The Raven

(with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)

[It is October 2002, the day after Ireland’s disastrous home defeat to the Swiss, which renders Ireland’s qualification for the European Championships well nigh impossible.]
Once upon a midnight bloody,
Lounged McCarthy in his study,
Pondering the harsh, unholy
Portents of the night before.
Wounded deep by Hakan Yakin,
Press suggesting he was lackin’,
Conspiring to demand his sackin’,
This knave let out a hollow roar.
They might well demand his sacking,
Quoth McCarthy, “One game more!”

As he lolled upon his cushions,
Contemplating Swiss and Russians,
Thoughts of Saipan filtered brusquely,
Conjured up from days of yore.
Through the murky mists came hobblin’,
With a football madly bobblin’,
A vision of the Mayfield goblin
Striding through that hotel door.
Grinning madly, that foul goblin
Smiled and whispered, “Never more!”

As he dozed, consumed and troubled,
Dreadfully the vision doubled,
And another wizened figure
Strode triumphant ‘cross the floor.
To the poor, untutored layman,
Pranced a single-minded Shaman,
‘Twas the scheming, whistling Eamonn
Dunphy, ballpoint to the fore.
Then that mystic, wrinkled Eamonn
Dunphy whispered, “Never more!”

Assaulted by this smirking twosome,
With their accents stark and gruesome,
McCarthy woke with brow perspiring,
Beads of sweat through every pore.
And, as he ceased his nervous napping,
He thought he heard a tiny rapping
Through the night come tap-tap-tapping,
Hard upon his study door.
“Who on earth is tap-tap-tapping?”
Angrily did he implore.

Like a most disgruntled rhino,
Swept he swiftly o’er the lino,
And with scarce concealed impatience,
Grasped the handle of the door.
Then this sad and lonely figure
Flung the door ajar with vigour,
And though he thought he heard a snigger,
Deep black night was all he saw.
“Did I really hear a snigger?”
Quoth McCarthy, nothing more.

Worried now, he hesitated,
Thwarted by his ghosts, frustrated,
Till at last, his patience snapping,
Violently he slammed the door.
But as the clock resumed tick-tocking,
Fancied he, he heard a knocking,
Barely heard and faintly mocking,
Mocking as McCarthy swore.
“Who is this so faintly mocking?”
Came a small voice, “Never more!”

“This is not imagination!”
Cried McCarthy with frustration,
“Someone close is out there standing
Hard upon my study door.”
Thus the bould McCarthy reckoned,
As he paused for just one second,
Till once more the small voice beckoned
From the night’s Plutonian shore.
Softly now the small voice beckoned,
Softly chiding, “Never more!”

McCarthy wrenched the door with passion
In a most ungodly fashion,
The pulse within his temple throbbing,
Senses shaken to the core.
And, as he scratched his chin unshaven,
Through the door there stepped a craven,
Hollow-eyed, ungodly raven,
With a most distinctive caw.
Cackled this ungodly raven
Quite distinctly, “Never more!”

Up on Charlton’s bust it fluttered,
As McCarthy darkly muttered,
Uttered oaths not heard in heaven
Nor upon Nirvana’s shore.
Showing scant regard for fleeing,
There it perched with eyes unseeing,
Staring at the human being,
Standing there with slackened jaw.
Sneering at the human being,
As it murmured, “Never more!”

McCarthy stared at this black vision,
Bereft of logic and decision,
Something in the bird’s demeanour
Stuck fast in his stubborn craw.
The accent that foul bird had uttered,
As it upwardly had fluttered,
Was surely that which Cork men uttered,
According to the rebel lore.
[McCarthy blanched when Cork men muttered]
Quoth the raven, “Never more!”

“Get thee hence, ungodly creature!”
Cried McCarthy like a preacher
Exorcising demons in a
Tableau from a holy war.
But the raven perched there tightly,
Three days stubble quite unsightly,
Cruciate ligaments flexing lightly,
Face towards the study door.
McCarthy’s face was flushing brightly.
Quoth the raven, “Never more!”

