As soon as I had fully processed the information that Elizabeth
Mountbatten was having some form of celebration for the 60th
anniversary of her unelected accession, at the start of June 2012, I knew I had
to get out of this country. Throughout my entire conscious life, I have never
stood for her anthem, never pledged any allegiance to her or her family, never
bought in to the myth of Britain as an entity, nor ever been able to bear
listening to those who, infected with ideological impurity or wrapped up in the
demotic, mass hysteria of patriotic fervour, believe waving mini butcher’s
aprons or holding street parties is the right way to go about things. Faced
with such a spectacle replicated across the whole country, there was only one
place for me to go; Ireland.
I’d not been back in Ireland for a year, a scandalously long
break, as last August’s trip had to be cancelled for a raft of tedious personal
reasons. This year, for many other, unrelated personal reasons, I had to be
back in the only country where I can truly breathe, where I connect completely
with all aspects of the culture and where I can stand for Amhrán na bhFiann and
feel the hairs of my neck stand on end, as well as the incessant pricking of
tears at the corner of my eyes as the music builds.
While everyone else was still unwrapping presents or gorging
on leftover Turkey last December, I booked my flights, offering thanks to the
head of the British state for the rearranged Whit Bank Holiday that meant I
could head out on Thursday May 31st and come back on Tuesday 5th
June, without missing any work or catching any of the so-called festivities in
Britain. Obviously, it goes without saying that if I got to see some football
while over there, then so much the better for everyone concerned.
Thirty years ago, heading from Newcastle to the north of
Ireland for university was an exhausting slog by train, boat and bus that
necessitated a 2.52am departure from Central Station, in order to arrive in The
Anchor in Portstewart just after 18.15. Flights existed, but were an
unimaginably expensive luxury; these days it costs £40 return if you book it
quick enough and while Ryan Air tend to treat you slightly worse than a herd of
cattle en route to the slaughterhouse, the positive side is it takes 4 hours
door to door.
Heading down to the quality (Hello Declan) in Dalkey, I took
the AirCoach and arrived just too late for a pint, but there was to be plenty
of opportunity for that sort of carry on the next day. The bus journey in
darkness was initially unremarkable, as we sped down toll roads and through the
tunnel, until we emerged across the bridge in Ringsend, the original home of Shamrock
Rovers (if you go back far enough). At every other lamppost, posters asked
voters to ratify or reject what was pompously, though accurately, referred to
as the Irish European Fiscal Compact referendum, 2012. In other words, the vote
about the repayments on the bailout that supposedly saved the country in 2009
had taken place that day.
While Spain, Portugal and Greece continue to teeter on the
brink of fiscal oblivion, nowhere is the sickening legacy of the corrupt avarice
and blinkered, grasping, rapacious arrogance of the ruling elite more obvious
than in Ireland. Picture the scene whereby honest, hardworking couples, who
sought nothing more than to provide a decent future for their children, were
caught up in an insane and unsustainable property bubble five years ago, that
resulted in them buying property at a ridiculously inflated cost, supposedly
helped by easy, available credit. Having paid the thick end of half a million
for a two bed semi, the average couple finds that a couple of years later,
their home is worth less than half of what they paid and the disappearance of
credit means they now have no possible way to possibly repay the money they owe
(as their debts build because of interest charges) unless they rob a bank or
win the lottery. They are left with the spectre of bequeathing debt to their
children, or handing back their home to NAMA, while still being required to
find the shortfall between what they bought the house for and the current
market value.
Meanwhile the unacceptable face of Irish capitalism, in the
shape of the greedy developers who attempted to cover the country with a
million new houses (Did no-one ever stop to think just when Ireland’s
population was going to grow to 10 million? And if it did, where were these
people going to send their kids to school? Or which hospitals they’d use? Or
which buses?) that stand empty in ghost developments from Kinsale to
Letterkenny and all places in between, walk away scot free from billions worth
of debt, by forming new companies and putting the debt on the state, who pass
it on to the electorate (who are utterly blameless for all of this) via welfare
cuts, tax rises and all manner of other obscene measures in the name of
austerity. Is it any wonder that levels of emigration are the same as in the
80s and the 50s? If all the empty properties that exist in County Longford were
occupied tomorrow, the population would more than double. Perhaps that would
help them to beat Wexford in the Leinster QF replay…
The whole situation is insane; while it is almost entirely
Fianna Fail’s fault that they allowed the unregulated Irish financial sector to
behave like pissed-up mug punters in an unscrupulous casino at 3am on a stag
do, the current coalition clowns from Fine Gael and Labour are no better. Enda
Kenny may look like the prissy little primary school teacher he was, unlike the
boozy gombeen Biffo Cowen, but while his farcical Yes campaign, selling fear to
the Irish electorate under the banner of stability, managed to scare 60% of
those who voted in to accepting the treaty, he can offer no solution under
capitalism to the problems faced in Ireland, as there are no recipes for
success under this current system.
