Dear oh dear

Dear, oh dear, that was humiliating.

That really wasn't very good, I fear.

Reus and Őzil bossed us,

made us feel we were imposters

and the mauling dished out cost us dear, oh dear.

Jesus Christ, now that was an embarrassment

as through our ranks they effortlessly sliced.

They were standing round and joking,

some were drinking schnapps and smoking

and we ended up invoking Jesus Christ.

A mauling was what the Germans gave us.

The gulf in class was utterly appalling.

We dithered convolutedly,

bewildered fans gazed mutedly

on what was undisputedly a mauling.

Consolation? Well, the teamwork of the Germans

was worthy of grudging-given ovation.

Little Big Horn? General Custer?

They exposed our brawn and bluster

and our final goal was just a consolation.

Ambition now is just to finish second

if we can bounce back from this attrition.

For it wasn't very nice now

and it’s hard to give advice now.

Paddy Power, son, what price now our ambition?

Ireland 1 Germany 6 (WC 2014 Qualifier)

Haiku

Long balls Given away.
Keane but never in the Hunt.
Performances Duff.

Five seconds of fame

Five seconds of fame, you’re up on the big screen.

Yes, you, the one who can’t believe his eyes,

with silly hat and face all painted green.

The game itself is mundane and routine.

(The whistle blows more than you realise.)

Five seconds of fame, you’re up on the big screen.

It takes some time to lose your puzzled sheen

before you jump and holler with surprise,

with silly hat and face all painted green.

You shake the girlfriend till she bursts her spleen,

pointing wildly up into the skies.

Five seconds of fame! You’re up on the big screen!

But by the time she’s clued in to the scene,

the camera’s panned away to other guys

with silly hats and faces painted green.

You hope it’s taped, and no-one wipes it clean,

so you can reminisce when old and wise.
Five seconds of fame, we were up on the big screen.
with silly hats and faces painted green.

Italy 2 Ireland 0

It’s the end of the Euros as we know it.
When we needed it fast, we chose to slow it.
The gulf was too great for us to row it.
The grass was too long for us to mow it.
The rip was too large for us to sew it.
Our baggage was too big for us to stow it.
We had to play our best. We played below it.
It was hard for the fanciful poet.
We bought champagne but had to forego it.
We were downcast but chose not to show it.
The performance improved much, although it
sometimes seemed we were trying to throw it.
We’d a free kick but couldn’t Pirlo it.
We’d a dream but conspired to blow it.
Yes, it’s the end of the Euros as we know it
and I feel...

Oh Lord

Oh Lord, give us something to shout about,
to make us forget all our woes.
Something we’ll be able to spout about
wherever the sweet Guinness flows.
A deft Houghton header?
A great Whelan screamer?
Am I too demanding?
Am I just a dreamer?
Oh Lord, give us something to shout about,
to make us forget all our woes.

Oh Lord, give us something to scream about
amid all the trouble and strife.
Something that we all can dream about
when we’re making love to the wife.
A Sheedy grass-cutter?
A Niall Quinn tap-in?
An O’Leary peno?
Oh please make it happen.
Oh Lord, give us something to scream about
amid all the trouble and strife.


Oh Lord, give us something to talk about
and we promise we’ll stay clear of sin.
Oh, don’t let our defence go walkabout
and don’t let an early goal in.
A Ray Houghton volley?
A Robbie Keane rocket?
A Gary Breen flick on?
Oh don’t let them block it.
Oh Lord, give us something to talk about
and we promise we’ll stay clear of sin.

The Fields in Gdansk

Outplayed, outclassed, outsmarted,
the Irish team kept fighting.
All hope had long departed,
the wall replete with writing.


Downcast, distraught, dejected,
we watched the savage mauling.
Our rear was not protected.
The Spanish wolves came crawling.


But then we were dumbfounded
as church bells started ringing.
A mighty roar resounded –
ten thousand voices singing.

Neck-hairs stood to attention.
No longer were we dismayed.
We signalled our intention,
although outclassed and outplayed.


