My sense of timing is shit; frankly, there’s no other word for it. Despite having known for months in advance that I had Whit week off work, additionally bookended by a pair of weekends, I managed to schedule a trip to Ireland to cunningly avoid almost all the football taking place in the 32 counties at the end of May and start of June. I’d finished work on the Friday afternoon, but having booked the flights a couple of months in advance, I had simply assumed there would be some kind of footballing commitment on Tyneside that would stop me going straight away, which as it turns out would have been pointless anyway, as Thursday, not Friday or Saturday, was the scheduled night for the League of Ireland card that week.
As it happened, Saturday saw Percy Main kicking their heels as the Northern Alliance season had finished the week before, but I was still needed between the sticks for Winstons in the morning as we brought the curtain down on an inglorious campaign with a 2-1 win over The Philadelphia to finish in a less than satisfactory 11th place. I used the first spare Saturday afternoon I’d had since July 17th last year to visit my mam, before saying farewell to a couple of old pals who are off on a round the world jaunt for a year courtesy of redundancy and not having any kids. You’ve probably read the work of one of them, a lad by the name of Kriss Knights, who pens stuff as Billy Furious; if not, here’s his website http://billyfurious.com/
Half a dozen pints of Saltaire Pale Ale and the vague knowledge of the Champions’ League Final taking place in The Bodega meant I went woozily to bed. Sensible people would have got up dead early and flown to Dublin to see the Ireland versus Scotland game at the Aviva Stadium, but not me. I’d not booked a Sunday flight in case there was a final at Percy Main in the Newcastle Central Sunday Afternoon League, but there wasn’t, as these had finished the week before. Hence, I was left with a spare Sunday, which I frittered away watching Robbie Keane score the goal that defeated Scotland, and a Monday departure.
My trips back to Ireland, especially over the past 4 years, have started to be more and more frequent. It’s no secret that I’d give up almost anything, apart from those I hold dearest, to live in Ireland. Even the fact that my passport has the shameful words United Kingdom emblazoned on it makes me embarrassed to display it in civilised company. I really don’t want to be a dirty English bastard. That said, I wasn’t expecting the kind of fawning, slavering, obsequious toadying to accompany my arrival that had categorised the visits of Mrs Windsor, who singularly failed to provide a proper apology for the 842 years of social genocide enacted upon the island of Ireland by her state or Barak O’Bama, even though I was unspeakably delighted to see the Bus Eireann website proclaiming details of tours to Moneygall.
Indeed I was content to be a synecdochal version of the 15,000 bemused Portuguese football fans quizzically ambling round Temple Bar before the Europa League final, wondering why there were security checkpoints every 50 yards and the sky was dark with helicopters. Perhaps, in view of the fact Wales v Northern Ireland attracted the grand total of 529 paying spectators to the AVIVA Stadium, the next championships to be staged at the former Lansdowne Road could be the IMF NAAMA Bowl, with Portugal and Greece invited to take part. Even then I’d no doubt fly in 6 hours after the trophy was presented.
At least the good old Airtricity League had obliged me with a full fixture list for my visit. Initially I’d pencilled in Shamrock Rovers v Bohemians on the Monday, with Drogheda against Bray for the Tuesday, as it would mean 2 new grounds and the chance to see Big Club re-establish DNS supremacy over the Tallaghtfornian Halting Site dwellers in the Fair City classico. Tragically, all games were moved to the Monday to allow teams to prepare properly for the Third Round of the FAI Cup, which was scheduled for Friday 3rd June. This, naturally, was the day I was due to fly back because the Percy Main end of season do was on the Saturday night. Consequently, I was left with the stark realisation that I only had 1 game I could attend. These were my choices -:
Premier Division:
Derry City v Galway United
Drogheda United v Bray Wanderers
Shamrock Rovers v Bohemians
Sligo Rovers v Dundalk
UCD v St. Patrick’s Athletic
First Division:
Athlone Town v Salthill Devon
Limerick v Cork City
Mervue United v Longford Town
Monaghan United v Finn Harps
Wexford Youths v Shelbourne
Geography meant I simply had to discount Derry, Sligo, Limerick, Monaghan and Wexford from my calculations and I’d already seen a UCD v St Pat’s game, so that was a non-starter. A trip on the LUAS to D24 seemed the inevitable choice, almost by default, until my mate John, who was putting me up in Maynooth, County Kildare offered to take the car to the Westmeath and Roscommon border, to see the splendour that is Lissywoolen; Athlone Town versus Salthill Devon was my destination.
