If there is one thing that has kept me going through
the long, dark night of the soul that 2015 has largely been, it was the thought
of my annual trip back “home” to Ireland, for the friends (thanks to Declan in
Dalkey, John in Maynooth and Barry from Shelbourne for all they did to make
this trip so memorable), the sport and the gargle in that order. So it was,
having been thwarted by circumstance in my attempt to get over in mid-June, I
found myself arriving at Dublin Airport on Wednesday 22nd July. After
idling over, coffee, soup and a sandwich in the Irish Film Institute with
Declan, I nicked his key and headed southside on the DART to be among The
Quality in Dalkey.
Dump the bag, quick shower and a leisurely stroll
later, I was embarking upon my first pint of Dungarvan Brewing Company’s superb
Helvick Blonde in the entirely appropriate Magpie pub. Ireland has seen an
absolute explosion of micro-breweries producing craft ales of varying qualities
over the past few years. I’m not a beer specialist; for all that I adore the
stuff, so I lack the vocabulary to describe the drink in accurate terms.
Suffice to say, Helvick Gold and Galway Hooker are the two best micro-brewery
cask conditioned ales available in Ireland. Not that there isn’t space for a
good pint of black porter when it’s needed. It wasn’t needed that night though,
as I fell asleep on the sofa until around 6.00, which was grand so, as was a
breakfast of Waterford’s second finest product; Flahavan’s porridge oats.
Last year my trip to Ireland had seen glorious
weather, to the extent that the coastal walk from Dalkey to Dun Laoghaire was
one characterized by unfettered joy and glorious views. This year the weather
was terrible all trip (other than the Saturday), with hailstones at one point,
so I simply put my head down and tramped along The Metals to the former King’s
Town, for the purpose of getting a bus up to UCD. No I wasn’t studying; I was
actually attempting to square a circle by seeing a Europa Cup tie between the
hosts and Slovan Bratislava. I’d previously visited the Belfield Bowl for a
game against St Patrick’s Athletic in July 2007 that the Inchicorians won 3-1.
These days UCD are newly relegated to the First Division, but because of UEFA’s
Fair Play competition looking fondly on the L of I, they were selected for a
Europa Cup qualifying place. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have bothered taking the
game in; for instance I had no interest in revisiting Dundalk the night before
to see them play BATE in the Champions’ League. However, I lived in Bratislava
for two years, across the road from Slovan for one of those years and I hated
them, being a Petrzalka fan. Slovan used to be followed by the very worst,
cliched ex Eastern Bloc Nazi skinhead support imaginable. They’d often sing
songs in praise of Hitler and so I despised them from the moral high ground and
not simply for sporting reasons. Ironically, UCD had beaten FC Dudelange of
Luxembourg in the previous round, as when Petrzalka qualified for the UEFA Cup
(as was) in 2004, Dudelange were their opponents in their first game; a tie I
went back for. Therefore, I felt I simply had to be at this one, which was
delicately poised after Slovan won the first leg 1-0.
The bus up to Belfield took forever; I could have
walked it quicker and then I got lost in the huge campus, before finally
noticing the floodlights. Tickets were 15 Euros; a bit steep compared to normal
admission prices for a league game, but I wasn’t going to argue as there were
only a few left. Indeed, the game was a 1,463 sell out by 5pm, so Declan and I
could only get seats together about three rows from the front. The UCD support
were like a giant version of “Big Bang Theory;“ geeky, nerdy, well dressed and
spoken southsiders, who were about as far removed from Bohs or Shels fans as you
could imagine. Thankfully Slovan’s supporters were not their bonehead element,
who presumably couldn’t afford the trip, but lots of expats working in Ireland;
financial whizzkids in black suits and open necked shirts who are clearly doing
alright for themselves and mustachioed shell suit wearers who have more of a
manual employment history. Regardless of social class, the Slovaks were the
ones to go home happiest.
