The pitfalls of writing a newspaper column are many, not the least of them being the temptation to resort to a certain thumbs-in-the-lapel, let-me-tell-you stentorian pomposity. Modesty, we are inclined to think, is one of the Leeward Islands; reserve, a chap who sits on the touchline; and humility something you measure with a hygrometer, writes Kevin Myers
So I made a bit of a fool of myself the other day - something I've been doing quite a bit of recently - when I complained about Bryan Dobson on Morning Ireland addressing an Australian army officer by the American rank, "lootenant", instead of using our own and the traditional Australian pronunciation, "leftenant". I sniffed that in the BBC someone would have reproved him for his incorrect pronunciation.
Well, I now know - as Bryan has pointed out to me (rather warmly, as it happens) - the Australian was asked before the programme how he wanted to be addressed. He said "lootenant". But another Australian officer of the same rank said she preferred the pronunciation "leftenant". Well, the Australian army is clearly going to the dogs if it allows its soldiers to choose how to pronounce words. Pretty soon, NCOs will insist that you pronounce "corporal" as "sergeant major", and subalterns will insist that no, it's not pronounced "leftenant" any more, or even "lootenant", but "colonel".
Bryan wasn't the only one irked by my error; so too was the programme editor Shane McElhatton, who rather prides himself on knowing the difference between eft and oot, as one has to in his position. "Rioters last night lefted shops, hooting furniture onto the street. Police said there'd been much thoot of jewellery. One doot thief even plucked contact lenses from the owner's eyes. The victim later said she felt quite beroot. The chief of police said the city was now cloot in twain."
With such a blunder to my name, one could hardly blame the boss here for giving me the boot; and clutching my P45, I slunk off to RTÉ to take up position as head of news, a position for which I feel I am admirably suited. First morning in, I called Bryan Dobson to my office to put him in his place for once and for all. "You called, Sire?" he murmured.
I allowed him a long while to stew before putting him in his place.
"Dobson," I said, "this morning you referred to the President of France as Monsieur Chirac. I think even the dogs in the street - les chiens dans le rue, as we francophones say - know that Chirac is the prime minister of France. The President is Discard Le Shrink."
"O Celestial Sage, I think you'll find that it is 'la rue'. Furthermore, it is some considerable time since France had the misfortune to be governed by Giscard. The current President is, I think you'll find, as I said this morning, the former prime minister, and indeed the former mayor of Paris, Jacques Chirac."
Was this insect patronising me? "And what's this about the Australian capital being Canberra? Everyone knows it's Sydney."
"Hmm. Not quite correct, O Transcendent Oracle. It is a common error to assume that the largest city in a country must necessarily be its capital. Johannesburg is not the capital of South Africa. Pretoria is."
I barked a bitter and dismissive laugh. "Pretoria is in Ohio, oaf. Next you'll be telling me New York is not the capital of New York, ha ha ha." I wiped tears of triumph from my eye.
"I believe the town you are referring to is Peoria, Font of all Wisdom, and it is in Illinois, not Ohio. It was, as you know, initially founded as a fort by Lasalle in 1680, the first permanent American settlement occurring only in 1819. Moreover, the capital of New York is in fact Albany."
The dolt! Such utter rubbish! "I suppose you'll be saying that President Bill Carter wasn't governor of Arizona," I chortled in glee. "Game, set and match to me," I declared. "Dobson: fetch me some tea, take these boots, and get Goan to polish them: observe, now, the lieut one isn't looking so great.
Oh, and send in McElhatton."
The editor of Morning Ireland advanced into my office, bouncing his forehead on the impeccable Aubusson carpet. "You besought my presence, O Mighty One?"
"Yes, you liver-fluke. Who is this Anya Lalor woman?"
"It is Áine Lawlor, O Tyrant of the Main."
"That's what I said, you piece of used dental floss. Awnya Lawlar. Who is she?"
"Áine Lawlor is an exceptional journalist, O Despot of the Deep."
"Irrelevant. I want her off the air. Her voice has an unhealthy effect on men. Have you heard AA Roadwatch recently? We cannot have the nation's males in a state of arousal, crashing their cars on their way to work."
"As you ordain, O Paladin of the Airwaves."
"And send her to me. I want to teach her" - I paused to twiddle my waxed moustachios - "the difference between lieutenant and, ah, lieutenant." "Very good, O Valiant Liege-Lord."