fcuk Blanchardstown. No, it's not a misprint, but rather a new form of "retail therapy" - courtesy of the British draper French Connection, which recently opened a new store at the west Dublin shopping centre. The firm already has a shop at the Powerscourt Centre near Grafton Street and another in Cork, and plans to open a further outlet in Dundrum's new town centre.
Despite the name, French Connection's "leisure wear" is unlikely to be worn by Francophiles. The company is notorious for an advertising campaign based on the serendipitous word-play produced by abbreviating its name: FC UK. During the summer, French Connection plastered its shop windows with posters declaring, "fcuk for England". The aim was to boost public support for what the broadcasting motormouth Jeremy Clarkson described as "David Beckham and his boyfriends chasing an inflated sheep's pancreas round some field in Portugal". The team duly obliged by crashing out of the Euro 2004 championships.
Dismayed at the coarsening of commercial speech, hundreds of complainants approached that toothless old watchdog, Britain's Advertising Standards Authority - a strategy as effective as petitioning the Irish Anti-War Movement to influence the Pentagon. The company received a mild ticking-off and carried on with the campaign, supported by enthusiastic shoppers.
"Never underestimate public taste" is the great truism of contemporary marketing and clothes bearing variations on the fcuk theme are cheerfully worn by millions of teenagers, as well as the swelling ranks of mutton-dressed-as-lamb adults.
The brand is highly visible and initially startling. Walk through any busy town in Ireland this afternoon and you'll almost certainly see the logo. Tee-shirts carrying the legend: "Too drunk to fcuk" seem especially popular with men old enough to know better, but there is no limit to the anagrammatic creativity of the boys (yobs?) at French Connection.
Apart altogether from the brand's puerile and tiresome "shock" value, its contorted celebration of incoherent British nationalism makes it an unlikely success in Ireland. Admittedly, use of the term "UK" has been growing in Ireland, with people now often citing it as a destination when, in fact, they are travelling to England or somewhere else in Britain. No one, except possibly Jeffrey Donaldson, boards a Belfast-bound train at Connolly Station to go to the UK. But wearers of fcuk garb are unlikely to be concerned with such geopolitical subtleties.
Last week, following news that the brand's sales had fallen by 18 per cent in the past three months, a spokesman assured Irish customers that there was no threat to stores or jobs on this side of the Irish Sea. The drop in business - a "minor glitch" - was ascribed to "a momentary screw-up with this season's winter clothing range", which had led to the company's senior buyers being replaced. F-ed out after f-ing up, perhaps?
The most rational explanation for the brand's popularity in Ireland may be that it panders to our national predilection to speak with a "filthy tongue". This condition was once easily treated by the sharp application of a Mercy Sister's bony knuckles to the side of the afflicted cranium. Alas, where are the nuns when we need them most? But the British appreciate our talent for swearing. Indeed, they can't get enough of it.
When Bono addressed their Labour Party conference in Brighton (a relief after days of North Korean-style droning) the advance script suggested that delegates were in for a load of "horse***t." Perhaps realising that something more risqué would be expected from what one newspaper called "Irish nobility", our hero switched to "bo**ocks" on delivery. The star-struck audience, which included Prime Minister Blair and the Chancellor of the Exchequer no less, laughed delightedly and applauded warmly.
The indignant rocker is an amateur, however, by comparison with Ryanair's Michael O'Leary, a man whose salty oratory would make a naval rating swoon. He used the "F-word" 14 times at a recent press conference - presumably referring to British Airways' high f*r*s" - and is considered an absolute hoot by City analysts.
But the most admired user of strong language must surely be Colin "I'm so glad I'm f***in' Irish" Farrell. The N*w* of the W*r*d devoted extensive and breathless coverage to the "A-list movie hunk" enjoying a soirée at Stringfellows nightclub in London where he was smitten by a "glamour model." "A what?" you might be wondering. Well, a supermodel is a lady who won't get out of bed for less than £10,000 and a glamour model won't get into it for less. Fashion "designers" pick up the tab for the supremos; salacious tabloids pay the glamour pusses.
There was no suggestion of any impropriety on the part of Mr Farrell. Far from it. "Gorgeous" Stacey Watson said he "was the perfect gentleman." On hearing about her job, this thoroughly modern Mr Darcy declared: "I'm not surprised, you've got a lovely pair of f***ing t**s".
A stickler for detail, he further observed, according to the NOTW, that she had "a great peachy a**e", which he then soundly smacked.
She said she'd normally slap a man's face for such behaviour but realised in the nick of time that she was dealing with a "celebrity" and spared herself social disgrace.
Instead, her awareness of Hollywood protocol reportedly secured an invitation to a tryst at a "plush" Knightsbridge hotel where Mr Farrell's suite was apparently subjected to feng shui. She recalled: "We tried various positions and as things got really heated that's when the cursing started again". A Tourette's-like torrent, apparently. She was not to know that one should never ask an Irishman to rearrange the furniture after he has taken drink.