“Are these the only words you’re able
To impart, black bird of fable?
Have you learned them parrot-fashion
From a most obtuse macaw?
Seest thou not, that I wish that you
Leave my Big Jack Charlton statue?
Go now! Quit my habitat, you
Are not welcome, that’s for sure.
Please, now, leave my habitat, you!”
Quoth the raven, “Never more!”

The raven’s eyes burned with cold fire.
“What,” McCarthy did enquire,
Is the reason for your rapping,
Tapping on my study door?
I have work that needs attending,
Faxes urgently need sending,
A coach’s work is never-ending,
Especially when results are poor.
The Swiss made fun of our defending.”
Quoth the raven, “Never more!”

Then McCarthy saw this raven
Was a harbinger, a craven
Doom-strewn messenger of fortune,
Sent to speak eternal law.
Round the study blind he lumbered,
Ireland’s future unencumbered,
For his days were shortly numbered,
Resignation lay in store.
He realised his days were numbered,
As the bird spoke, “Never more!”

To this day, it sits besmirching
Charlton’s bust, ungainly perching,
In McCarthy’s study blithely,
Still of eye and sharp of claw.
Despite the fire, the room grows colder,
Still it sits there, darker, bolder,
Two big chips upon each shoulder,
Staring blindly at the door.
Will McCarthy move that boulder?
Cries the raven, “Never more!”

Basel Faulty

Disappointed, not distraught,
We’re not as good as we had thought.
Inflated dreams conspired to dazzle
Irish eyes that went to Basel.
Defence as holey as Swiss cheese,
There’s no point learning Portuguese.
Keane and Duffer barely figured,
Frei and Chapuisat both sniggered,
Midfield barely posed a threat,
Performances we may forget,
Frightened of the Swiss attackin’,
Gugelhopfed by Hakan Yakin.
When Frei poached their second goal
We all looked for a Heidi hole.
Put it bluntly, we were dismal,
Deserved to lose and quite abysmal,
Never ever looked like scoring,
Build ups tedious and boring,
No wonder that the Irish crowd
Barely spoke a word out loud,
Overrun by reds and whites
And cowbells ringing for the Schweiz.
Blame it on McCarthy, sure,
But don’t pretend that we weren’t poor.

So, disappointment by the Rhein,
But not as bad as Liechtenstein.

Return to the Park

When the lads returned home from Korea,
We sung out their names loud and clear –
Staunton and Keane,
Duff, Harte and Breen,
Kinsella and McAteer.

But we must have been out on the beer-o,
For our manners were all shot to zero.
Kilbane was ignored
Didn’t get his reward,
You might say he’s an unsung hero.

In Praise of “Donkeys” – A Rant

I thought that it was very rude,
The day that Kev Kilbane got booed.
He may not have Duff’s speed or grace,
Nor is he quite as fair of face,
But one thing cannot be denied –
When wearing green, he’s always tried.

Gary Breen gets fierce abuse
From those who say that he’s no use.
Positionally, he’s quite suspect,
In terms of speed, he’s often wrecked.
But in the cauldron of Japan,
Bould Gary was your only man.

And Doherty and Connolly
Are criticised most constantly.
Beside the likes of Keane and Duff,
Perhaps they are not good enough,
But they would beg and swallow dirt
To pull on Ireland’s famous shirt.

Your game can sometimes fall apart,
As in Japan with Ian Harte,
Who got the most enormous flak
For his mistakes while at left back.
A lesser man might walk away,
But Ian always wants to play.

It’s fashionable today to jeer
The likes of Jason McAteer.
Such a pre-pubescent boy
For daring to provoke our Roy.
But Jason, thank you very much
For those two goals against the Dutch.

Damien Duff and Robbie Keane
Are rightly heroes of the green.
They have the talent and the skill
To turn a football game at will.
But should we really damn the rest,
Who try as hard, but aren’t as blessed.

There are players who don’t take the mickey,
Act the goat, or pull a sickie.
Forgive the pun, but always keen
To join the squad and wear the green,
And walk through hell and swallow crap
To gain an international cap.

And then there’s others I won’t name,
Who play the club or country game,
For whom an international match
Intrudes upon their league club’s patch.
And these true “heroes” of our nation
Receive our strongest adulation.

Suwon City

Gaizka Mendieta,
Outside his home in Spain,
Was writing a long letter
To his sweetheart, Elaine.

