LOCKER ROOM/Tom Humphries: I am indebted (as they already know) to the soothsaying community for their dire warnings and auguries as to the consequences of the GAA permitting several games of soccer to be played in Croke Park. Furthermore, I agree that these consequences have hitherto been unforeseen by "fathead liberals" such as myself. Indeed we in the fathead liberal community now acknowledge ourselves to be a caste who "have nothing better to do all day" than sit around making snide comments about things we know nothing about.

I now accept that, in the event of the GAA deleting Rule 42 of Holy Writ, the snakes which St Patrick once thoughtfully banished from this isle shall return in abundance, and truly they shalt thrive (and perhaps look) like lawyers in a lengthy tribunal.

It is my understanding now that in the event of the wanton deletion of Rule 42 there shalt be a most of it and a least of it. The return of the snakes shalt definitely be the least of it. The following, which represents the most of it, is also inevitable:

That the infidel soccer team which represents the hyphenated nation of Enger-land shalt play at Croke Park whenever it suits them. Big matches. Friendlies. Garden fetes. Bloody liberties shalt be taken by the great Satan. In their perfidy, the fans of Satan shalt wave Union Jacks on Hill 16 and people like me will be forced to "see how we like it then".

There shalt be no room in the calendar for the practice of the Gaelic past-times of football, hurling and camogie. In fact, following the pogroms of Irish speakers by this column's West Brit friends (we reject the soothsaying community's crude allegation of greater intimacy with West Brit friends), there shalt be further pogroms, and again this column shalt be forced to see how he likes that. Verily, he shalt like it less than he would like a pointy stick in the eye.

There shalt be a general razing of the dominion which we now know as the northside. As areas go it shalt be no go. A no go area. Would you want to go? No. Thank you, but no. When the Union Jack-waving fanatics from the great Satan are done with it, shalt the northside still be a resort area? No.

Even the near southside shalt be affected and a bijou hut of mud and wattles near Rathgar selling for €75 million will linger on the IT property pages for more than a fortnight.

There shalt be floodlights. They shalt be erected upon pylons which grow like beanstalks from the doomed, cracked earth. The floodlights shalt beam like pagan suns to suit the "bloody soccer crowd". To the Gael they shalt be too dazzling to be gazed at with the naked eye and all good men and women who do so gaze shalt be struck blind. They shall wander the northside bumping into each other. Thus the fabric of society shalt come undone quicker than a fat man's Lenten fast.

There shalt be no virgins and all young women will take on the wall-eyed appearance of herrings. Roll mop shalt be considered a fashionable look. Mackerel shalt be deemed sluttish. That shall not be a bad thing.

The soccer crowd shalt have "first call" on all facilities belonging to the Gael. The rental from all such arrangements shalt be capped at "30 pieces of silver". How many days' luck shalt the GAA have with these 30 washers? Not one.

Clubhouses shalt be desecrated by the staging of orgies, pagan ceremonies and hurley-burning events. Yes, verily there shalt be a great hurley burny throughout the land. Only collaborators like this column shalt be invited to the orgies. Verily it is written that they shall contract "the pox" and the "knob rot". After that no mackerel will touch them.

Speaking of. Like a slap in the face with a knob-rotting slut of a mackerel shalt be the sensation enjoyed by the long-suffering Croke Park residents. How much more can they take? When they came to view the house, the estate agents hid the huge stadium behind a painting of some dogs playing billiards and smoking cigars. The long-suffering residents fell for it to the extent that they now think they were there before the stadium was. Fair enough, but now this: Brits with floodlights! Cloven-footed, Union Jack-tattooed storm troopers of darkness defecating all over the place! Great and yet poignant will be the whirring noises from the graves of the dead patriots. Living patriots will wish they were whirr. Learned men shall meet in catacombs and discuss whether the anguished dead spin in the manner of compact disks or rotate quickly like chickens on a spit.

There shalt be no saints or scholars. No saints. Just Pat Dolan's SuperSaints who will bestride our world like a colossus up whose shorts we can peek. No scholars. Damian Duff's educated left foot shalt receive a doctorate and enjoy a lucrative life as a speaker in US universities. It shalt be invited onto the telly to debate The Wolfe Tones on matters of national importance.

The GAA will grab every penny? Of course they will. Or else they shalt be too smart. Soccer is a Trojan horse. The GAA is wary of geeks bearing gifts. The GAA weren't born today nor yesterday? When did they arrive? Not in the last shower, certainly. Not down the Liffey in a bubble. Perhaps overnight, when the Croke Park residents weren't looking. Anyway. The soothsaying community seems divided on this acquisitiveness business.

All agree on this.

There is a whirlwind. Will it be reaped? Wasn't that a Neil Young song? Only Frank of the Holy Combover can save the earth. Frank should wear his underpants outside his slacks in the manner of the superhero. Holy Modernities! To the BatMobile Frank! In the event of Frank putting his holy finger in the leaky dyke, shalt the soccer crowd cease and desist from the promotion of their evil lifestyle? Of course they shall, and great (agus as Gaeilge) will be the rejoicing. Shalt they spend their money elsewhere? Not at all, they willst to impoverished hurley makers give it. Will Sky Sport continue to pollute the blessed airwaves? No. It shalt be all Micheál, all the time. With breaks for the Angelus and reruns of four-hour speeches from Frank of the Holy Combover.

How shall we like that? The soothsayers care not how we shall like that.