Well, what do we have here today, young’ns, to stick between our teeth and gums, salivating over a big wad of molasses-soaked tobacco chaw, counting back the days of our youth when life was simple again?

Seems like only yesterday I was working amongst the wee people of the Emerald Isle, they being mostly Catholic in the southern part of the country.

And there I was, standing tall in their misty midst, wearing a shirt that proudly proclaimed the colours of [one of] my alma mater(s).

The University of Tennessee in Knoxville.

Not far from Pigeon Forge, near to the place where adults and children alike enjoy the entertainment of Dollywood, named after Dolly Parton, who has one of the straightest, flattest roads in the county named after her, not to mention the cloned sheep, Dolly, also named in her honour but not for her road-worthiness.

‘Twas my boss, a fine fellow of the name of John Curran, if my memory serves me correctly (and after many a tiny sip of poteen, I can’t say my memory is what it was or or will be), who pointed at my shirt and asked what I was trying to provoke.

Were there rivals of the SEC (Southeastern Conference) there in our Shannon office I didn’t know about?

“Provoke?”

“Yes,” he said, half-angry, half-mockingly, “that jersey of yours is worse than anything you could put on to rile up the Munster or Leinster fans…you know that, don’t you?”

“I can’t say that I do. Is there something I’m missing here?”

“Missing? Yes! Eight hundred years of oppression! Have you not heard of the Orange marching down our streets, looking for trouble? Do you not know you’re working in Catholic country?”

I looked at my orange-and-white striped shirt, with a emblem showing an overlapped U and T. “It’s the colours of the University of Tennessee.”

“Not around here, it’s not. You might as well say you don’t want to work here. If you wear that shirt again, I’ll have to fire you. I’d suggest you go back to the hotel and change. Otherwise, I can’t promise what some of the guys here’ll do to you when no one’s looking!”

At least that explained why it appeared the waiter had spit into my Irish breakfast that morning.

So, you see, that’s the way it goes. We never know what kind of cud others are chewing on and mulling over.

A few days ago, I stopped at a petrol station to fuel my car and put food in my belly.

I parked next to a caravan full of young women who looked like they were on their way to a rally of some sort.

Pasted across parts of their vehicle were stickers that looked like a curly, capital letter – “A”.

Figuring them to be members of a sports team associated with the University of Alabama, I asked if they were fans of the Crimson Tide.

“Huh?” the leader asked me.

I pointed at the stickers on the caravan.

“Oh, those!” She and the other women laughed. “No, we’re not fans of the Crimson Tide. You see, it’s our symbol.”

I nodded, my turn to look confused.

“You know,” she said, and planted a big kiss on the lips of the woman next to her.

I might be dense at times but I can see Lilith Fair groupies when they spell it out for me. “But…”

“Yes, we know what you’re thinking. We were tired of the same old stickers that implied our gender preference. We heard that gay men now put Auburn stickers on their cars and wear Auburn colours to indicate their preference. We figured that we’d wear the colours of the rival to Auburn — the University of Alabama — to indicate ours.”

And I thought my orange jersey stirred up controversy.

Oh well, next thing I know, it’ll be the Manchester United scarf that represents the whole LGBT community.

Or that the 2012 London Olympics symbology is a cover for British members of al Qaeda, Red Guard and other gangs vying for “baddest of the bad” designation in mass media portrayals.

BTW, according to a journalist friend of mine, the government’s royal guard is secretly training an elite corps of prostitutes to act as supplemental entertainment for the Inner Circle and an outer line of protection against prying journalists and indiscreet hotel employees.