C) Ireland v Germany... from Dublin

My alarm erupted to wake me predawn. It was about the same time of
day that I went to bed the day/night before. I'd spent much of the last
twenty four hours sleeping, but my body's clock was well out and I felt
far from recovered.

I knew I would not be alone. The whole of England would soon be
stirring after enjoying an extra long weekend to mark the Queen's
Golden Jubilee.

It was an irrelevancy for me as it was for so many. I pondered whether
the million or so who spent yesterday parading the streets will wonder
what they were celebrating as they grumbled their way from 'two ups' to
'two downs' and onto their jobs to do that thing that Her Maj never
will... work.

Still as an Australian, England's Queen is my Queen. Our un-elected
anachronism who will probably remain so for as long as our elected
arachnid, John Howard, remains our PM. 'However will we get rid of
him?' I wondered and then quitely remembered my fine for failing to
vote at an election just passed.

I shook off my dreams of a Republic back home and roused myself with
thoughts of the one just next door. The Republic of Ireland. A land
that would probably be soon taking a drubbing at the hands of Germany.
Though, in Ireland, even a wake gives reason to celebrate. Of course,
then there is always the luck of the Irish. And, at the start of this
day, I could use all I could get.

I was tempting fate as I embarked on my too tight itinerary. I was
booked on an early flight from London to Dublin and set to arrive
barely an hour before kick off. If things did not go exactly to plan, I
would be watching the match in a smokeless, yet airless, airport bar
drinking Guinness from a leprechaun's can. As Murphy's Law would have
it, things did not begin well.

I slipped into the tube network thoughtless and ticketless, still of
the mindset of my days of employment when there was always a weekly
travelcard in my pocket where twenty pounds should have sat.

Liverpool Street Station and I was shaken down. A full year and a
thousand pounds worth of honest journeys amounted to naught as I stood
desperately debating and my train to the airport idled cruelly away. I
was sin-binned to a queue which shuffled so slowly. I didn't mind
buying a ticket, even two, but the penalty of time was the greatest of
all.

Perhaps as a reward for my patience, though forced, I received a
commemorative Queen's Jubilee ticket. How precious! How unique! Oh how
I would treasure it, I thought as I inserted it into a ticket machine.
It must have felt the same way because it kept my ticket. I'd have to
wait another twenty five years for a new one. I'll bet the old bag will
still be on the throne then too.

I found another train and checked in just in time to join an unsettled
group of would be, soon to be, many by now should have been...
passengers.

Hoards of disgruntled tuned into the chimes. Constant announcements of
flights being delayed. I learned of one, two, even three hour delays.
Things were looking bad. Then came my turn:

"This is an announcement for passengers travelling on flight FR207 to
Dublin..."

Holding of breath! Crossing of fingers! Scanning for clover!

"...your flight has been delayed..."

Oh crap!

"...for fifteen minutes."

Sweet relief and hope once again - I still stood a chance!

Fifteen minutes clearly meant the same to the airport as it oft does to
me, growing into a good half an hour. A tortuous time of listening to
chimes. Planes were dropping like flies. Or not, as it were, each and
every delay being blamed on a late inbound flight. Someone else's
fault, the unapologetic implication.

Finally, on board my plane. I met an Irish woman and child who helped
me relax and feel grateful. They had missed a flight the day before and
spent an uncomfortable night on the airport floor. Still chipper and
upbeat, they offered me sweets and made me look ever more forward to my
day in Dublin, though all too brief it would be.

We touched down about a half an hour before kick off and I made my
usual airport run, weaving through crowds of irate husbands anxiously
waiting for late arrivals, feeling certain to miss the game. It was a
fate to which I had not yet resigned.

A bus from the airport to town. Half an hour guessed the driver. Just
maybe I would make it.

The journey through Dublin was all that I'd hoped. Every terrace and
shop window displayed Ireland's colours. Every car, just the same.
Dubliners strutted the streets. The recent one-all draw with Cameroon
had seen spirits soar. The Irish felt invincible, or at least eminently
drawable, and suddenly Germany was a welcome foe.