As someone who avoids driving at all cost, since a Tesco 18-wheeler almost made me an RTA statistic back in December 2005, I always rely on the kindness of others to fetch me places. My ex-wife Sara obliged with a lift up to the airport, where Ryan Air, despite being the Weatherspoons of flight travel, had me touching down in Dublin at midday, absolutely bang on time. Switching my phone back on, I sent the typical “arrived safely” texts then took the 747 DublinBus to Connolly, noticing the text wouldn’t send and that my phone was seemingly incapable of roaming. I took a trip to the Vodafone shop on Henry Street, where a long and frustrating phonecall to the UK support centre finally saw me having my roaming enabled, despite never having previously requested for it to be disabled. This finished, I skirted back along Talbot Street to Connolly, taking myself up to the historic site of Monto (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wny_0pi4hR4) and availed myself of the stopping train to Maynooth, via Drumcondra, Phoenix Park, Ashtown, Leixlip and so on, arriving at John’s place just after 3.
John’s the conduit for my reconnection with Ireland; I first met him in October 1993 in Newcastle. A Magpies fan since the mid 70s, he makes a few trips over a season when I put him and his son Ciaran up, so he likes to repay the compliment when I’m in these parts. He may not be the most regular of attendees at League of Ireland games, but he makes the effort when I’m about and it was his suggestion that took us to Lissywoolen for the Athlone v Salthill Devon game, having driven me to Longford v Salthill last August. Of course John is also a great guide and a skilled chauffeur, so he invited me to come west along the road on a tour that took us through Counties Kildare, Meath, Westmeath, Longford, Roscommon and back to Westmeath as Athlone play on the Leinster side. Particular highlights on the journey included the “Good Luck” Chinese in Ballymahon, the power station in Lanesboro and Douglas Hyde Park in Roscommon Town, not to mention the incessant hailstorm that we encountered just on entering Athlone.
Within 5 minutes, about 2 inches of golf ball size ice particles had gathered in the gutters, but these were soon washed away by a tumultuous downpour that made me unhappily recall the only Airtricity game postponed in the 2011 season thus far had been Athlone v Monaghan. This could not happen again could it? No, it didn’t, as while I enjoyed two magnificent pints of black porter in Sean’s Bar, allegedly the oldest pub in Ireland, the rain was replaced by glorious early evening sunshine, which continued unabated until the night arrived at almost 10pm, reminding me we were far further west than at home.
By that time Athlone Town had won 2-0, in front of 104 less than hysterical onlookers. It was a dull game in a functional stadium; one impressive stand that has probably 1,000 or more seats, housed the entire crowd, with 3 basic uncovered narrow concrete walkways on the other 3 sides. It was like a slightly smaller, slightly better kept Flancare Park, home of Longford Town, where I’d seen Salthill Devon come back from 2-0 down to draw last August. Despite the presence of two-goal hero from that night Victor Collins, Salthill had no chance of repeating that result. A fabulous bullet header of an own goal broke the deadlock on 25 minutes, before Salthill attempted to get back on terms. Their 10 minutes of semi-pressure was undone when a loose cross saw the home side break against a badly organized defence. A desperate grab of a shirt saw Kevin Williamson tumble in the box. The impressive female referee gave a spot kick, but no red card and Williamson rolled it past a keeper who’d gone the wrong way.
From then on, nothing much happened, so the lad from the supporters’ shop was most excited when I splashed out on an Athlone Town scarf for the Percy Main clubhouse wall; he even had to open up a new packet of them to flog me one. The night stayed warm and I didn’t need to wear it. We headed back to Maynooth, with Shannonside FM giving us the full time scores, depressing though they were -:
Derry 6 Galway 0
Sligo 1 Dundalk 0
Drogheda 0 Bray 1
Shamrock Rovers 1 Bohs 0
UCD 1 St. Pat’s 3
Limerick 0 Cork 0
Mervue 2 Longford 1
Monaghan 1 Finn Harps 0
Wexford 0 Shelbourne 1
So, Galway and Drogheda were bottom and second bottom, respectively, nine points below UCD. The Premier Division will be expanded to include 11 teams in next season. D1 champions go up and the bottom 2 in the Premier play off, with the losers (pay attention now!) facing the winners of the second against third play off from Division 1. At least that is what is planned, but undoubtedly Galway, currently reaping the expected harvest of Nick Leeson’s time as their financial chief executive, will struggle to get a licence to operate unless NAAMA gets involved in football. Consequently Drogheda will presumably manage to make 3 successive Houdini escapes from relegation, courtesy of the fiscal improprieties of others. Of course, in terms of crowds attending games, if this means Cork and Shelbourne go back up, so be it. Obviously, as it’s the League of Ireland we’re talking about, what this means for Division 1, already running a club light after the Fingal disaster has not been thought through as yet. Don’t even mention the possibility that the A Division is about to disintegrate either!