Written in response to Kerry's challenge to write a Celtic quatrain at Toads

Bigmouth strikes yet again

I really don’t care what Roy Keane says.
I really don’t care very much.
He’ll rant and he’ll rave
till he goes to the grave.
Now he’s telling the Irish fans how to behave.
Oh, I really don’t care what Roy Keane says
because he is so out of touch.

I really don’t care what Roy Keane says
to get himself back in the news.
He’ll walk his damned pup
and he’ll never shut up
until by some miracle we win the World Cup.
Oh, I really don’t care what Roy Keane says
and I don’t give a damn for his views.

I really don’t care what Roy Keane says.
I don’t want to hear the man speak.
This is the man
wouldn’t play in Iran,
then threw a big hissy fit out in Saipan.
No, I really don’t care what Roy Keane says.
The man has a terrible cheek.

I really don’t care what Roy Keane says.
I really don’t care what he does.
His comments mean naught to me.
This poem seems short to me
(Where the traitor’s concerned, maybe that’s how it ought to be)
No, I really don’t care what Roy Keane says
for Roy doesn’t represent us.

Roy criticises Irish team and, bizarrely, Irish fans for their sing-song mentality. Both team and fans, he said, need to change their attitude. Maybe instead of singing in defeat, the fans should go on the rampage, or slink silently away?

Little consolation

It’s of little consolation
that they say that we were plucky;
that, alas, on this occasion,
we were just a tad unlucky.
At the moment we’re deflated
at our quick elimination
and the spirit demonstrated
is of little consolation.


It’s of little consolation
that the plaudits keep on flying
for our steeled determination
and the way we kept on trying.
For they took us to the cleaners
with a joyous affirmation
and the gulf in class between us
is of little consolation.


It’s of little consolation
that they say that Spain are giants.
They fulfilled their reputation
and brushed off our grim defiance.
They’ve been eulogised and feted
as the greatest football nation
but (it can’t be overstated)
that’s of little consolation.

It’s of little consolation
that the scoreline wasn’t greater;
that the goal-count calculation
didn’t need a calculator.
Though we narrowly averted
a complete humiliation,
their chances not converted
are of little consolation.


It’s of little consolation
that our fans could not stop singing
in the fierce precipitation
that left each supporter wringing.
Though downhearted and frustrated,
they maintained our reputation
but the humour generated
is of little consolation.


It’s of little consolation
that there’s hope on the horizon;
that the coming generation
means our stock should soon be risin’.
For we’re caught up in the story
of last night’s sad consternation
and the hope of future glory
is of little consolation.

Incantation

Eye of toad and chin of elk;

leg of worm and jaw of whelk;
shamrock leaf and mildew’d fungus
(for the sugar-tongued among us);
ragglewort and liverfluke;
camel’s spit and baby’s puke;
deadly nightshade, picked and pressed;
milk from alligator’s breast;
blood of dodo, hair of Rooney,
ear of bat and smile of Clooney;
claw of bullfinch, herring’s nipple;
double vodka (or a triple);
and as you stir this strange creation,
chant the sacred incantation –

“Let Alonso’s big toe fester;
strain the groin of Iniesta;
tug the ligaments of Xavi;
let Busquets lose his football savvy;
spread butter on Casillas’ fingers;
make sure Arbeloa malingers;
let Jordi Alba’s muscles crumble;
let Ramos’s appendix rumble;
let Silva’s legs begin to stumble;
let Fabregas’s stock now tumble;
let violent sores o’errun Piqué;
but, most of all, let Torres play.”

The morning after

Sometimes we can’t do the unexpected;
sometimes we can’t upset the odds;
sometimes we just feel so dejected
and wonder why we’ve irked the football gods.


Sometimes Shay Given proves he’s mortal;
sometimes hard graft is not enough;
sometimes we look back through time’s portal
and hearken for a younger Keane and Duff.