UCD played a dismally negative 4-5-1 in the first
half, going in a goal down to a header by veteran and returning Slovak prodigal
son, Robert Vittek. After the break, the introduction of a ginger Paul McShane
lookalike up front saw the hosts give it a go as a 4-4-2 outfit. A second goal
to the visitors didn’t dim the home side’s ardour; they got a goal themselves
and gave it everything they had, almost equalizing twice, before tired legs and
a red card for two fouls undid them. Slovan went 3-1 up and the game died,
before two, cruel, unnecessary and highly flattering goals in injury time allowed
Vittek (known to Petrzalka fans as “Anglicky kokot,” meaning “English prick”
when he was linked with a move to Birmingham City back in the day) to claim his
hat trick and the game to finish 5-1. As we made our way towards Booterstown
DART, the loquacious announcer said all those with tickets from the Slovan game
could have free entry to their next home game on Sunday against Finn Harps; a
fine gesture, rewarded with a 1-0 home win. Sadly, I wasn’t there, having
chosen to watch Cork being humiliated by Galway in the hurling quarter finals
at Thurles.
Friday was the big one; a trip to Waterford with
Shelbourne. Accordingly Declan and I headed down to Bertie Aherne’s favourite
watering hole, Fagan’s in Drumcondra. It was a packed, complacent pub where the
O’Hara Blonde was tepid and lifeless. Apparently the legendary Bass wasn’t much
better. The place was filling up with Ed Sheeran fans, ready to listen to his
particular brand of tepid and lifeless muzak at Croke Park. We avoided this and
headed, via the off license, to Tolka Park and a pint in the bar, before taking
the bus with the Shels support to Waterford, as my quest to visit all the
League of Ireland grounds continued. Now I’ve only Cork, Cobh, Drogheda,
Limerick and Cabinteely to go. I did tweet Cabinteely, asking for a lift down
to Cobh on the Saturday, but they didn’t reply.
My link with Shels had come about via Twitter, where
I’d become mates with Barry Crossan and submitted a few articles for the Red
Inc fanzine. This fixture was what decided me on visiting this particular
weekend. I got to meet loads of Shels lads on this happy, drunken adventure,
but I’ve no memory for names, so I’ll apologise and say a collective hello to
them all. After a couple of comfort breaks at the side of the motorway and heavy
traffic leaving Dublin, we didn’t get to Waterford until gone 7. Sadly this
meant the exhaustive list of good pubs selling Helvick Gold provided for my by
the Dungarvan Brewing Company’s twitter account, remained unconsulted.
Waterford looks a fair sized and intriguing town, but
sadly I had no opportunity to investigate it further as United’s ground (the
Regional Sports Centre) is on the way out of town. Instead we did what all
football fans do; we headed for the nearest pub, regardless of merit, to drink
big bottles off the cooler, as is the Port Lairge way. To call The Yellow House
a dump wouldn’t be true, as the municipal tip was actually next door. Suffice
to say, it was like a squat with a license. It looked like an abandoned saloon
in a Wild West ghost town. It was Munster’s worst pub. It was The Jockey from
“Shameless” transported to the Deise. I liked it enormously, though there was
no sign of Helvick Gold in the place.
Suitably refreshed, we headed for the ground in good
spirits, arriving at the same time as 300 Spanish and Italian exchange
students. Thankfully, we broached the subject of needing a quick entrance and
affected egress after shelling out a tenner. I’d heard only bad things about
this ground; middle of nowhere, miles from the pitch, no atmosphere. Not true;
it may have a running track, but it is a vastly superior ground to either
Athlone or Longford and the two sets of fans, with the European youngsters in
the middle, kept up a whole night of singing and chanting, aided by drums in
Waterford’s case. The home side are bottom of the First Division, but the
eccentric, peripatetic Roddy Collins (not attired in Louis Copeland threads for
once) has them playing good football, which was no mean task on a saturated
pitch that had puddles and knee high splashes for the players to contend with.
Shels were muscular and more direct, which should have worked, but didn’t as
the home side took a deserved 1-0 lead before the break, with a finely worked
goal.
