So Seamus McEnaney is off to bring his hot-stepping brand of fun to Meath. His Royal Bantiness. Right from the off, it won't be easy for him. The border between Monaghan and Meath is only about five miles long but unless he wants to go cross-country, he'll have to drive through either Cavan to the east of it or Louth to the west of it to cross that border. As we north Monaghan sophisticates like to muse over our poitín martinis (hold the olive, heavy on the crushed nettles), if them south Monaghan hoors were any more awkward they'd give themselves a black eye trying to kick their own arse.

We'll wave a fond enough adieu to the Banty for a couple of reasons. The obvious one is actually the lesser one but it still merits saying out loud. He brought us some cracking good times – at least one trip to Croker most summers, a chance to grumble at the lack of an All Star just about every year except 2007 when they went and gave one to Tommy Freeman. Of course, we still found a bone to pick even then, pointing out that if anyone had been watching at all at all they'd know that Tommy was actually long overdue one and hadn't been as good in '07 as in '05 and '03. But hey ho, that's the Dublin media for you.

No, the main reason we'll tip the hat and bid the road rise to meet him is because that's what we invariably end up doing with just about all our sporting sons in the end. We Monaghan folk are a very giving people, always have been. Indeed my mother used to hang around with one of the Boomtown Rats (true story!) and I've always assumed that at least a germ of the idea for Live Aid was planted by her. Never mind that she's a Cavan woman by birth, she's Monaghan by the grace of God. You're welcome, Africa.

History is littered with examples of men who brought glory to colours other than our own. It started all the way back at the turn of the 20th century with John Cecil Parke from Clones. Never mind your Pádraigs or your Gilesys or your Sonias, JC Parke has as strong a claim as any to have been Ireland's greatest ever sportsperson. He represented his country in five different sports (okay four, plus chess). In rugby, he captained Ireland, earned 20 caps and was the first Irishman to kick five penalties in an international, a record that stood for nearly 30 years after he did it.

He was also a scratch international golfer and fine sprinter but it was in tennis that he really excelled. Parke twice made the semi-finals of the Wimbledon singles, both times losing to the eventual winner. In 1914, he was the sixth-ranked player in the world. In 1920, he was ranked fourth. He won the mixed doubles in 1914, the last time an Irishman won a title at Wimbledon. At the London Olympics in 1908, he won a silver medal in the doubles alongside Major Josiah George Ritchie and also picked up a couple of Davis Cups. All, alas, for Great Britain. You're welcome, your majesty.

Or take John McKenna of Glaslough, known to all in-the-know scousers as the driving force behind the early days of Liverpool FC. He was their first manager/secretary and got them elected to the second division of the Football League in 1893 without telling anyone else in the club.

He sanctioned the early modernising work on Anfield and oversaw the winning of the club's first major trophies, including the first league title in 1901. Heavily recruiting from Scotland – the first Liverpool team to play in the league didn't have one Englishman on it – he put together the first great Liverpool side and put down the roots of what stands today. He was eventually chairman of the club and, in time, president of the Football League. You're welcome, English soccer.

Plenty more too. Seán McCague and Páraic Duffy got bored winning things with Monaghan and went away off to save the GAA afterwards. Twenty-two years and counting since that last Ulster title. Tommy Bowe played county minor when he was 16 but then the rugby fairies spirited him away and Dick Clerkin has been left to carry the Monaghan midfield on his own lo these many years. You're welcome, Irish (and Welsh) rugby.

Even the hero of heroes headed for the hills. Barry McGuigan won a Commonwealth Games gold for Northern Ireland in 1978 but lost in the third round at the Moscow Olympics two years later when wearing an Irish singlet. When he won the world title in 1985, the bad-mannered pup said it was a victory for all Ireland, for all religions, for all sides. What about us, Barry? Us poor, down-trodden Monaghan folk with nothing to claim as our own but Paddy Cole and Big Tom? We give you to the world and what do we get in return? We get Gentle Mother, that's what.

A less self-assured people would have a complex about all this but honestly we're fine. This is what we do. So go ahead Banty, go with our blessing. Just, y'know, don't go winning the All Ireland with the bastards. We'll never be able to set foot in Louth again.

Poor old city more money, same problems

They can beat Chelsea but they'll still always be City. They can spend a Brian Lenihan budget cut on the best talent in the world but they'll still always be City. They can pimp out their big echoey stadium, create fanzones, even move their ticket office inside so that their supporters don't have to queue in the Manchester rain but guess what? They'll still hilariously, determinedly and without even really knowing it always be City.

Three defeats in a row, no clean sheet in seven games, a homesick star striker, players sparring on the pitch, senior players rocking out at a student party and now the manager saying that (a) "I will stay at City until they fire me..." and (b) "At the moment everything is against us, we are very unlucky." Oh, City.

When Roberto Mancini arrived to replace Mark Hughes, all sleek and stylish and modern, you can be sure nobody told him about Peter Reid and Howard Kendall and Brian Horton and Alan Ball. They all arrived at City as football men who knew what they were about and left it complaining about their luck. If Mancini doesn't oversee at least a win against West Brom today or United on Wednesday, the club could be looking for its fifth manager in three and a half years.

Don't ever change Man City. You're beautiful just the way you are.

mclerkin@tribune.ie