Sometimes our errors will be pounced on;
sometimes our passes go astray;
our optimistic nature will be bounced on
and all our hopes and dreams will melt away.

Sometimes we’re punished for our messin’;
sometimes we’ll punch at our true weight;
sometimes we will be taught a lesson;
sometimes we’re frowned upon by fate.

Sometimes we get a sinking feeling;
sometimes we will not scale the heights;
sometimes reality comes stealing;
last night proved to be one of those nights.

Back with a whimper

Make a mistake in the qualifiers
and you may ride your luck.
Make mistakes in the finals
and you come unstuck.
So they put us under pressure
and we made mistakes.
We could have recovered
but they got the breaks.

At the highest level
we must retain the ball
if we’re going to have
any chance at all.
For they’re so damn ruthless
when they get a sniff,
that it takes but a second
to send our dreams skew-whiff.

The first was a header
from a long way out
there didn’t really seem to be
any danger about,
but it swung deceptively,
swooped in like a ghost,
crept in like a demon
just inside the post.

The second was a gift,
a stray pass from Ward,
when presents were the thing
we could least afford.
And although he was fouled
when he tried to clear,
the ref didn’t see it
and the price was dear.


The third was regrettable;
we stood off too long,
allowed time for the cross,
which was firm and strong.
The header flashed in,
hit the post, rebounded,
went in off Shay
as he stretched out grounded.


But we’d cause to cheer
with St. Ledger’s goal
to show the world we’d sugar
still in the bowl.
And all is not lost now,
although we feel the pain –
we’ll be right back on track, boys,
when we hammer Spain.

Jonnie Walters

Fist-pumping, awkward-jumping,
arms, elbows, knees bumping,
sharp-cunning, strong-running,
lack of grace, in your face,
always in the right place,
finger-licking, high-kicking,
watch the centre-backs bricking,
hard-shooting, executing,
pushing, fowling, disemboweling,
lurking, prowling, grunting, growling,
big, ugly, always scowling,
brave, fearless, mighty, peerless,
old-fashioned, highly-passioned,
barrel-chested, never bested,
every ball contested,
head-splitting, hard-hitting,
unthinkable, unsinkable,
sabre-rattling, always battling,
plundering and thundering,
tearing-folks-asunder-ing,
shoving, pushing, grappling, rushing,
flying tackle, bone-crushing,
goal-getting, target-setting,
often ends up in the netting,
Edith Piaf, no regretting,
man-o’-war, dinosaur,
matador, conquistador,
axe-blow through the bathroom door,
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere’s
Jonnie!

Euro 2012 D Day Minus 2

I’ve been out searching frantically for bunting
but seemingly I’ve left it far too late.
In every store, I’ve been reduced to grunting
when shop assistants tell it to me straight.
All I wanted was to decorate
the little patch of land my house is fronting,
but sadly, I had too much on my plate
and now I’ve gone and missed the boat for bunting.


Did no-one think the country might need bunting
and ship it in from China by the crate?
Or is this poxy Euro crisis blunting
the business acumen within the state?
My fruitless search has now begun to grate
but I’ve no option but to go on hunting,
unless I want to be (in our estate)
the only sap without a bit of bunting.

Euro 2012 D Day Minus 3

And so,
days before a major Finals,
an Irish midfielder breaks ranks,
skips past the despairing lunge
of a thick-skulled manager,
and runs to the arms of the press,
complaining about training.

Quite unprecedented, of course.

Oh, Aiden,
ask poor Kevin Foley if he thought
training was too draining.
I’m sure the Black Sea in June
is very beautiful. Can you imagine yourself
stretched out, dozing on a sunbed
as we take the field in Poznan?

http://www.herald.ie/sport/soccer/mcgeady-irish-squad-is-jaded-3128937.html

Paper Planes

The crowd’s collective roar
made the paper planes soar,
some crashing into the stand,
others reaching the pitch
and landing smoothly, which
elicited a big hand.
How they circled and soared,
our long-held dreams on board
before coming in to land!