Ten minutes before kick off, after six hours of mad travelling, I stood
well rewarded, a pint of Guinness in my hand. It was to the 'Foggy Den'
that I had been directed. It is in Dublin's Temple Bar area which is
riddled with pubs (being a part of Ireland). Wood beams exposed,
tightly enclosed, the 'Foggy Den' held a healthy number of locals and a
few red headed thugs. It looked promising.

Anthem time and only a few stood, shuffling their feet. Not a soul
sang. It was a manner of pride with which I could relate, where the a
pint of the nation's frothy black sin commands more respect and
attention than some outdated hymn.

Game on! A mere two minutes elapsed and saw the crowd to its feet and
me give a shout, my first of the tournament (and I very nearly
blushed.) No goal, but a promise of excitement. I was desperate to see
this lot running mad on the streets. C'mon Ireland!

There was optimism early on and they kept pouring in. The Guinnesses
were racked up by the dozen. I had downed my first within minutes,
caught up in the exuberance. I thought it best to slow down. If Ireland
were to win, I'd be on the pub crawl of my life. Oh, just one more pint
before half time couldn't hurt. Infectious lot, the Irish.

En route to my pint and then devastation. A soft goal for Germany. A
great groan of pain from the pub. A knife to the country's collective
heart.

Passions were raised as the team struggled on. However, I was heartened
to see that humour was not lost. A quick shot of Ireland's unhappy
bench provoked quite a few laughs. I thought it showed an impressive
ability to laugh at oneself and admirable appreciation of the endless
comic value of pain. Cheers Ireland.

The first half continued poorly for my adopted side. The only highlight
being a blow to the head of a German defender. Laugh and applause all
around. Pain always funnier, of course, when felt by someone
else.

At half time, I ducked out for a run. I had no problem with the 'Foggy
Dew', I quite liked it in fact, but on the way there I'd spotted the
'All Sports Cafe', a sizable venue that I though may bring
action.

It proved to be a faceless venue. It was certainly full, but empty all
the same. I scooted across the road to 'The Auld Dubliner'. There were
a great many bar staff serving and with the noise it well showed. By
the bar was a plaque: 'The James Joyce Award for being an Authentic
Dublin Pub' awarded for "genuineness, friendliness and the presence of
good company." I sized up the crowd. They were scraggly and rowdy. Pock
marked skin and beer bellies abounded. They looked like damned good
company to me, so once again I stood, cold pint in my hand, and waited
on the game.

The second half began offering little for Ireland. There was a bit of
rough-necking against Germany's goalkeeper which pleased the pub and
inspired some shouts and laughs. It gave way to the first chant of my
day:

"C'mon you boys in green,
C'mon you boys in green,
C'mon you boys,
C'mon you boys in green."

It didn't really last though and soon enough the pub was all quiet,
except for a buxom young Australian girl, cackling in the corner.
Typical football philistine.

As time ticked on, things began to get messy. I overheard an invitation
to fight. There were ugly gestures at the screen. Two young German
women passed by the window, showing off a little early, receiving the
abuse sought and deserved. The unrest was growing.

"Jaysis lads!" they cried in despair.

Then, at last, with not even a minute to spare, Ireland scored a
inspired late goal and oh what a roar! They nearly screamed the screen
off the wall! The room bounced and heaved. Arms all in arms. The game
had ended, but the chanting seemed it would never would.

"Jaysis lads!" they cried in delight.

I floated out of the pub, riding high on the roars. I I ducked into
'Dublin's Left Bank' where they had all fallen silent, listening to
their coach giving praise to the fans which was graciously received. I
passed 'Quay's Bar' where the "Ole's" echoed strong. I went into
'Fitzsimons', a dark drinking den, where they were still cheering
replays.

Rapture claimed the streets now. Dedicated groups of young men inspired
each other on to sing of success. It was wonderful to finally be part
of a win, well a draw perhaps, but it was good enough for an underrated
footballing nation with enormous hopes, now perhaps justified.

There would be a whole day of this. A day not to be missed. As I type,
I can still hear the noise. Joyous slurred chants. I can hear them
calling me. I'm off to get drunk!

There should be plenty of time to sleep it off before I see you in
Belgium...