Super Bowl XLVI - An American spectacle (for some) in Ireland


Mr. O’Connor states that football “seems to fundamentally exist for the purpose of allowing American couch potatoes to continue their metamorphosis into farm animals by eating their meals out of ever-expanding buckets.” Next, he cites “the moronic exchange of cliches that passes for commentary, a never-ceasing torrent of irrelevance that passes for enlightenment.” Also, according to Mr. O'Connor, football statistics are “all bogus anyway. Never forget that 97 per cent of statistics are made up on the spot.”

Wow. Americans are fat, indolent, stupid and shallow creatures. At other points, the column intimates that Americans are self-obsessed and, even worse, blissfully unaware of our own self-obsession. Some concessions offered in the column – it is possible that Irish athletes too might use performance enhancing drugs and it is difficult “to scoff at the athleticism, nerve and sheer drama of it all” – could be read to evince that the columnist is attempting irony as he explicitly endeavors “to indulge in some Yankee bashing.” But I don’t think so. Then again, as Mr. O’Connor would probably point out, Americans don’t get irony.

Albeit begrudgingly, he intends to give watching the Super Bowl a go because “sport can still come up trumps; even sport of the American variety.” How gracious of him. Take it from me, Mr. O'Connor: please don’t. We Americans in Ireland, and the many thousands of Irish men and women who’ve clearly been led astray, are having Super Bowl parties into the wee hours of Monday morning in every corner of this island. And you’re not invited.