Michael Flatley was asked by the organisers to fill 10 minutes while the judges were marking a staggering 32 songs. The resulting interlude was greeted with apocalyptic applause that overshadowed the entire contest, which begat the stage show. One of the biggest rumours amongst media whores in London is that Michael Flatley can suck his own dick, but I refuse to believe it. Like the IRA in the 70s, they targeted pubs - but instead of bombing them, they filled them with bits of crap on the wall like spinning wheels and shovels, whacked on a Chieftains LP, and called it O'Neills, or Brannigans, or some such. You couldn't turn on the TV without horses running up cobbled streets or and playing shinty or jigging about as if they were being hung by the neck with their hands tied to their side.
Some Irish pubs are absolutely fantastic - but only the ones that are in Ireland.
The monstrosities that sprang up elsewhere stank like Molly Malone's wheelbarrow and were about as authentic as a Papal condom.