At the time, Shay Given,
In Spain on holidays,
In a hired car was driven
By Claude, a friend of Shay’s.

Now Claude and Shay were driving
Around and round and round,
No nearer to arriving,
Destination still unfound.

They stopped chez Mendieta,
The window open wide,
And hailed the blond goal-getter,
Sitting there outside.

Mendieta listened,
Looked long and hard at Shay,
Then with a smile that glistened,
He sent him the wrong way.

Robbie Keane’s Last Minute Penalty Against Spain

While we were the fact digesting,
And the Spanish were protesting,
Straight up to the ball ran Keano,
With an almost boyish bound.
Were the nerve ends taut and fraying,
While the Spanish were delaying?
Or did he think that he was playing
Just another kick-around?

Did he realise the massive
Moment, as he watched impassive?
Did the niggly doubts start crawling
Through the portals of his brain?
Was he, as he seemed, uncaring
‘Bout the burden he was bearing,
As he waited, chewing, staring
At the angry men of Spain?

Who, in Ireland, at that moment,
With emotions churned in foment,
Would have volunteered to try
To equalise the Spanish goal?
With the moments slowly dying,
Who’d have faced it, fate-defying,
While all those around were shying
From the challenge of the soul?

Hail the boy that knows no jitters,
While the old man shakes and witters!
Glory to the New World where
The wrinkled angel fears to tread!
Confidently running, scoring,
Head upturned and both arms soaring,
With the adulation pouring
Down upon his uncrowned head.

The Ballad of Quinn and Hierro

Fernando Hierro had but one small wish,
A little reward for his labours.
He yearned for his very own satellite dish,
Despite the strong views of his neighbours.

But there was a bye-law that people respected,
And which he’d been warned not to flout –
No problem with aerials being erected,
But satellite dishes were out.

Fernando, however, was keen on his sport,
And community-wise, kept aloof,
And so he dismissed what his neighbours all thought,
And fixed up a dish to his roof.

Niall Quinn, as it happened, was honorary chairman,
Of the local residential committee,
And he called on Hierro and said, “It’s not fair, man,
Yon satellite dish isn’t pretty.”

Hierro’s response was dismissive and fleeting,
And he sent the tall striker a-packing.
So Niall, enraged, called an emergency meeting,
To look for the residents’ backing.

Well, they gave him their blessing to do what he could
To get the tough Spaniard’s compliance.
Provided ‘twas legal, they well understood
The need to face down his defiance.

Now, Niall had some chickens [an old boyhood dream],
For he fancied himself as a farmer,
And cunningly now he did work out a scheme
Where they became part of his armour.

Hierro’s back garden adjoined that of Niall,
And the floral display was impressive,
Orchids and dahlias and sweet camomile,
So much it was almost excessive.

So Niall hung on till the Spaniard went out,
And then he ran down to his coop,
And he summonsed his chickens with one cheery shout,
And they gathered around in a group.

He quickly dispensed several urgent instructions,
And thanked them for co-operating.
He knew that their actions might cause nasty ructions,
And possibly trouble lay waiting.

And when he had finished, he lifted them gently,
And placed them all over the fence,
Ran up to his bedroom and peered out intently,
His face ever-watchful and tense.

The chickens, though, followed their master’s request,
And made for the colourful beds,
And, clucking away with encouraging zest,
They pecked all the flowers to shreds.

Well, Fernando returned in the late afternoon,
And his blood pressure instantly doubled.
All over his garden, bright flowers were strewn,
While chickens walked o’er them untroubled.

He let forth a yell, and he ran back outside,
And he banged on the Mighty Quinn’s door.
As Niall came down, he, with innocence, cried,
“What on earth is that hammering for?”

As he threw the door open, Hierro let loose,
And Quinn’s bright expression did vanish.
In turn, he enquired, why the florid abuse?
He’d never been taught rustic Spanish.

Hierro then dragged him around to the back,
Where Quinner feigned innocent wonder.
The Spaniard was bulling, his temper was black
And he wore an expression like thunder.

Niall announced that he wasn’t surprised
At the chickens’ despicable actions.
Perhaps poor Hierro had not realised
They hated these novel distractions.