The Shels supporters were aggrieved, agitated and
unhappy. Only knowing Philly Hughes of the 22 players on display, I couldn’t
comment knowledgeably, though the score was a major surprise. I’ve a feeling
Waterford may have won the game if it had stayed 11 v 11, but they went down to
9 and Shels to 10 on the hour after a wild, reckless lunge by a Waterford
player sparked a mass bout of shouting and roaring, with the odd haymaker
thrown in for good measure. Net result, an uphill task for the youthful and
scrawny home side; they lost to two scruffy goals, scored when loose balls in
the 6 yard box were forced home. It didn’t matter a jot to the lads from
Dublin; celebrations after each goal and at full time were fulsome, joyous and
unrestrained. Val Doonican certainly wasn’t singing any more. The final whistle
was a scene of unbridled happiness and a coach full of fans in great humour
headed back north, to a soundtrack of early 90s baggy and indie anthems, with a
few Pogues classics thrown in. No Godspeed You! Black Emperor though, which I
was disappointed about.
We touched down at the Ha’penny Bridge just before
midnight. Handshakes and words of thanks were exchanged after a great day out,
that I’d love to repeat next year (to Limerick, Cork or Cobh hopefully; I think
I can probably make it to Cabinteely under my own steam), before Declan and I
left DNS for a brace of pints in Mick the Bull’s pub and the 1.00 Nightlink to
the end of the street, courtesy of a helpful and cheery driver. It had been a
great day and I look forward to the next one. Mind I’m still a Bohs fan….
Saturday was the day of the GAA 4A qualifiers;
Fermanagh v Westmeath up in Cavan and Cork v Kildare down in Thurles. The
former was impractical and the latter unnecessary, as I was going to Thurles
for the hurling quarter finals on the Sunday. Longford were at home, but I’d
been there before and Cabinteely still hadn’t replied to my tweet asking for a
lift to Cobh. My initial plan had been to head for Bray to see the Munster against
Ulster Irish rugby league challenge semi-final between Treaty City Titans and
Ballynahinch Rabbitohs, but the County Down side conceded, allowing the
Limerick team a bye to the final against Dublin Exiles. This did not thwart my
plans to see some sport though.
Having checked Leinster Cricket’s website, I realized
I had the chance of a double header; Merrion 2nds v Clontarf 2nds in Division 3
and the adjacent Pembroke 6ths v City University 3rds in Division 13. However, I
discovered Ireland were hosting Holland in the World Cup 20/20 qualifier semi-finals.
Proper cricket! List A cricket! Amazingly, it was dry, so minutes later Declan
and I were on a DART north, heading for Malahide, presumably to spend an
afternoon with the entire Church of Ireland population of north County Dublin.
For the avoidance of doubt, Malahide is not DNS; from Howth onwards, it’s all
very select. Almost as select as the southside, but not quite. In all
seriousness, Malahide is a lovely spot and the cricket ground gloriously scenic
and jazzed up by huge amounts of temporary facilities and Sky TV paraphernalia.
The crowd was impressive; almost 3,000 or so, including some highly
enthusiastic and almost knowledgeable, partisan home fans (though I wish they’d
make their kids behave; the ICC looks down on unsupervised bairns, as test
venues are not free crèches), a smattering of Scottish fans, even some Dutch
blokes who are presumably working in Ireland and a load of Pakistani lads, who
knew more about cricket than the rest put together. They certainly knew Ireland
had blown it, when they subsided from 106/4 to 128 all out. Holland eased home
by 5 wickets after 18.4 overs, but had never really been in trouble; a couple
of late Kevin O’Brien wickets put a veneer of competitiveness that probably
wasn’t there in all honesty. A great afternoon and certainly a first for me;
well worth a tenner in, though it was a shame there were no scorecards
available.
We got home just in time to see Fermanagh’s
celebrations after beating Westmeath and for me to endure Cork being sodomised
by Kildare. It was a disgrace, but the small ball game is the true sport on the
banks of my own lovely Lee. Sunday morning I took the train early out to
Maynooth, seeing the heroic Richard Boyd Barrett TD putting up some posters in
Glenageary, to meet John. Minutes later, we were heading south in filthy
weather, on our own trip to Tipp. Arriving around 12.30, we parked on the edge
of town and took a leisurely stroll up to Semple Stadium. The night before
there had been 3,819 rattling around in a 52,000 capacity ground, but there
were many, many more here for the hurling; almost 34,000 in fact. And not a bit
of bother, as fans of the four counties on duty, as well as many neutrals who
liked to see the spectacle, mixed freely and jovially without a cross word in
pubs and shops and streets. This is the real Ireland. This is what I love about
this country. The tolerance and the easy going, friendly warmth of the people.