The fascinating thing about the NO campaign, heroically
piloted by Joe Higgins and Paul Murphy of the Socialist Party, with the
assistance of Richard Boyd-Barrett of People Before Profit, is that the
constituencies that said No, apart from Donegal which always rejects any
proposal, regardless of the question, are in working class areas. Does this
mean, almost 100 years after Connolly, Pearse and Ceannt rose against British rule,
that Irish politics is finally moving in to an era of class consciousness? I
would love to think so. Until we have conclusive proof of such ideological advancements,
seeing Yes posters with “like shite” daubed on them in Ringsend will have to
do.
Friday dawned late enough and after the first of 5
successive rasher sandwich breakfasts, we took the DART to Pearse Station.
While Declan met up with the head of Dubai GAA in Davy Byrne’s for a working
lunch, I did some sightseeing. It’s a bit hard to wander up and down in a city
you know like the back of your hand, when all you want to look at are book and
music shops; while I found stuff by Pecker Dunne and Colm Toibin I quite liked
the look of, I bought nothing. A quick scout around Elverys sports shop allowed
me to learn that GAA jerseys are only available in the home county; hence all
they had were Dublin ones.
An hour and a half killed, Declan emerged and I had my first
pint in O’Donoghue’s; slightly bitter. We moved on to the Stag’s Head; two
great ones and the barman took the piss out of me. Thence, we moved to the Ha’penny
Bridge Inn, where we met Chris, a lifelong Shamrock Rovers fan, who was escorting
us two Bohs supporters out to Tallaght on the LUAS for the game against Cork,
via a couple more pints in the Maldron Hotel. I’ll admit that Shamrock Rovers
are my least favourite Irish team; a lot of that has to do with attending their
game against Derry in August 2007 at Tolka Park, when they groundshared with
Shelbourne. The incessant choruses of “your next queen is Camilla Parker Bowles”
started to irritate and I punched the air when Pat McCourt grabbed Derry a late
point. Surely lightning couldn’t strike twice?
While Bohemians are my Irish team, I suppose I should have
more of an affection for Cork City than I do, what with it being the historical
home county of the Cusacks. Astonishingly, this was to be my first time of
seeing them; what a good support they had too! Over 400 had travelled from
their own lovely homes on the Lee, as part of a highly respectable crowd of
2,900, especially when one considers that Bohs versus top of the table Sligo
attracted 1,400 and Monaghan versus second top St. Patrick’s Athletic had 600
punters the same night; 0-0 and 0-4 in case you’re asking.
One thing about Tallaght, with it being newly built, is that
unlike Dalier, Tolka or Richmond Park, it is in tip top condition, though
bizarrely tea and coffee are available from separate huts at either end of the
ground, rather at the same location. However, given the large crowd and show of
flares, flags and instruments by the Shamrock Rovers Ultras, in memory of their
founder Joe Merriman, who had recently passed away, there was no real
atmosphere during the game. Perhaps that’s why Declan slept through the first
80 minutes of a tight, intriguing contest that Shams ought to have won. Just
after Declan woke up, it appeared they had when lethal marksman Gary Twigg
bulleted a header home, causing a real atmosphere in the ground as “Flower of
Scotland” was sung in his honour. Of course, seconds later, the song died in
their throats as Cork scored a brilliant diving header to grab an equaliser,
causing Declan and I to jump up and punch the air; Corcaigh Abu indeed. The
standard of the game was decent; certainly no lower than League 1. I always
enjoy my excursions in to the League of Ireland.
Full time, we escaped and took a taxi back to Dalkey for late
pints and the chance to watch Declan fall asleep again, this time in an
armchair. A sober Saturday followed, whereby I passed up the chance of
travelling to Derry to see Christy Moore, or heading out to Longford versus
Limerick, opting for Offaly v Wexford in the hurling on television instead.
