“… And Sheedy shoots. OH IT’S THERE!”
George Hamilton’s roar, soundtracked a golden arc of Fanta as it spurted across the sitting room of a council estate house in Ireland.
An ecstatic, 10 year old version of myself, lay kneeling on crushed popcorn, arms thrusting in front of the TV, watching a blur of green jerseys pile into each as they celebrated equalising against in England in their first World Cup.
The joy was punctured by my Mother, the stern, maternal janitor, shouting about the upturned popcorn bowl and the orange fizzy pop blobs now forming all over the screen.
This was my first time watching a full game of football and my first uncontrollable goal celebration. The sweet sugar rush of Fanta was now beneath me. I had a new zenith of emotions to aim for. The Republic of Ireland in major football tournaments. What a rush?
But the rush is rare. Footballing explosions of national emotion would wash over me again, all accelerated by beverage misuse.
World Cup ‘94.
Burning July day. Jettisoned cans of warm Heineken were pummelled back in guarded teenage fashion. The giddy virgin booze would see me whirl around the car park with a cardboard cut out of Jack Charlton in the air, celebrating Paul McGrath’s ‘goal’ against Holland. My mate picked me up from behind a bottle bank an hour after the game ended, mentioning something about ‘disallowed’ and ‘foul on Rijkaard’. A Dutch headache soon followed.
World Cup 2002.
Lunchtime kick off. 5 nerve settling ciders. A last minute equalising Robbie Keane goal against Rudi ‘Wanna come to a party where people wee on each other?’ Voller’s Germany. The subsequent cider infused celebration saw me produce a loud encyclopaedia of joyous swear words. A Fuckipedia if you will, volleyed at the screen for all patrons to hear. As the clamour faded, I looked upon horrified families surrounding me in the local McDonald’s. Poor venue choice in hindsight.
…….
I pulled out a full pot draw list in front of me last Friday and assembled in my mind all the permutations for the Euro 2012 summer ahead. It was the football fan equivalent of the letter to Santa.
‘Deer Blatter,
Pleaze may I hav Ukraine as day are the worst teem in the big pot and I wood also like Enlgand for my Dad as he went dare with my other mummy has not come bak for ages and also I would like Grease as they are so bad that Samararse is their best player…’
Something like that.
But European Championships or World Cups where your lowly turf cutting nation is suddenly competing in are better than any Christmas. In fact, by my fag packet calculation its roughly ten birthdays, four Christmasses, three good stag do’s and one night at a Berlin squat party, packaged neatly into Adrian Chiles presented instalments on council telly. YA. Ich bin ein mit der musik.
But the more I hoped for a delicious group serving of Ukraine, England and Greece, the more my stomach turned. Yes, we would stand a good chance of an unprecedented quarter final debut, but I might not make it with them, having died of severe tedium before then. Ireland vs. Greece? A Large Hadron Collider of a fixture that would revert mankind back to a millisecond before the big bang with the sheer time reversing mundanity of it all.
So I was perversely glad when Blatter’s Bingo (Platini’s ping pong?) drew out a full house of pain:
Spain – The greatest team of a generation.
Italy – The greatest nation in degeneration.
Croatia – The red chessboard guys. Quite handy on the ball.
“Thank you” I whisper. A subservient masochist at the leather heeled boots of UEFA as three fresh whips marks burn my back.
As I nurse my welcome wounds, I see glorious visions of next summer burst before me.
– The bemused faces of Silva and Villa as Richard Dunne somehow gets various parts of himself in the way of their 427 chances.
– Bilic getting a light off Trappatoni in the tunnel as they work their way through 40 B&H at half time.
– Kevin Doyle walloping a pitch side camera as he attempts to chase another long ball in an ‘industrious’ first half against the Italians.
– Grainy YouTube footage of FAI chief executive, John Delaney streaking round the main square of Poznan at 6am.
– English pundits trying to swerve the depressing atmosphere of their dismal campaign by announcing ‘…But what about the plucky Irish today?’
And what drink will lubricate the gears of tragedy this time?
Well, I’m expecting the birth of my first child to happen just before the tournament. So the TV may end up covered in breast milk. And if we beat the World Champions… It may not necessarily be just my Wife’s ‘lactose parentis’ hitting the screen.
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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.