Ireland is the polar opposite of aggressive, intolerant England; it’s simply
the best place on earth, if you ignore the weather. Contrast the Irish
acceptance of different cultures and different languages, no doubt coloured by
their own 800 years of oppression by the Saxon invader, with the EDL march in
North Shields on account of the closure of a customs post. Thankfully 500
people took to the streets in protest at the fascists, who only amounted to 60.
Presumably all those posturing tough guys who make up the EDL’s core support
were scared shitless at the thought of facing up to all those beardy-weirdy,
sandal wearing, veggie lefties. Sorry, I’m digressing…
Early Sunday afternoon in Thurles was inclement. Intermittent
showers and blustery winds had given way to a Biblical monsoon and attendant
hurricane, so we passed on the chance of a glass in Cusack’s Bar of the Hayes
Commercial Hotel and took our seats, just in time to see the concluding minor
game, where Galway beat Limerick. I must admit, the only Limerick jerseys I saw
were on the field itself. There weren’t many more Dubs there and I still find
it odd to hear GAA and especially hurling discussed in a Jackeen accent.
Perhaps there won’t be many more discussions about hurling after Waterford,
trailing 0-13 to 0-12 at half time, came on strong to win 2-21 to 1-18. Their
soccer team may be down in the dumps, but their hurlers are doing the Deise
proud; shame they’ve got Kilkenny in the semi-finals mind. Dublin may be
favorites for the football this year, but they’ll have to be better than their
unimaginative hurlers, who seemed only interested in scoring points, rather
than looking to actually play attractively and expansively. They were only
marginally the worst team on display, as Cork (beaten finalists in 2013,
Munster champions last year) were as shameful as the footballers the night
before. Galway, who now play Tipp in the semis, managed to have 23 wides,
mainly by the normally brilliant Joe Canning, but still won 2-28 to 0-22;
losing by a margin of 12 points is a hammering however you dress it up. Donal
og Cusack was scathing about the whole county board, including legendary
manager Jimmy Barry Murphy, on the Sunday Game, but I didn’t listen. Too
depressed. We headed back up country, stopping off in Abbeyleix for a bite to
eat, after being denied food in Johnstown, Co Kilkenny (where the local hurling
club are the Johnstown Fenians!) and spooked by the scarecrow festival in
Durrow, Co Laois, then had a few good pints in The Newtown in Maynooth.
We had a load more on the Monday, after I’d returned
from a trip to Kilcock where I hired a bike I called Nuremberg (It was a
Raleigh you see…) from a Polish fella who runs a cycle repair business called
“Two Wheels,” in McMahon’s, Brady’s and O’Neill’s. As the Galway Races had just
started, a few lads seemed to have taken time off work to spend the whole
festival popping between the bookies and the bar. In Brady’s, on the Connacht
side, a shambling choir of drunkards staggered through Sean Nos versions of
“The Rose of Mooncoin” and “You’ll Never Miss Your Mother’s Love Till She’s
Buried Beneath The Clay,” while a fella from the Circus, who’d obviously been
on the gargle all day, told me I was beautiful. My mate Dermot, who is just
leaving his position as Professor of Psychology at Maynooth University, for a
similar job in Ghent, would have enough material for a three-year research
project from that lot. Sadly he wasn’t there, but I did meet him in The Roost
for lunch on Tuesday, before cycling back to Kilcock (even if Facebook claimed
I was in Oakville, Ontario), then taking a slow, relaxing walk back along the
Royal Canal, sheltering under a bridge when a hail storm started. Despite the
terrible weather, I was at peace; at one with the land that courses through my
blood. As the Duke of Wellington pointed out, “one may be born in a stable and
not be a horse.” My attitude to my ethnicity is probably akin to the discomfort
felt by those suffering from gender dysphoria; I’m claiming ethnodisphoria as
my own condition.
Another glorious, life-affirming trip back home was
over; as ever I leave Ireland a better person than when I arrived, though all
the way home I wondered why I hadn’t stayed two more days so I could have seen
Cabinteely host UCD (all Garda leave in South Dublin cancelled for that one).
Never worry; roll on next year. Thanks again to Declan, John and Barry. Heroes
every one of you.
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