I had a bizarre dream there one recent night. In Doctor Strangelove mode, a giant Mary Harney, laughing diabolically, was sitting astride a jet as it plunged into a gleaming superstructure marked ‘Bertiebowl’, the ensuing explosion reducing the Taoiseach’s great dream to rubble and dust. And guess what? When I awoke, it was September 11.

Spooky, eh? But I guess that’s what happens when you sprinkle mozzarella on your late night joint.

Still, the news that Bertie’s vision of a stately pleasuredome has not only been scaled down but will now require private funding if it’s ever to become a reality, came as no great surprise to yours truly.

Any concept so fundamentally twisted that it imagines the Irish people first and foremost crave something called a “velodrome” is clearly fucked from word go. As I said in a private letter to the Taoiseach when the plans were first unveiled: “I have detected no great public demand for some kind of national camel, velvet or otherwise, and suggest you blow this one out your arse for a start”.

Of course, the bastards wouldn’t listen and now we see where their grand hubris has brought us: named and shamed before the entire world as a country which can’t even build a gateway big enough to accommodate a fucking bus.

Pitiful Scene

I presume you saw the pitiful scene on the box: the lovely big coach of the UEFA delegation almost wedged in the gates of the government buildings, forcing the blazers to disembark and walk all the way up to Bertie’s front door.

So let’s recap: Ireland wants to host a major soccer competition and by way of convincing Europe’s decision makers that we really mean business, we show them a fantastic stadium in which soccer can’t be played and a green field where a stadium may never be built, and then we kick them off the bus and tell them the walk will do them good.

Well, hey, I’d say it’s pretty much in the bag, wouldn’t you?

Yet, ironically, all this unhappiness may ultimately be to the good. Now that the government has been forced to accept that it couldn’t even build a semi-detached house, the word has gone out that salvation will only be found in the shape of a white knight from the private sector. Preferably, a white knight with an extremely long and thick lance.

An’ ah thank the ladeez know jest who ahm a-talkin’ ‘bout.

Of course, I will have my conditions. First of all, the new national stadium will be called the Snortbowl and not only will GAA people be refused permission to play there, they will be shot on sight if they come within five miles of the joint. So leave your dumb Dub jerseys at home, losers, or face the ugly consequences.

The aforementioned velodrome is out too, on the basis that pushbikes are not an appropriate kind of vehicle for adults, apart from dreadlocked couriers, members of the Green Party and other sad sacks.

Scaling down of costs means that the Olympic-sized swimming pool is also a bit of a non-starter, I’m afraid. But the good news is that it will be replaced by a jacuzzi, sauna and relaxing “video room”.

Prominent mazoomas

While we’re at it, with excellent facilities already available to outdoor athletic types at venues like Tolka Park and the Carlisle Grounds, it seems to me that Dublin doesn’t really need another big sports field at all, at all. Consequently, where the football pitch would have been in Bertie’s frankly demented vision, the Snortbowl will see the construction of a Japanese-style “Love Hotel”, as well as a casino and movie theatre, the latter specialising in the latest independent productions from Los Angeles and Amsterdam.

However, lest cynics think that the Snortbowl’s commitment to sport will be anything less than total, it is with great pride and pleasure that I announce today that the complex will also play host to “Sam’s”, a sports bar featuring giant screens, a fine selection of Czech beers and many bowls of dry roasted nuts. And for all you budding Roy Keanes and Sonia O’ Sullivans out there, the good news is that “Sam’s” will also boast a pool table and dartboard. (Entry for over-21s only, of course).

Best of all though, Sam’s will be staffed entirely by tasty chicks in hot pants with prominent mazoomas - and, guaranteed not a camogie stick in sight - making it a mecca for the real, discerning sports enthusiast.

Dingbats who want to kick balls or hit each other with big sticks can just go and fuck off back to Bushy Park, where they belong.

Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq