PART 1:
1973-1985 (&2004)
The old fella’s family were from
Bandon, County Cork so he brought me up on a steady musical diet of The
Dubliners and The Clancy Brothers, which sort of made me stand out growing up
in Newcastle in the early 1970s, what with being the only 6 year old with a
beard and a tin whistle at school. Sports wise, he did his job properly as my
first football game (only Tories say soccer in England) was New Year’s Day
1973; Newcastle 2 Leicester 2. I don’t remember a thing about it though, as I
was only 8. By the time I turned 9, I started to understand the complexities of
the game a bit more and watched in disbelief as England failed to beat Poland,
who qualified for the 74 World Cup instead. My dad told me not to be upset,
because England were rubbish and that Ireland would beat Poland; sure enough,
the following Sunday a Don Givens goal defeated the Poles at Dalier and my
international preference was fixed for life. Two points; when Jack Charlton was
still kicking fellas up a height in a Leeds jersey, I was supporting the
Republic and having played a league game the day before, do you reckon any of
the lads selected against Poland whined about having to turn out for their
country twenty four hours later? Me neither.
Anyway, a decade later, it was
time for me to head to university, to study English Literature. Naively, or perhaps stupidly, I decided to
head to the University of Ulster, leaving on the day Newcastle signed Peter
Beardsley and missing out on a glorious promotion campaign. Good job it wasn’t
geography I’d chosen, or I’d have realised that Coleraine was about as far as
you could get on the island of Ireland, culturally as well, from County Cork.
Anyway I had three grand years drinking black porter and reading the occasional
book. The only problem was the place effectively opened only 6 days a week as
Paisley’s lot held sway in the north and were all for keeping the Sabbath
sacred, or boring, depending on your point of view.
Mind Sundays in England until the
mid-1990s were a non-event; the bars were shut all afternoon, the shops were
closed and if you didn’t have faith (of course I don’t), there was nothing to
do. As a kid, I’d read my old fella’s Daily
Mirror on a Monday and feel a pang of jealousy for those who lived in rugby
league territory and serious envy when I scanned the League of Ireland results.
I suppose as a kid I supported whichever Cork team of the time was in L of I,
but as the teams from de Banks went out of business on a monthly basis it was
hard to develop any strong or lasting affection. I basically became an interested observer of
the fortunes of the league, rather than supporting a particular team.
My introduction to football in
Ireland came in autumn 1983 when Coleraine played Sparta Rotterdam in the UEFA
cup; not having floodlights, it was a 2.00 kick off on a Wednesday afternoon in
front of a crowd of about 3,000, including about 100 crazy Dutch fellas. It was
a decent game that ended 1-1, but as Coleraine had lost the first leg 4-0,
there was no fairytale. Because I played
on Saturdays, I rarely had the chance to see much Irish League action, though
as I didn’t particularly feel attuned to the predominant social demographic of
those watching, I didn’t think I was missing out; a decision confirmed by a
visit to Coleraine 1 Cliftonville 2 later that season. I think you can probably
guess as to the nature of the comments aimed at the visiting players and
supporters.
However, the 1985 renaissance of
Derry City, whose expulsion from the Irish League was viewed as reasons for
boycotting the competition by all football fans from the nationalist community,
gave me a chance to experience League of Ireland football for the first time,
as these games were on a Sunday. One of the lads I knocked around with, a Spurs
fan, owned a car and so a crowd of us piled in up to Brandywell to see the a
team in red and white shirts thump a team in black and white by 3-0, as Derry
triumphed over Newcastle United, as Newcastlewest called themselves in that
debut season of the First Division. Strangely, no-one in the Bogside that
November afternoon gave four blokes with English accents hassle, as the fact we
dressed like tramps and had haircuts that resembled a Jesus and Mary Chain
tribute band meant we clearly weren’t squaddies. That and the fact none of us
had taches. When the locals found out I was supporting the hapless away side,
they viewed us more with pity than suspicion. A few of the Derry fans we’d
chatted to that day reacted with stunned disbelief a few weeks later when we
turned up in Ballybofey on the Sunday before Christmas to see the Candystripes
play in the inaugural North West derby at Finn Park. This time, we were all
supporting Derry, which was just as well as they ran out 7-2 winners in a crazy
game, which was the last one I saw while living in Ulster (by that I mean the
whole province and not just the Six Counties), as I graduated in 1986.
I’ve been back a couple of times
to the north, but only once during the football season. I took a trip to
Belfast for my 40th birthday in August 2004 and, having done the bus
tour and all that, I headed for Solitude to see Cliftonville draw 1-1 in League
Cup group game with Limavady United, managed by current St Johnstone boss and
former Newcastle keeper Tommy Wright. Despite a rather fetching Bobby Sands mural on
the gable end of an adjacent house, this wasn’t a particularly political event,
as most of the local yahoos were ensconced in the bar, guzzling pints and
watching a dodgy stream of Celtic against Kilmarnock, while about 400 of us
sweltered on the baking terraces as a somnolent dead rubber was played out in
near silence. I must admit, I’m not in a hurry to see many other Irish League
games, though my mate Mick (a Geordie living in Paisley) has become a distant,
but regular, supporter of Bangor, probably because St Mirren are so bad…
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