Simon Harris might be picking up the phone and seeing if he has any plans for the summer.

A sport for the layman

The Winter Olympics kicked off in Milan-Cortina last week, and if you’ve managed to ignore it so far, fair play, but I must alert you that the curling is on. For those unfamiliar, curling is essentially competitive mopping on ice, a sport that looks like it was invented by a janitor who got locked in cold storage and decided to make the most of it.

Two teams take turns sliding a granite stone down the ice while teammates frantically sweep the surface with brooms, shouting instructions that sound like they’re directing traffic in a car park. Essentially, it’s more like an activity you’d end up doing after a dose of magic mushrooms than a real sport. It is also, and I say this with complete sincerity, the greatest sport on television for watching while half asleep on a couch, which, given that most of us will usually only encounter it at 2am on Eurosport, is handy.

Once every four years, however, it is re-introduced to the masses during normal hours and it seems people can’t get enough.

It makes me think of all the other sports out there just waiting to be invented. If mopping can be so captivating, how about powerhosing, window-washing, cleaning sweeping or competitive sanding? It’s time for a fringe Olympics, if you ask me.

It’s a dog-eat-dog world

And finally, the internet’s most perfect video this week comes courtesy of the singer Craig David, who was dining at his overwater villa in the Maldives (as you do) when a flying fish launched itself onto the deck (as it does). Being a decent sort, David picked it up, gave it a pep talk (‘stay with me, stay with me’), and gently returned it to the ocean. Lovely moment. Circle of life restored. Then a massive red fish appeared and ate it in one gulp.

‘Ohhhhh dear,’ said Mr. David. It’s been that sort of week.