We got back to Maynooth in time for 4 quick pints in the New Town Inn, before I went off visiting on Tuesday, while still assuming the role of an unabolished Domhnall Og Buachalla (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domhnall_Ua_Buachalla) . John fetched me out to Tallaght so I could take a look at Shamrock Rovers’ very impressive stadium, paid by South Dublin County Council, which is affectionately known as the Halting Site for the Tallaghtfornian Corinthians. I took the LUAS (aka the world’s slowest train) in to town, met Declan on Jervis Street, skirted Smithfield, marvelled at the Private Shops on Capel Street, then embarked on a tour of pubs; The Halfpenny Bridge, the Foggy Dew, The International Bar, Grogans, the Lincoln and then back to Little Britain, or Dalkey as it is known, for some time with the quality, including a take-out curry laced with sleeping tablets that finished me off by 9.30.
I’d vaguely kept an eye on the news that day, which was full of stories talking about the presumed reintroduction of a version of domestic rates, or a property tax of some sort, and water charges, that will end up being metered. Apart from remarking this latter charge will probably be of little concern to those west of the Shannon, I found it wryly amusing to observe the level of anger at these charges, especially as I’m shelling out £130 a month in council Tax and Water Rates.
More importantly, the Irish presidential election was starting to take shape. With Mary McAleese coming to the end of her second term, the race to get the cushy sinecure and the big house in Phoenix Park was starting to hot up. While Labour and the Blue Shirts were being courted by the minor league great and the good, all wanting a party machine to help with their publicity once they’d found a ticket of convenience, and Dev’s Diehards were furiously looking at their shoes to avoid the poison chalice of candidature, the frontrunner was David “Dottie” Norris, who has one hell of a story to tell. Born in what is now the Congo, while it still had its Belgian prefix, to an English father who died when Norris was an infant and an Irish mother, Norris was a lecturer in English Literature at Trinity College until 1986. Since then he has been famous for being a campaigner for Gay Rights, which lead to the liberalization of Irish homosexuality laws in 1988, and an ardent campaigner for social justice. His sexuality is seen as being of little impediment to his political career, as is his membership of the Church of Ireland, even if he has gone perilously close to being culturally off message as regards 1916 and other sacred Republican and Patriotic cows. What may finally scupper his chances is the publication of a 2002 interview in which Norris makes clear his understanding of the ancient practice of pederasty, which in post Artane Ireland is inextricably linked to paedophilia. It seems as if the spectre of his hero Oscar Wilde is looming large over Norris and his ambitions.
Next morning, suitably refreshed after a grand night’s sleep, Declan and I headed up to Belfast, for him to meet with someone from work and me to hook up with Peter, a fellow Teenage Fanclub devotee, for lots of beers, to mark the centenary of the Titanic’s launch no less. As Ronnie Drew remarked; “sightseeing’s grand, but it’d give you an awful thirst.” We stopped being thirsty in The Kitchen, The Garrick, The John Hewitt, Whites, The Duke of York, The Morning Star and The Northern Whig, before being poured on to the train. The fact John then took me to the New Town after I staggered in to Maynooth around 10 was something I’m rather ashamed of. Still, I slept well.
Thursday saw me delicately head to town for a look around the National Museum’s 1916 exhibition, before taking coffee with Declan and the LUAS to Tallaght. John had noticed Shamrock Rovers Under 17s were supposedly at home to Drogheda U17s at the scenic location of Carolan Park on Kiltipper Road up in the mountains past Tallaght, which despite its reputation as hell on earth is really nothing compared to Ballymun or some of the places on DNS in Dublin itself. Indeed Kiltipper Road is a glorious country lane, but Carolan Park was little more than a field with posts in it, with no sign of a game, though some Shamrock Rovers youths were getting set for a training session. It seemed as if Drogheda hadn’t made it this far, so consequently I was limited to a single game during my visit.
We called it a day and headed back to Maynooth, for pints for John and Diet Coke for me in O’Neill’s, The Roost, where Longford’s superstar Keith Gillespie ended up on Saturday night apparently, and the New Town. The weather on Thursday and Friday was as glorious as any we’d had all year (no sign of hailstones), so I felt somewhat rueful getting on the plane just as 12 of the 16 scheduled FAI Cup 3rd round games, as well as the inaugural conference of the Irish Atheist Federation, were kicking off.
I arrived in Newcastle just in time to collect the scores, discovering the only major upset was Wexford beating Derry 4-1, the only draw was a 0-0 between Longford and Finn Harps (De Town won the replay 1-0) and the only non-league side to win were FC Sheriff (the ones from Fairview not Tiraspol in Moldova), who beat Salthill. It seems as if Victor Collins had almost as poor a footballing week as I did. No matter, I’ll be back in August; the question is, will Victor?
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