These chickens he tended, though docile and few,
Could suddenly turn pretty vicious,
The reason for which, as all poultry men knew,
Was the presence of satellite dishes.

Perhaps ‘twas the colour, perhaps ‘twas the shape,
That caused certain fowl aggravation,
But the salient fact that he couldn’t escape,
Was - they flipped o’er a dish installation.

Well, Hierro looked sideways at Quinn for a while,
Sceptically mulling and thinking,
And then his bronzed face creased into a great smile,
And one of his eyes started winking.

“You’re very inventive, you know, Senor Quinn.
I admire the way you’ve contested.
You played most unfairly, but I’ll let you win,
I’ll take down the dish as requested.

I’ll purchase an aerial, throw in the towel,
And thank God you don’t own any cattle!”
And thus, though Hierro quite loudly cried, “Fowl!”
‘Twas Quinn won the aerial battle.

The Submarine Bar

The Submarine Bar is up for sale,
A snip at fifteen million.
The price would make the nerve ends quail
For many a Joe or Gillian.

Located out in Walkinstown,
The place is often swaying,
For that is where the craic goes down,
Whenever Ireland’s playing.

The three-toned hats are on display,
Like something from the Tweenies,
The oul’ wans sing Olé Olé,
And sip their dry martinis.

All faces cricked up in the air
To watch the television,
They tear their hair out in despair
At every bad decision.

And if it’s an important match,
Then RTE comes calling,
Trying very hard to catch
The sense that it’s enthralling.

The lads all brandish pints of beer,
And spill slops on their bellies,
And if we score, they give a cheer
And shout out at the tellies.

The pub has come to symbolise
The modern day supporter,
Who watches games through square-shaped eyes
While lowering the porter.

He’s Irish as his pint of stout,
He roars on Ireland’s goals,
But when the weekend comes, he’ll shout
For Larsson, Giggs and Scholes.

For football’s best when it is viewed
On thirty six inch screen.
The atmosphere’s far better, dude,
Down in the Submarine.

Xanadu

[A Vision in a Dream. A Fragment.]

In Ibarak’ did Ollie Kahn

A stately Berlin wall decree,

Where Ramelow, inspired, ran

The back four with Dietmar Hamann,

To try and clinch Group E.

And thus they built a wall of clay

To keep the Irish hordes away.

And Oliver in majesty surveyed

The battling ramparts from his stately throne,

And though his gallant soldiers were afraid,

The Irish could not topple German stone.

But oh! When all seemed lost a breach appeared,

And Kahn did suffer bitter acrid loss,

For as the weary battle’s twilight neared,

‘Twas just as strained Teutonic hearts had feared,

As mighty Quinn arose to meet the cross.

And in this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

The whole Hibernian nation eschewed breathing,

And as the ball dropped marvellously to Keane,

That proud and tireless warrior in the green,

Stiff-legged smacked he past Kahn’s despairing dive,

To keep the Irish World Cup dream alive.

Ireland vs. Cameroon 2002

And so in the Niigata heat,
We uttered forth a mournful song.
The rhythm of the bodhran beat
Still echoed passionate and strong,
But hearts were heavy to a man
O’er what had happened in Saipan.

The men in green thus took the pitch,
Though all the chatter was about
A man at home in England, which
Increased our worrying self doubt,
Insulting men who chose to stay
And fight for us with feet of clay.

And lo! Those doubts appeared well-founded.
The Cameroon with skill and strength
Upon the Irish rearguard pounded,
Occupying them at length.
Desp’rate, they en masse defended,
Optimism now suspended.

Given played a hero’s role
To keep the Cameroon at bay,
But could do nothing ‘bout the goal
That caused the Irish ranks dismay.
And as Mbomo celebrated,
Ireland’s World Cup hopes deflated.

And when the second half began,
The Africans got in their stride,
And Geremi soon lost his man,
But blazed the sitter inches wide.
Under pressure. One behind.
Saipan heavy on our mind.

But then we got a slice of luck,
As Song essayed to clear a threat,
And Mattie Holland gleeful struck
Into the corner of the net.
And we all danced with sheer relief,
Regaining some small self-belief.

