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The darkness surrounds me.
I strain my eyes peering into the void, but nothing forms. My belly churns with cheap beer and another film of sweat covers me. My Republic of Ireland away strip, foolishly purchased in a bout of naive pre Euro 2012 fever, has clung tight around my chest. The threads are fraying from my heaving lungs and the FAI badge is chaffing my left nipple.
But the tide of terrible moments wash that quickly away. I recall my last memory of Mario Balotelli using John O’Shea as leverage as he deftly smashes the ball into the net. Minus 8 goal difference. Worst team to ever grace the tournament. The weight of those depressing fact seems to have crowbarred me over the head and I’ve tumbled down into this dark purgatory.
I roll over, trying to slow my breathing and get some sleep. But a series of revolving Roy Keane heads are circling around me, their eyes demonic red, repeating: “We’re not here for the sing song… I’m not having that… Fail to Prepare. Prepare to Fail… They let the ball bounce in the six yard box… PAUL F***ING GREEN?… “… Over and over. I moan as I cup my bleeding nipple and sigh slowly, glad that I kept the receipt. J-J-B Sports. I’m coming to get my 50 quid back…
A silhouetted head appears from the side. As the figure lowers itself, a face comes into view. It’s Trappatoni, who looks odd as his traditional managerial suit has been swapped for a pair of greasy dungarees.
He surveys my sweating, tattered frame and shakes his head. Slicking his hand slowly over his white hair, he breaks off pidgin English sentences and throws them down: ‘YOU STAY ERE… NO COME OUT UNTIL BRASIL TIME’.
He steps back and takes out a piece of paper from his dungarees’ pocket and flings it down the hole.
It floats gently until it lands beside me. I shudder shamefully as it has landed right next to my very deflated looking inflatable plastic tri colour hammer. From somewhere in the darkness, I feel Roy Keane’s red eyes glare at me and my naff hammer.
Unfolding the paper, I realise it’s a team sheet for the start of the qualifying campaign… FOUR FOUR TWO. Given, Dunne, O’Dea, O’Shea, Hunt, Green… I tried to read on but my eyes are flooding with tears and before i know it, I’m sobbing uncontrollably.
The sobbing is interrupted by crumbs speckling my head. I look up and Trappatoni is munching casually on a breadstick and smiling.
He chuckles and munches as he slams the trap door shut, but I don’t see him as I’ve buried my face into my arm, weeping like Gwyneth Paltrow accepting an award….
My long sobs go deep into the darkness and hours, maybe days, pass by and I can’t tell if I’m awake or dreaming anymore. All this time I don’t feel anything until a lush coolness surrounds me.
Floodlights bolt down from above and wash me in a glaring light. I realise the lush feeling is grass and I’m lying in the centre circle of a football pitch. I stand up and look around at the vast endless pitch, wondering if it’s available on Wednesday evenings as my regular midweek game has gone tits up.
The ground begins to shake and the wind swirls up as large square object descends from high above the floodlights.
The throne crashes on the pitch and as a plume of white smoke disperses, it reveals the cherubic figures of Ronnie Whelan and Ray Houghton floating around Jack’s head. I now also notice, he is flanked on either side by the kneeling figures of Kevin Moran and Paul McGrath (quite impressive given McGrath’s lengthy battle with injured knee cartilage) like the loyal defenders they always were.
“What’s wit yer jerzee?” his Tyneside tones boom as he points to the dark red stain around my nipple that oddly looks like a map of Spain now.
I bow my head.
“Oh nothing. I ah. Just ah.. “, I tug the jersey, and swing my arm. I turn my face as I feel myself welling up.
“OH JACK!”, I finally let go. “I miss you.”
Jack’s doll’s eyes stare on at me as I blub on further:
“I know we were never a fantastic footballing side, but we were genuinely feared by big international teams, and always punched above our weight in big tournaments, and always had a backbone of truly gifted players. We were 6th in the world rankings at one point…. BUT THIS. Grinding our way to Europe’s top table only to get so humiliated by technically brilliant teams that you begin to wonder why you put so much of your heart into the long road of qualification in the first place… And.. And.. now. I think about the same long road to the World Cup and the same rigid formation and lumbering journey men players and I feel sick… and even if we do qualify we’ll get roasted for all the world to see and yeah.. I’m losing faith Jack. I feel trapped.”
I wipe my bloody nipple again and wait for a response, some crumbs of comfort maybe.
Jack stares long enough to make me feel embarrassed for my outburst until he eventually drawls: “If yer gettin in de back, ya canny take yer kebab with ya.”
I stand and let the profound statement hang with me and ponder it’s meaning. Does the kebab represent my high ideals of attractive passing, possessive football? But the statement is all too familiar somehow. As the floodlights fade, I suddenly realise this is actually something a cab driver said to me on a stag night in Newcastle one time. My hallucinating brain sets this statement as a default Geordie accent example.
Jack’s throne lifts up into the darkness above ignoring my calls to “WAIT!”.
Higher and higher until, with a last wave from the Ray Houghton Cherub, the glory team of the late 80’s and early 90’s disappears and I am just as lost as ever.
Just as a hollow calm is restoring, another shaft of light appears. This time it seems to come from below me.
Sure enough another trap door swings open at the ground beside me and a bearded figure pops his head up.
“Pearse?”, he asks.
“AH yeah… Who are you?”
“It’s Craig Levein the current Manager of the Scottish international first team.”
I tilt my head, tongue out, examining his face like an amazed dog. A slightly auburn beard and the tracksuit has been replaced by a jumper and shirt combo that only be described as ‘Kiddy fiddler chic’, but it was actually him: Craig Levein the current Manager of the Scottish international first team.
“Pearse, you’ve been in Scotland for over 10 years now, so it’s high time you got on board with the Levein’s Tartan Army.”
I mutely stare back, noticing a sudden funky smell of moth balls rising up.
“I mean we are very comparable to the Republic of Ireland with our lack of technical ability, dependence on set pieces for goals, pacy wingers with a poor end result, struggle to beat teams we can’t find on the map and highly praised, psychotically loyal supporters… Murray Mint?”
He produces a pack of sweets to break his flow and I signal a negative waving away of his minty offering.
“But with Scotland….” he continued. “We operate at a much lower level of expectation and indeed have a crushing sense of inevitability about all our qualification campaigns. I mean, you would really only have to deal with the stress of ‘HOPE’ for a maximum of the two opening qualifiers.”
I sit there, unable to respond as I still try to fit the vision of Levein looking like ginger sex pest into my head. He pops a Murray mint into his mouth.
He beckons with his hand as he turns and descends back into the light below, muttering something about ‘Barry Bannan’ and ‘talisman’. I drown out his waffle by closing the trap door behind him. I lie back on the deflated plastic hammer as it squeaks with its very last bit of air.
The darkness surrounds me.
You can download/listen/subscribe to the Scottish Comedy FC podcast HERE
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About the Author
Pearse, originally from Cork, has spent nearly a decade in Scotland, and first started Stand up in August 2009. Since then he has reached the final of several national comedy competitions including the 2011 Scottish Comedian of the Year.
He was born into a warm analog world and is getting bitter at the cold digital grave that he is destined to die in. Football is the only constant he trusts in the chaos.
“Masterful images” – Chortle
“A bright future” – The Scotsman
“Irish” – The List
Have internet fun with him at www.pearsejames.com or @pearsejames.
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