Defying all the odds,
we sit up with the gods
and sing loud that old refrain
of Olé, Olé, Olés,
pre-empting summer days
in Poland or the Ukraine.
The Irish spirit sings,
borne on the fragile wings
of each tiny paper plane.

In Estonia

Estonia – the name fills us with dread
and makes the path ahead stonier.
We leave, armed with scarf, voice, hope and rattle
to do battle in Estonia.

The chill of winter grips the barren land
and throttles the fair begonia.
Will we too wilt on the frozen mire
or light a fire in Estonia?

Bony is the wolf, cloudy his thick breath
but death’s long fingers are bonier.
We must not flinch but grasp the flaming bough
that beckons now in Estonia.

How pleasant now seem the far-flung mountains
and fountains of Patagonia!
Easier to scale them all than begin
to hope to win in Estonia.

Timid and caution, get thee hence to bed –
faint heart is wed to pneumonia.
Our battle cry must make the pale moon glow
and strike a blow in Estonia.

FIFA’s sympathy last time was phony
but our baloney was phonier.
Let us hope that this time we’ll get it right
this Friday night in Estonia.

Written as part of an exercise at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2011/11/i-gymryd-anadl.html to write a poem using the archaic Welsh form, the toddaid.

Richard Dunne Colossus of Moscow

Loudly the guns and artillery sounded,
upon our defences the Russian shells pounded,
but fears of a massacre proved quite unfounded,
for though we were quite overrun,
the Russians could only stare at us, dumbfounded
by the exploits of one Richard Dunne.

He rallied the troops with a rearguard action,
cautioned the line to avoid all distraction
and while the foe railed against every infraction,
he just glared in the September sun.
Arshavin and co derived no satisfaction
from the man-mountain called Richard Dunne.

Cannon in front of him volleyed and thundered
but he stepped in the breach when a comrade had blundered.
Was this a single man? Was it a hundred
that stopped all their missiles for fun?
The men from the east drank their vodka and wondered
at the demi-god called Richard Dunne.

Forward, still forward, the Russian ranks flooded
but he was unbowed though battered and bloodied,
his face bathed in sweat and engagingly bloodied
as the web of a legend was spun.
Many years on, the videotape will be studied
of the colossal, impassive,
undefeatably massive,
Herculean Richard Dunne.

(I thought Paul McGrath's performance against Italy in the Giants Stadium in 1994 would never be surpassed but oh my God, Richard Dunne was incredible against the Russians)

Putting on a show

Go and see La Scala, is Trap’s answer
to those who think we should put on a show.
Certainly there’s no exotic dancer
among the likes of Keane and Dunne and co.

Kevin Doyle cannot sing Nessun Dorma,
Kev Kilbane is no Maria Callas.
Darren O’Dea’s a reliable performer
but only versus sides like Crystal Palace.

There’s nothing that would last a week on Broadway
nor run for half a week in the West End.
We beat the Macs in something of a flawed way,
forced for lengthy periods to defend.

But when, in eight months time, the final curtain
comes down on our bid for qualification,
if we’ve won through, one thing will be certain –
they’re going to get one rapturous ovation.

An ugly win over Macedonia is not to Eamonn Dunphy's liking

The ballad of Jermaine Pennant

(The 28 year old Stoke midfielder has just discovered an Irish grandfather and wants to play for the Republic)

The morning sun fell lightly on
the boots of Jermaine Pennant,
in a lonely training centre
in an English midlands town.
It could have been him, perhaps,
winning international caps,
but his team-mates had all flown off
and Jermaine was feeling down.

At the age of twenty eight,
he realised he’d never play
for England in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The hotline had stopped ringing,
so he stood there softly singing
English folk songs that he’d memorised
in his daddy’s easy chair.

International weeks were murder,
the training ground was bare,
and there were oh so many ways
for him to spend the day.
He could practise throws like Rory’s
or tell himself bright stories,
or dribble round the static cones
that lined up in his way.