Then Ireland, heady, pinned them back
And, nervous apprehension lost,
They piled forward in attack,
Got it down the wings and crossed.
But Cameroon, all back en masse,
Would not allow the Irish pass.

And Finnan, raging down the right,
And Duffer, twisting inside out,
Put up a most courageous fight
And turned this football match about.
And Alioum gave up the ghost,
But Robbie’s screamer struck the post.

And so we earned a point apiece,
And Ireland were well satisfied,
For hopefully the talk would cease
Of how we were a one-man side,
For, playing boldly as a team,
We’d kept alive the World Cup dream.

Saipan

12.9 on the Richter Scale,
The impact was terrific,
A mushroom cloud, a smoky trail
Out in the North Pacific.
The bitter ash blocked out the light
On that small island nation,
A photo from a satellite
Displayed the devastation.
Seismologists re-checked their dials,
As hist’ry was created.
Around the world, ten thousand miles,
The shock reverberated.
And many, many miles away
Tectonic plates did shift,
Creating on Hiberniay,
A most divisive rift.
This geological event
Divided one proud nation,
Villages and towns were rent
In violent condemnation.
The McCarthy Fault, it has been named.
Some called it after Keane.
What God has split, the bishops claimed,
No man may stand between.

Gunfight at the Not Very OK Corral

He was handsome, he was fearless, he was noble, he was tall,
By all accounts, he was the biggest cowboy of them all.
As he rode out upon his horse, so loved and so respected,
The priests and GAA men all bowed down and genuflected.

For Bertie was a leader who was blessed with strength and vision
And never needed prompting to appear on television.
He had a dream, like all great men, to have a huge erection
That could be seen for miles around in Abbotstown’s direction.

Now in the land where Bertie ruled, there lived an evil troupe,
A freeloading gang of rustlers, an insane and reckless group,
People hid in fear and dread whenever they rode by,
And warned their children to beware the loathsome FAI.

Bernard was their leader and he had a heart of stone
And he desired to raise a big erection of his own.
And though there was much muttering from Bernard’s hired hands,
They backed him to the hilt when he presented his demands.

Now Bertie listened carefully, but after some reflection,
Decided he could not support another man’s erection.
He emptied out his saddlebags upon the barroom floor,
“There’s gold for all!” he shouted, “And I’ll see that you get more!”

As Bertie went out in the street, there came a mighty roar
As all the varmints dived upon the gold dust on the floor.
As Bernard pulled his 45 and told them to desist,
Miles and Brendan drew their guns and neither bullet missed.

Bernard, he was buried with two bullets in his chest,
And so his own erection plans were also laid to rest,
No one sighed, no widow cried, no chapel bell was tolled,
For everyone had been entranced by thoughts of Bertie’s gold.




Bertie was euphoric and he seemed to grow in stature,
Possessing all the qualities of Major, Blair and Thatcher.
The FAI were all on board, there could be no deflection
Away from his great personal aim – the Abbotstown erection.

But behind this powerful leader, lay a shadow tall and wide,
Who aimed a high and mighty kick at Bertie’s big backside.
“I’ve checked the books,” sweet Mary said, “and after my inspection,
I’m sorry but we can’t afford your fatuous erection.”

Now Bertie was a mite afraid of Mary’s sensual charms,
Though he had spent some lonely nights lost in her loving arms,
And so he thought it prudent to consult his loyal minion,
So that he might better get another man’s opinion.

“The gold’s run out,” oul’ Charlie said, “The miners can’t find any.
What good is an erection if you cannot spend a penny?”
When Bertie heard these fateful words, his vision fell apart,
The price, some said, of saddling up the horse behind the cart.

When Miles and Brendan heard the news, they both were sorely vexed,
And spluttered in their whiskey as they planned what happened next,
They knew that they could not stand up to Bertie in a fight,
Although they felt that they had both been dropped into the shite.

Now Bertie was a bit harassed, although he was no fool,
And standing in the street, he challenged Brendan to a duel.
Brendan staggered out of the Incompetence Saloon,
As Milo, on the piano, played a melancholy tune.

