Brian O'Nolan was one of Ireland's most gifted writers, writing under a variety of pen names. As Myles na gCopaleen he wrote a regular satirical column in 'The Irish Times'. One of his great comic inventions was a series of misadentures involving the celebrated English poets John Keats and William Chapman. To mark the day, as an hommage to the great man, we present our own'Keats and Chapman' story in the Mylesian style.

The celebrated English poets Keats and Chapman were regulars at all the major hurling and football games in the early days of the GAA, being especially fond of Munster Final Day in Thurles, recalls An Fear Rua …

Chapman loved the thronging crowds, the smell of the sizzling burgers, the tanned girls in their thin summer sleeve-less tops and - most of all - the flowing pints of black, contemplative porter, served in a dark snug by a plump bar maid who was just ripe for pinching.

Keats was somewhat more fastidious. He stood out from the crowd, with his foppish attire - velvet smoking jacket, linen shirt and silk cravat in the colours of whatever county he happened to be supporting on the day. He minced gingerly over the pools of puke and discarded burger wrappers on Liberty Square.

The two made an imposing duo as they strode purposefully up the hill towards the ancient stadium; past Bowe's pub with its pavemented throng of good humoured rival supporters; past the ticket touts down on the train from Dublin for the day; past the sellers of county colours, past Pecker Dunne and the other musicians and on past the raucous hawkers.

Their favoured vantage point was right in the middle of the Killinan End, where they were often joined by a small group of poseurs - RTÉ journalists, barristers, obscure politicians and the like - down from Dublin especially for the day, pretending they were rubbing shoulders and roughing it with the authentic 'plain people of Ireland'.

One year, when Tipp faced Cork in what promised to be a nailbiting contest, the two had taken up their usual position and were nonchalantly waiting for the big match to begin when a tall, gaunt looking, dark figure appeared on the step just above and behind them. He had black, brylcreemed hair sleeked back from a high forehead, black bow tie, sparkling white shirt, black trousers pressed to a knife-edge and gleaming black shoes.

After a little while, the dark stranger produced a little brush and scoop and began dusting and plucking hairs and other detritus from the back and shoulders of Keats's velvet jacket. The poet pretended to ignore him, hoping that this was but a momentary aberration. Soon, however, nearby supporters from the opposing camps noticed what was going on and began making sniggering, ribald comments about the two men. The stranger, however, continued about his work with grim faced determination until Keats could stand it no longer.

In a low voice, seething with anger, he hissed to Chapman: 'Who is that wretched fellow behind me and why does he keep cleaning my clothes?!'

'Ah him', replied Chapman. 'Don't mind him. Sure, he's harmless. He's only the Valet of Sweet Slievenamon …'