Tom Humphrieslays down the ground rules for those dilettantes who would squeeze on board the bandwagon supporting Ireland in World Cup 2002
May I suggest:
1. A ban on World Cup blather on Questions Answers. It is as yucky as your grandmother slipping her tongue in when she kisses you goodnight.
The whole ghastly business is usually triggered by some obligingly gormless prole who throws the politicians a footie question like a kid being allowed toss fish to dolphins. Big smile. “What does the panel think of the draw for the World Cup!!!” The panel have all been interested in Manchester United for, oh, three or four years now, so they are just the people to ask.
As one, the wretches push their snouts to the surface and the water comes over all oily while they clap their flippers and swallow the sardines and remind us politicians are almost like humans.
Of course we wish Mick and the boys all the best. Tremendously exciting.
Great spectacle in prospect. Quite a wonderful achievement. Like France ’98 all over again, I certainly remember the excitement of that one. I’m sure they’ll do us all proud and, heh heh, give us the boost we all need after four-and-half years of this Government. May I just say, John, that we’ll be looking for our own little result before that.
Ah, stop.
2. That there needs to be a fatwah declared on the people who produce those dreary World Cup anthropology columns. Self-regulation won’t do for these big-footed daytrippers who drop by to the sports nation every few years to kindly explain to us all exactly what it all means to us all.
Listen lads, some of us work that patch in the dark days between World Cups. We have to explain what it all means when we lose to Macedonia. We’ve had to explain the meaning of Keith O’Neill. We’ve had to decipher the Tao of David Connolly. We’ve been in confined spaces with the greatest supporters in the world. We have presumed to explain the meaning of sportslife to the few hundred who stand like sodden herons on baldy terraces on winter days. Keep out of the garden now the going is good.
3. Ditto politicians. No turning up at airports. No laps of honour. No huggies with Mick. No squeezing into the team photo. No Bertie Bowl guff.
4. Ditto rich geezers having a wonderful time in Japan. No pictures of Eddie Jordan and Denis O’Brien whooping it up with each other.
5. To be tried as witches is too good for the commissioning editors of fluffy feature articles on “what women will do when all the football is on”. Listen. Most women will go to the pub and watch the football when it is on. They shall understand that when the little green men put the little roundy thing into the funny net thing that an Irish goal has been scored and there will be hugging, spilling of beer and refloating of the economy. If you are a woman who actually feels panicked and confused by a disruption to TV schedules in the summer, well, get thee to a nunnery.
5. Sorry, but this column calls for the garrotting of those who peddle po-faced columns explaining that it is a mark of our national immaturity to gather in public houses to cheer against England.
Hey! I bare my immature Irish buttocks to whichever parsons shall climb into the pulpit armed with that little homily. I stick my fingers in my ears and dance from foot to foot singing la-la-loo-I’m not listening to you. England are in the Group of Death and I’m loving it. So there.
I’m mature enough to get over the 800 years of cos ar bolg and dismiss it as a misunderstanding, but John Motson’s jingoism I can’t get over.
Tony Blair being Emperor of the World I can’t get over. Three Lions on a Bloody Shirt I can’t get over. Germany 1 England 5 I can’t get over.
Let us not forget the tradition which most of us were reared on, to wit, the comedy that is English footballing tragedy. Mexico 1970, when hubris undid them; Wembley 1974, when Jan Tomaszewski undid them; and so many handballs and dastardly Johnny Foreigners ever since.
They are the fat man. The World Cup is their banana skin. And what makes us a great nation is the ability to laugh at the misfortunes of others.
6. Which brings us to: the patronising English quality newspaper article. Normally headlined “The Irish, Aren’t They Great?”, or “Scorn Not Their Simplicity”, these atrocities are traditionally associated with Cheltenham week, but an Irish qualification for a major football tournament can cause unseasonal outbreaks: “Irish eyes were smiling in Busan and beyond last night as Mick McCarthy’s happy-go-lucky band of merry men enjoyed a barrel or three of the black stuff after all their Hail Marys came through in Saturday’s draw. While bookies’ favourites England were handed a real job of work, Sven Goran Eriksson could hear the lilt of Irish laughter as the jolly green men cranked up the sort of year-long Irish party we have come to expect of a team who like nothing better than an old fashioned singsong as they go to work on a wing and a prayer.
“The bleary-eyed Irish contingent were thanking their lucky shamrocks for the kindest of draws. ‘Faith, shure it could have been worse,’ winked one of their moonfaced officials over a pint of local brew, ‘shure everyone knows God came from county Mayo.’ ”
7. Which leads us to the topic of patronising articles about Cameroon.
Please place on the table the only things we know about Cameroon: nearly beat England in 1990. Roger Milla once tried to organise a tournament for dwarves in Yaounde. (Yes, the takings were small.) They drop successful managers the way the IRFU do. Yes, their players will have a row over money before next June because this is the only time they have leverage. Yes, they have only two stadiums with grass pitches. Yes, when Olympic Mvolye failed for five years to win promotion from the central province second division, despite the backing of a local millionaire, it was widely felt that witchcraft was at work.
And what might Cameroonians know about us quaint folk who nearly beat England in 1990? We have no national soccer stadium. We run a Mickey Mouse league where the takings are small. We have a squad of millionaire players who will make out like bandits from their players’ pool. We’ll be having a party and a singsong after we say our prayers and kiss our miraculous medals tonight. Let’s be careful out there.
