The Ireland Australia Debacle

On Sunday, myself and my nine year old son settled down to watch the second Compromise rules test between Ireland and Australia. With Ireland one up from the first game, and enjoying an eight point aggregate score advantage, we anticipated it was going to be tough, with the Aussies doing everything to claw the game back. As it turned out, tough wasn’t the word for it. Even ‘x-certificate-all-out-savage-kamikaze-no-holes-barred-warfare-with-a-vengeance’ wasn’t quite the word for it either.

For those of you who didn’t witness it, the fists (mainly Australian) started flying after just a few seconds. They continued flying for most of the first ten minutes while the (mainly Australian) half of the refereeing duo did bugger all to stop it. After a minute or two, it became evident that the (mainly Australian) tactic of whack your opponent senseless was carefully premeditated and designed to unsettle the timid and less muscular Irish – although one or two of the home lads sneaked the odd sly head butt in here and there.

It was at this point that I seriously considered switching channels so that my son could watch something a lot more genteel (the England-New Zealand rugby match was on the other side) but I thought I would stick it out and so give my son a lesson in why never to switch from hurling in order to play Gaelic.

You see, despite all the talk about this being barbaric carry on, it is exactly the type of thing that I and thousands of others once engaged in at club level – and the type of thing that nearly every club player experiences at one time or another, right up to today. Yes, I know that it’s nearly all gone from county games, but not a club in Ireland can say that they never engaged in something similar in recent times. For example, here’s an example from a very recent Fermangh club match that I found after a 20-second search on the internet:

The real difference overall, I thought, was that the Aussies will chin you to your face and not rely so much on the cowardly punch from behind. And they’re much stronger than the Irish too – so there’s no showboating with those buggers: it’s wham-bam-thank-you-mam, and no pretend-he-hit-me a la soccer (something else that is creeping in here big-time).

At the end, it was all very embarrassing – particularly when the Aussie captain, Barry Brick-shithouse-with-a-broken-nose, feigned to throw a punch at his marker Reilly. Embarrassingly, the Irish lad flinched like a child and the Aussie just turned away laughing. It really was as simple as men versus boys.

So, should the series be continued next year? I for one would be glad to see the back of it. As it stands at the moment, the only purpose it serves is to give the poor unfortunates whose team never get a chance to play in Croke Park, the opportunity to get up there with the ‘childer’ and support their team.  Hence the lack of any real or meaningful support from the crowd – even Brush Shields’ half time singalong couldn’t get them going.

Another thing, we’ll never beat the Aussies for their blind commitment – to any sport really. Any nation that is reared on the gluttenous diet of sport that is served up down under don’t give a toss about the taking part.  For them it’s always shit or bust. And our lads – our teachers, gardai, vets, builders, sales reps and so on – aren’t at that level yet, no matter what anyone tells you about the increasing professionalism of the gaelic environment.

I think that the players who spent a month travelling the length and breadth of the country training for this fiasco should realise that Aussie Rules and our own code weren’t meant to get hitched.  So our – amateur – players would have been better served by resting up after a year of playing at club and county level. They should concentrate for a while on being teachers, gardai, vets, builders, sales reps and so on. And let them also learn from the strength and drive of the Aussies who, I’m afraid to say, obviously know how to catch and kick a ball much better than the present generation of hand-passers and sham divers who grace our game.

And finally, let the GAA also learn from their sanctimonious, holier-than-thou condemnation of the Aussie tactics. Let them go back to their clubs and tell them in no uncertain terms that there’s to be no more of any parochial, blackguardly carry-on. Play it clean – or have your club banned for 3 years!

If that was the long-term outcome of this fiasco, if it meant that kids could play our games without having to expect the odd ‘doing’, it might all just be worth it.

Friday, October 13, 2006

Well, it’s Friday night, there’s a nice little bottle of red sitting next to me and, to cap it all, the news from Scotland seems slighly more upbeat. No, Wet Wet Wet haven’t decided to reform and Celtic haven’t signed Ronaldinho – as far as I know.

I refer instead to the “No Guts, No Government” talks as they seem to have been dubbed. Without having heard the full story yet, it seems there might be some ever so slight movement in the direction of a hint of a promise of something tantalisingly small on the horizon – even if it is only the size of a midge’s winky.

Yes, the talks have blossomed. Goodwill breaks out all around. A new era of fellowship beckons. It’s the dawn of a fresh understanding. Fraternity with no bounds. Or maybe it was the prospect of no pay cheque arriving in the month before Christmas. Whatever the reason, the self-important gobshites have begrudgingly recognised the truth in the old saying – “Do dog, or shite the licence.”

Let’s hope now that there’s an end to their easy ride and that they have to actually start earning their money in the years ahead, rather than float around impervious to the fact that in order to survive most people have to actually produce something at the end of the day – dig a drain, build a wall, teach some kids, cure an illness or whatever.

Of course, they also have been guilty of hiding behind the fact that there are many tough decisions ahead. Conveniently, they have been shunning issues like water, rates and the 11+, pretending that it is big bad Westminster forcing it upon us. Well, the years ahead will show us what our local guys are made of. I imagine that some of our current household names will fall actually short in many aspects of the task – personality and competence to name just two – and that some unlikely heroes (I use the word lightly) will be thrown up. Oh, it’s all so exciting.

On a much lighter note, I see that the beeb has a picture of a windswept Ian Paisley arriving in Scotland for the talks. I’m no expert on headwear, of course, but it seems to me that the big lad’s hat is not a million miles off the “broad, black brimmer of the IRA”, a style much favoured by the boys back in the day. Mind you, Big Ian has in the past also famously donned a beret – another style favoured by revolutionaries, a la Che Guevara. What next, I wonder? Gerry Adams in an Armani sash? Or how about Martin McGuinness in a dapper wee 12th of July bowler – with all his fishing flies neatly arranged along the headband. Peter Hain, of course would be free to wear whatever he wished – but I reckon he’d struggle to get anything to fit the biggest head in politics.

On a more personal note, its been the end of another fruitful, satisfying and often very funny week in the world of what it is I do. (To those of you who don’t really know me, I’ll tell you what I do when we’ve gotten to know each other better.) Why didn’t I go into business in this way years ago, I wonder. Maybe the truth lies in the fact that I’ve always been a bit of late developer. That, of course, is a phrase that often gets bandied about very flippantly but – to be serious for a moment – I actually think it’s true with me. Why’s that, you say? Well it’s the old Catholic boarding school thing: too much bromide in the tea. When I think about the taste of that stuff we were given three times a day I’m often tempted to round up a few witnesses and take the buggers to court. Would it be possible to sue on the grounds of lost earnings through not being mature enough to apply oneself to a sensible job? It’s possible. Although the counter to that would be that fact that no bromide might have actually encouraged inapproprite promiscuousness. I might even have a whole extra legion of kids to support by now. So maybe we’ll just let it lie.

Anyway, sorry if I went on a bit there – it’s just that my wife is watching Pat Kenny in the next room and I need any possible excuse in order not to watch that wooden lump. God Save Ireland from him and his ilk.