At the age of twenty eight,
he realised he’d never play
for England in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The hotline had stopped ringing,
so he stood there softly singing
English folk songs that he’d memorised
in his daddy’s easy chair.

The evening sun fell lightly on
the boots of Jermaine Pennant
as he sat in his apartment
with his mobile at his side.
It takes a certain irrationality
to change your nationality,
and he sat there softly dreaming
of the greener grass outside.

At the age of twenty eight,
he thought that he might play
for Ireland in the World Cup
with the warm wind in his hair.
The telephone was ringing,
but he sat there softly singing
Irish rebel songs he’d memorised
in Grand-daddy’s easy chair.

Casting the first stone

If ever I was in the situation,
There’s one thing that could never be denied.
I’d gladly take the worldwide approbation
If it meant that Ireland qualified.

I’d fall down in the box like Michael Owen,
Like Drogba and Ronaldo always do.
I’d punch the ball like Maradonna, knowin’
It might well help my country to get through.

So all of you with knives out for Thierry,
All you so keen to label him with shame.
I’d ask you all to be a little wary –
Don’t you think that you’d have done the same?

On the other hand -

Revenge on the French

Irish-French relations, the entente between our nations,
Has always been extremely cordiale.
We share a common bond against our neighbours cross the pond
And we’ve started eating chicken provençale.

Many thousands flock to Lourdes in the hope of being cured,
We’ve started winning in the Parc des Princes.
There’s a veritable litany of holiday homes in Brittany,
Since Charlie Haughey won the Tour de France.

But relations have been strained and dissatisfaction’s reigned,
A new mistrust has suddenly been born.
Now far fewer people want to fly with Ryanair to Nantes,
The hand of friendship’s definitely withdrawn.

Oh that sad November night when the French whooped with delight
As Thierry hopped the ball like Barney Rock.
How we watched with disbelief, wallowed in our pool of grief
And never quite recovered from the shock.

“What base treachery is this?” we indignantly did hiss.
“Never was an act so foul or callous!
A blind man on a horse could have seen that, yes of course,
He handled it before he crossed to Gallas.

Yes Henry the skilful Frenchman had become the Devil’s henchman,
The arm came out and then was seen to straighten.
And it was a massive cod to say it was the Hand of God
When we all knew it was the Hand of Satan.

Did the divil grease his palm? Did he think it was no ‘arm?
Did he think he wore the blue of Tipperary?
Though I’ll say with no codology that the après-match apology
Was handled very well by our Thierry.

There was nothing we could do, except accept the French were through,
Platini strangely failed to intervene.
And to top that, two days later, we’d the little Mayfield traitor
Stick the knife into the Boys in Green.

One would hope such blatant cheating would have made their triumph fleeting
And perhaps their World Cup group would be a bastard.
Maybe Spain, Brazil and Italy (we all yearned for, somewhat bitterly)
A thrashing in each game would be forecasted.

But they got Fiji; they got Lapland and some other bleedin’ crap land –
That Domenech is such a jammy sod.
They need only to turn up to progress further in the Cup –
Further proof, if needed, there’s no God.

So when the World Cup comes around where will Irish folk be found?
Not in bleedin’ Jo’burg, that’s for sure.
But neither will we be in Biarritz or Normandy –
The tourist numbers there will be much fewer.

There will be no Wild Geese sitting in the square in Nice,
No time Toulouse, no wish to see Toulon.
And by God, we will not go to either Provence or Bordeaux –
There’s no beach I will lay my Carcassonne.

Yes, belle France will join the list of the countries I’ve dismissed,
When working out my summer holiday,
Macedonia, Ukraine, Holland, Mexico and Spain,
Liechtenstein and Greece, Poland, Russia and La Suisse,
Mongolia and Malta, Guatemala and Gibraltar,
Turkey and Slovenia, why not throw in Abysseenia?
Bulgaria, Romania and Croatia and Albania,
Korea and Japan, don’t forget the Isle of Man –
It looks like I’ll be heading down to Bray.