The Spirit Was Willing, But The Facts Were Weak.

Now look. I’ve said before that I wouldn’t know a GAA star if one booted me into a fondue pot, and like Brian Lenihan’s status on amihotornot.com, no amount of clever spin will ever change that. I don’t wish to convince anyone that I know anything about Gaelic Football, or All-Irelands, or even County Kerry, which is somewhere pretty with cows as far as I can tell from those butter ads. Despite being as rural as a flat-capped ould fella chewing straw by a rusting gate, I don’t know a bloody thing about the G-double-A. I know about drinking cheap cider outdoors, the difference between the smells of silage and slurry, and all the words to Dire Straits’ “The Walk Of Life”, but GAA? I have about as much interest as an Anglo Irish savings account.

So it might be rather rich of me to snigger at poor Tadhg Kennelly, the Kerry footballer who was recently mortified to find out that his autobiography made him out to be a tactless thug, something that’s only acceptable in GAA circles when it’s lauded under breath by a puce-faced tactician in the dressing rooms.

An extract from Tadhg’s autobiography was printed in the Sunday papers, and it was only then that Tadhg noticed that his autobiography stated that his controversial early challenge on Cork’s Nicholas Murphy in the All-Ireland finals was premeditated, which of course it wasn’t, so don’t mind his autobiography.

“I gave an interview to the Australian ghost writer Scotty Gallon just a couple of days after the All-Ireland. I didn’t read it over as I should have,” Tadhg has since said. And in all seriousness, I appreciate that Tadhg has apologised for both the misrepresentation and the fact that it could have been avoided had he paid any attention to the story of his own fucking life: it does seem like nothing more sinister than a messy mistake. But for fuck’s sake, lads. It was his auto-fucking-biography!

Look, I know a good ghostwriter is as sought-after as any competent tradesman – I’m not suggesting there’s anything all that morally wrong with athletes not writing their own memoirs – but surely be to God you’d take more interest in the cobbling together of your life story than a hasty phone interview and an arse-scratch? It honks of money-grubbery* and an unhealthy interest in the Christmas market, does it not? I accept, too, that Tadhg and his ghostwriter may have been put under enormous pressure by the publisher to rattle through that book, but for God’s sake, can’t the “supposed” author insist on being allowed to pay attention to what words and deeds are credited to him?

Oh, bollocks to it. If you need a ghostwriter for your autobiography, then you probably should stop planning to publish one.

How’s about an authorised biography instead? That’s a decent middle ground; celebrities can stop pretending they’re literate, and ghostwriters can stop dumbing down their prose to fit the warblings of their chosen artless dodger. I’m beginning to think the rest of us should insist on it; if you’re not naturally a writer, then fuck off back to whatever it is you naturally do. I don’t go around bragging about my amazing backhand, then sending Serena Williams to play up at the Community Centre on my behalf. Being famous for something other than a natural way with words does not entitle you to become an author … not that agents/publishers will give me that one. And hiring someone to fabricate a way with words … Christ, it’s pretty sick when you think about it. You wouldn’t dub over John Irving’s MTV debut because he fancied a crack at choreographed yodeling? Would you?

Ghostwritten autobiographies. Oxymoronic…

… but not half as bad as ghostwritten novels, which make me fucking murderous. They do happen, despite what your inner sense of decency tells you. “Who would put forward a ghost-written novel, but Turd of Turd Hall?” you may ponder. And you’d be right. See exhibit A.

Pah. Feckin’ ghostwriters. I’d do it myself, don’t get me wrong, because I like money as much as the next glamour model. But I’d do it from behind a monocle and on a self-built pedestal, at the very least.

Not that any of this is useful to Tadhg Kennelly; humble pie tastes even worse when you bake it yourself. But his troubles may prove a worthy warning to another celebrity without a literary gift of their very own … If you want something done right, do it your fucking self.

*I’ve said grubbery here because it sounds so nice when you say it aloud, with a flourish. Give it a go! It’s my weekend gift to you.