One for the Road column: Lost for a comeback

There was a term invented and popularised in the crazy old US of A during the big tangerine’s last term in office. It was called Trump Derangement Syndrome.

According to those who coined and wielded the phrase, Trump Derangement Syndrome was a worldwide psychological phenomenon that resulted in many millions of people developing an irrationally enlarged sense of the danger that the then-president posed to the world.

If you thought Trump might cause World War Three, that was a hallmark symptom of Trump Derangement Syndrome.

If you thought he was capable of inciting a civil war, you had yourself a classic case of Trump Derangement Syndrome.

And so on and so forth.

However, the phrase proved an extremely useful one for those who wanted to discredit people that sought to criticise the High King of Trumpistan.

As a result, the sort of attitudes that came to be categorised as symptomatic of a person’s pathologically delusional view of the president grew broader and broader.

Eventually the internet was flooded with memes that would show a picture of some celebrity, usually one who’d had the nerve to lampoon the unimpeachable president for some minor pornstar-related boo-boo he had made, over which would be written the words, ‘DONALD TRUMP BROKE MY BRAIN’.

As you can probably tell from my tone, I don’t think any such mental disorder ever existed. Rather, I reckon it was a very clever way for a certain section of America to defeat another section of America in all arguments relating to Trump’s seemingly never-ending string of gaffes, lies, indiscretions and abuses of power.

Its courtroom equivalent would be that of a judge dismissing a witness’s testimony on the basis that they are of unsound mind.

A sort of genius – albeit cynical and unconscionable – play by the political strategists who made it up.

Anyway, the reason I bring Trump Derangement Syndrome up is to point out the similarity between the way that America sees the overgrown oompa loompa and the manner in which Ireland, until recently, was split over Conor McGregor.

When McGregor started winning fights in the UFC, I loved him. As did basically every lad I knew.

About a year later, my ma was on the bandwagon. As was just about every woman I knew.

First and foremost he was an animal in the octagon. But, more importantly, he was larger than life.

Did he ever seem particularly virtuous? Not really.

But he was wile craic. Funny, quick and cool, he was the epitome charisma. And most of all, he was an Irishman on top of the world – and we felt like we were up there with him.

However, as time went on, we watched as he changed.

Whether his personality was mutating, decaying or simply revealing itself, I don’t know.

Whatever was going on, though, he was punching aul fellas in pubs, making weird and aggressive remarks about opponents’ partners, and there was already a rumour doing the rounds that, in retrospect, was consistent with the rape allegation that recently seen a civil court force the former UFC champion to pay Nikita Hand £210,000.

As his fall from grace accelerated, becoming more ugly, pathetic and absolute, instead of continuing to love him from a place of patriotism, I thought it was incumbent on each Irish person to disavow their loyalty to the man who we once regarded as our patron saint of kicking arses.

Despite this, there were still plenty whose infatuation prevented them from seeing the kind of character he never missed an opportunity to show himself to be.

Now, though, I think that spell has been completely broken.

But if you still think he’s worth defending, I won’t call you delusional. But I’d be very interested to hear your reasons why.