Offaly won a tight game in pouring rain as I mugged up on GAA in time for
Sunday. It was the only good thing on television; having missed Vincent Browne’s
political shoutathon on Thursday night and the 50th anniversary of The
Late, Late Show on Friday, because of being in drink, we were stuck
with the appalling Brendan O’Connor and his dismal Saturday Night Show;
other than a short interview with former Ireland physio Mick Byrne, the whole
thing pandered to the basest instincts of tabloid television. I was
particularly appalled to see Paul Brady, who I’d just lamented about missing in
Newcastle, doing a terrible European Championships related number. Surely he’s
better than that?
I retired to bed, to be lulled by the drumming of incessant
rain that, Sunday morning, meant the DART was off from Bray to Dun Laoghaire
because of flooding on the line. Still, a helpful lift and I made the train
with seconds to spare, changing at Pearse to meet John at Drumcondra, so we
could go to Croke Park for the Leinster quarter finals. We’d chosen this rather than the Bavaria
Grand Prix racing in the city centre as it seemed slightly more authentic for
an Irish trip than watching Jensen Button doing wheelspins; I mean you can
watch that sort of thing in Parnell Square North or down Dorset Street any time
can’t you?
Perhaps the most glaring cultural omission in my Irish
cultural CV is the fact that I had never set foot inside Croke Park, nor indeed
seen a live GAA game; considering that the Gaelic Athletic Association was
formed by Michael Cusack, this was something I needed to rectify. Sadly, the
6,000 or so who had bothered to show up for the Longford v Wexford undercard
meant the place wasn’t exactly buzzing. That said, I thoroughly enjoyed my view
from the Cusack Stand (where else?) and appreciated a late comeback from
Longford that meant they got a draw (2-09 to 0-15), so the game is to be
replayed for the chance to be crushed by Dublin in the semi-finals. Dublin
booked their place by beating Louth 2-22 to 0-12 in a game where the crowd
finally showed up; over 32,000 made it in for that one. The second game was appreciably faster and
more exciting than the first; 2011 All Ireland Champions Dublin really ought to
have doubled their goal tally at least.
Perhaps the strangest event was the clearly ironic sound of “Rule
Britannia” being played on a trumpet on Hill 16, considering that this part of
the ground is named after those who were murdered by British forces on Bloody
Sunday in November 1920. Yes, it’s fair to say it was ironic and fair to say I
thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon. If I come back again in August for my birthday,
the hurling semi-finals will be on August 12th, so I may get to see
those as well. Interestingly, the Olympic Torch was being carried through
Dublin, with a couple of GAA representatives getting involved; on the face of
it, that sounds surprising, but considering they allowed “God Save The Queen”
to be played when the rugger buggers were sharing, it shouldn’t be.
We trained it back to Maynooth, ate in Caulfields, had a pint in The Roost, then loads of pints in The New Town, retiring very late. Up early on Monday, we took a rasher sandwich then John drove out west; Kildare, Meath, Westmeath, Longford, Leitrim, Roscommon and Sligo were the counties we went through, to the accompaniment of a 2 hour interview with Paul Brady on Shannonside FM, which was far more representative of his career and conducive to my mood (I was not angry once during my whole time over here; pretty good considering the anger management issues I’ve been enduring this last while). In this location, how could anyone be angry? Frankly, I love heading out west; I love the land, the air, the smell, and the sights. I also loved that, despite not having set foot in the place for 14 years, I knew my way to the Showgrounds far better than the fella who was brought up not 30 miles down the road.
We parked up, had a stroll round Sligo (that Yeats statue is
still bloody awful) then bought our tickets for the Ireland v Italy Under 21
qualifier. The Showgrounds is a great little 2 sided ground, with capacity to
improve; it was just a shame the club shop was shut as I would have liked a
scarf. It was good to see Davide Santon captain Italy as they strolled in to a
2-0 lead, before the improbably happened and Ireland, driven on by the
excellent Rob Brady of Man United (no relation to the UWS columnist of the same name I’m sure) came
roaring back for a point. Here, as at Croker, the playing and singing of Amhrán
na bhFiann stirred and touched me; I love Ireland, in a way I can never
fully articulate without sounding patronising or twee. I just do.
After the game, it was Sligo, Roscommon, Leitrim, Longford,
Westmeath, Meath and Kildare again, stopping off in Carrick on Shannon on the
Leitrim side. Eating in Cryan’s Hotel, the music was an orchestral version of “Flower
of Scotland” on an endless loop; I didn’t notice Gary Twigg in the bar I have
to say. The radio this time provided an interview with novelist Richard Ford,
most famous for “The Sportswriter.” I
love a holiday with plenty of porter, plenty of football and plenty of irony; I’ll
be back soon. Of that, there is no doubt.
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