THE new Spar ad (other convenience stores are available) raised a wry smile in recent days.
Making his acting bow almost two years after hanging up the gloves for good, former boxer Carl Frampton embraces his inner Daniel Day Lewis, appearing wearied by public attention when screams go up in the distance – “I get this all the time” – only for the excited hordes to skip past on the way to grab their groceries.
Looking at Frampton’s face, though, he even appears slightly uncomfortable playing the role of the bemused superstar, so at odds is it with the down to earth personality that endeared him to so many during a glorious career between the ropes.
It brought back memories of a couple of instances, away from the television screen, when that humble nature was put to the test.
Carl’s second child was born around the same time as our daughter – mid-November 2014.
We were on the same ward in Belfast’s Royal Hospital and, although I’d interviewed him a few times over the phone during his early days as a pro, this didn’t feel like the right time to renew that acquaintance.
“Remember three years ago I asked what Mark Quon brought to the table? You… you said you were expecting a tough test? No? Did I mean NOTHING to you?!”
So I let the man go about his business.
However, the following morning - on the way over to the Busy Bee shop inside the main building – there was a familiar figure moving the same direction 50 yards ahead.
Bear in mind that two months earlier Frampton defeated Kiko Martinez on a defining night at the Titanic Slipways, ripping the Spaniard’s world title away in a dominant display. From a public perspective, his stock had never been higher.
Yet hospitals are a funny place where fame doesn’t come into the reckoning, a certain decorum observed because nobody can make assumptions about why anybody else is there.
And so, one by one, people would walk past the Tigers Bay man, a discreet-as-possible double take but leaving it at that - then, the second he had passed, animatedly turning to each other, all wide eyes and nodding heads.
"Did you see who that was?”
All the while Frampton walked on, blissfully unaware of the attention, concerned only with grabbing a much-needed coffee after the sleepless night before.
The setting for the next story is at Starbucks in Castle Court, not long before Frampton was due to finally face English opponent Scott Quigg in early 2016.
Given its proximity, Irish News staff would have been fairly frequent visitors to that branch. Around then, it seemed to employ a high proportion of foreign exchange students whose lust for life didn’t always meld with the skewed brand of joie de vivre before them.
Long-haired latte lover Vito used to smile when he saw us coming, knowing there were a few Manchester United fans among our number and - with the Louis van Gaal era trundling towards a sorry conclusion - we seldom had our troubles to seek.
Born in the late '90s, and raised in Russia, Vito obviously supported Manchester City.
One day, a colleague was towards the back of the queue when she spied Carl Frampton about to place his order. What unfolded next must have left him wondering whether to leave the house ever again.
Persisting with the cringe-worthy custom of writing names on cups as some faux nod to consumer familiarity, Frampton was asked the dreaded question, same as anybody else. No clue who he was, no problem to ‘The Jackal’.
“Carl,” he replied in that low Belfast brogue.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that…”
“Carl,” came the latest response, voice raised ever-so-slightly for added clarity.
“Charles?”
“No… Carl…”
With sphincters tightening and cheeks reddening all around, another guy in the queue had seen enough.
Like the late Mills Lane jumping in to stop a merciless beat-down, this punter couldn’t, in all conscience, allow the student barista to dig deep and go back to the well once more.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, frustration oozing from every pore before the intervention reached its crescendo.
"It’s Carl f**king Frampton!”
Middle name and all. Put that on your cup.
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SPLIT SEASON THE UNLIKELY SAVIOUR OF McKENNA CUP
THE Dr McKenna Cup used to feel a bit like post-Christmas dinner indigestion – a staple of the festive period, you knew it was coming, but you also knew that no amount of Rennies or loosening of the belt could make it go away.
There was something about inter-county action in the depths of winter that didn’t feel quite right; like being privy to what amounted to little more than a public pre-season where boys blew black fumes from the exhaust and rolling subs ruled the day.
The O Fiach Cup – previously held in December - took it a step further, to the point that former Down boss James McCartan, ahead of a 2013 game in Crossmaglen, scrunched his face before asking journalists the existential question.
“What are you doing here?”
No answers were forthcoming.
When the McKenna Cup was a casualty of Covid in 2021, and with a sparkly new split season voted in, it appeared the death knell had finally been sounded for all pre-season inter-county competitions. Long viewed as an unnecessary luxury in the calendar, evolving circumstances had forced them beyond the point of usefulness. Sorry boys, that’s just the way the world turns.
And yet, as we enter 2023 off the back of a first full, uninhibited split season, the McKenna Cup and its kin are still here – their collective skin seemingly saved by the enlightened new arrangement as supporters thirst for a first taste of county action since July, with over 4,000 rocking up to the Athletic Grounds for Armagh’s opener against Antrim on Wednesday night.
It has taken on greater significance from a practical perspective too, with counties keen to hit the ground running ahead of a condensed season. Antrim, Donegal, Down and Monaghan began the year with new management teams, and only a limited time to find their feet.
The next few weeks could prove invaluable to Andy McEntee, Paddy Carr, Conor Laverty and Vinny Corey, as well as the rest bidding to get ducks in-a-row before the League lands and a sprint to the finish commences.
