Last Friday evening I rolled down the
blinds in my living room to block out the blazing sunshine, so that I could
watch the Ireland game. Not the slightest trace of guilt ran through me, even
though I could have joined the Snapper, who was sitting outside, drinking a
glass of wine and revelling in the beauty of a Summer’s evening in the West of
Ireland.
To be fair to myself, I’d spent
many hours working and walking outside during that beautiful spell of weather,
and know my own signs of having had enough: a slight sting from the skin on my
forehead when it meets the salt in a bead of sweat and it’s time to seek
shade.
No offence to your boys in green,
but as a lover of football it’s unusual for me to either look forward to or
subsequently enjoy watching Ireland play, yet for some inexplicable reason I’ve
watched pretty much every game they’ve played in the last 21 years. Mind you,
I’d have to be a cynical bore not to have loved being crammed into Keoghs pub in
Ballyconneely, like a nut in a bag of beery muesli, experiencing the beating of
Italy in Giants Stadium back in 1994. When Ray Houghton’s goal went in, the pub
and nation went mental as one, creating a truly memorable sporting thrill in my
happy pantheon.
While I cheer for your lads, I’m
loyal to my own. If England are playing and on tele at the same time as an
Ireland game, my loyalty is to your auld enemy. Sadly, my love of football is
rarely sated significantly more by my lads in white than your own.
Almost as soon as last week’s
game started, my brain switched off. The Faroe Islands players made it
abundantly clear that they had no desire to score a goal. In their minds victory
existed within the parameters of how great or feeble might be their defeat. The
game was going to be a non-competitive bore.
To pass the time I sent a few
texts to some of my Irish friends who I imagined must be watching, but no:
Dalooney was playing on Inishturk, the Quinnster was having a barbeque and quite
rightly, everyone else was out, living their lives, enjoying the wondrous
evening that was in it, as you are wont to say.
So why was I feeling a loyalty to
the Ireland team that so many of my Irish friends didn’t?Indeed, why was I
repeating a pattern of behaviour that once brought me much pain when I lived in
north Mayo?
Back then, on another baking hot
Summer’s evening, I sat alone in the empty McHale’s pub,
watching the crushing bore that was Ireland v Andorra, as surprised then as I
was last week to discover that the Irish celebrate being Irish by being outside
when the sun
shines in Ireland.
Months after, when Ireland met
the mighty Spain in the World Cup itself, I drove to the pub excited with
anticipation. This was why I’d watched all those qualifiers. Today was the stuff of footballing
dreams. The pub was packed to the gills, and as I walked in a hulking great
eedjit at the bar - a Hoops fan with more cider than cerebellum - raised his
arm, pointed his finger at me and bellowed as a clap of thunder
“No! You! Fuck off!”
Even though there were a plethora
of friendly faces around the bar, the thug had disarmed me. Never mind the fact
that I’d watched every game his national team had played, while he’d been out
bush drinking or picking his teeth with his toenails, I was defeated by the
first blow.
I just couldn’t be bothered.
Miserable and wretched, I went home to watch the game on my own.
Sometimes I feel so English here
in the West of Ireland, yet nowadays when I go back to London, I feel far from
home. A couple of weeks ago myself and the Snapper went over for my lovely
sister’s 60th birthday lunch. Giving consideration to our funds and work
timetables, we figured out that the best way to do it was to spend the night
before at an hotel near Shannon airport, catch the early morning flight to
Heathrow and the evening flight back. We’d be home by midnight and could take
the next day off to recover. We even joked that we were flying
to London for lunch. Dwaaaahhling, look at us and our jet set ways!
I was so pleased to be there. We
had a fantastic time among my small family and sister’s close friends, but the
otherworldliness of the setting blew me away. In the heart of the plush gardens
of Holland Park, the restaurant appeared to me exceptionally grand and splendid,
whereas to those who lived in London it was just another nice place to go.
At
times, even though I was in the city of my birth, the place seemed somehow alien
and utterly remarkable. I was less impressed that Marco Pierre White was the
executive chef than I was with the old building’s sweeping arches, huge ceilings
and gigantic artworks. Apparently the place had been a huge hit in the Swinging
Sixties, and I could just imagine Marianne passing a joint to Keef while John
and Paul tripped the acid fantastic right
where we were sitting.
“So when are you flying back,
Charlie?” asked one of my sister’s friends.
“Oh we’re going back tonight! We just flew
over for lunch actually!” I replied, laughing along with the Snapper at the very
idea of it.
But the Londoner just nodded and
smiled, because to him there was nothing unusual about such behaviour.
It struck me then and occurred to
me once more during that Ireland game that I have become neither more Irish nor
less English after 21 years of living here, but the Londoner I once was has
become more of a yokel.
Or should that read
‘culchie’?
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