Dreadful Nonsense

Hey Kids!

I’m kind of nearly back, a bit. I haven’t managed to sort out an internet connection in my new flat, but have installed a phone. I can’t work out how to use my new grill or turn on the hot water, but I do know how to lock the doors and windows. I have learned how to use the oven, and also the shower. I have bought a TV licence and found out we don’t need one for the dog. I have managed to sleep in an empty flat on my own for four days in a row, but only with the help from my good friend Nitol. I’m currently typing this up at work, following an unsuccessful visit to the Royal Bank of Scotland, who informed me that I couldn’t open a second account with them without a passport, due to “September the 11th". I’ve made another appointment with them, and tomorrow will march in, with my out of date passport, which features a picture of me aged twelve with a different face than the one I currently have. If they refuse me again, I’ll scream.

I was very relieved to hear, via the plastic cat (who has now become my voice from home, since ireland.com started charging) that the whole country felt the same way I did on Monday morning, following our ‘dammit we didn’t lose’ departure from the World Cup. Sunday didn’t seem so bad – I was very much wrapped up in my own head, thanks to my cold, and the match was far too exciting for words. I couldn’t watch both of the penalties taken during the actual match – when we were awarded the second one, the pub cheered louder than it did when we actually scored it. I stopped breathing both times, and Olivia had to remind me to start again.

When extra time was over, I had to actually leave the pub – at that point, we were all packed closer together than battery hens and I couldn’t take it any more. Me and one other bloke – I think he was from Cork – stood outside the pub pacing up and down in our official strips (me wearing the white, him wearing the green) while one of the barmaids kept us up to date as to what was happening. The silences were more deafening than the roars. When Spain scored the last penalty, I started crying, as did Olivia. But then we had a drink or three and it all seemed a bit better – there was a lot of yelling that they’d done us proud, they’d never given in, they’d fought right to the end, we had deserved better, god bless and fair play. We felt a lot better.

Then on Monday morning, as the only Irish person working in our respective offices, we both began to receive sympathy and condolences from any and everyone that walked past the desk or spoke on the phone. It started to weigh down on us, as did the pictures on the front of all the national newspapers, of Irish fans in tears. As did reading details of the post-match interviews with Mick and the boys. As did the following day, when pictures of the homecoming in Phoenix Park were shown on the news. As still does any pictures of any dejected fans of any of the teams currently being knocked one by one out the tournament. This game isn’t fun any more.

Still. We’ve grown to love the game of dressing up, going to pubs in the middle of the day and yelling at television screens that Olivia and I have ordered GAA shirts for our respective counties (me = Dublin, Olivia = Westmeath), and will be down the pub on Sundays getting far too involved again.

This entry was posted on 20 June 2002 at 2:32 pm. 0 comments

Dreadful Nonsense

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