Brendan demanded all the gold, but Bertie said he’d none,
Brendan smiled nervously at Bertie’s polished gun.
Inside the Sheriff’s office, Sheriff Croker squirmed with glee,
And, with a glad expression, rubbed his hands expectantly………..

Confessions of a Lily Liver

McAteer scored,
And, all alone at home, I roared,
As the ten men went ahead against the Dutch.
Every game I fear the worst,
Expect the bubble soon to burst,
And, for me, this was a little bit too much.

Now, my heavy, rhythmic heart
Had been a-pounding from the start,
But now, with that great goal, it started racing.
Though we had a goal in hand,
There was no way I could stand
The half an hour or so that we were facing.

So I nimbly set the tape,
And made a cowardly escape
Out onto the bare, deserted street.
And I paced the road alone,
With knuckles chewed down to the bone,
And not a single person did I meet.

Round and round the block I walked,
As each second was uncorked,
And I calculated minutes left to play.
And when full time had been reached,
From nearby houses people screeched,
And then I knew the match had gone our way.

My wife and son and daughter
Claim I’m not a true supporter,
And I’m the one they always throw the book at.
It’s a little bit simplistic
Just to state I’m pessimistic,
But there’s certain games I just can’t bear to look at.

Revenge on the Dutch

Dalymount. A bitter night. October ‘83.
For Ireland fans there could not be a better place to be.
The European Championships had thrown our boys together
With the brilliant Dutchmen, so who cared about the weather?

A minute in the second half and Stapleton was clear.
We stood up on our tiptoes and we braced ourselves to cheer.
He took it round the keeper but he pushed it much too wide,
The Dutch defenders scurried back and Stapo was denied.

If he’d have scored, it would have meant that we were up three-nil,
And even those great Dutchmen would have not climbed up that hill.
But still we had the lead, although the Dutch strove to annul it,
They brought on a new talent by the name of Rudi Gullit.

Rumour was that he was hot, and so it proved to be,
Inspired by this flamboyant lad, the rampant Dutch scored three.
The only consolation on that night of deep despair,
Was the privilege of seeing a performance of such flair.

Gelsenkirchen, ‘88, again we met the Dutch,
We countered them with passion, but that did not count for much.
A mis-hit shot, a spinning ball that crept inside the post,
Once again, frustration was the sense that surfaced most.

‘Twas in Italia ’90 that we sought to end their reign,
But Gullit and his dreadlocks nearly did for us again.
We equalised at last, then tamely settled for a draw,
Carving up the spoils upon that far Sardinian shore.

We beat them in a friendly back in April ’94,
But in the World Cup Finals, they did conquer us once more.
Two silly, basic errors, and they strolled it in the end,
Giving Ireland lessons how to finish and defend.

Anfield in December and a play-off place at stake,
We hoped for some good fortune but we didn’t get a break.
‘Twas really quite one-sided as the Dutch controlled the show,
Convincing Mister Charlton that the time was ripe to go.

World Cup qualifiers for Japan and South Korea,
We scored two early goals from Robbie Keane and McAteer,
But once again, we crumbled when the Dutch chose to attack us,
Scoring twice towards the end, with two tremendous crackers.

And so, ‘twas back to Dalymount, which couldn’t have been fuller,
The stands awash with either a bright green or orange colour.
The Dutch piled on the pressure, but the chances came and went –
Defending as a unit seemed our singular intent.

Then Gary Kelly got sent off and Irish spirits sank,
Surely now the Dutch would hurt us down their left hand flank,
But suddenly a cross came o’er, and Jason thundered in,
Smacking it into the net, to set up Ireland’s win.

Eighteen barren years had passed since Gullit broke our hearts,
Vengeance had not come despite so many hopeful starts.
But finally we did it and we celebrated much
On the day we got our sweet revenge upon the brilliant Dutch.

In Praise of Stewards

The stewards there at Lansdowne Road,
Lined up beneath the stand,
Make sure that all the entrances
Are excellently manned.
Their scope of responsibility
Is frequently expanding,
But, lined up there so helpfully,
They’re very under-standing.

Robbie Keane aged 14

The summer term was over, and the holidays were on,

To earn a bit of money, Robbie worked with Uncle John,

His uncle was a kindly man, a plasterer by trade,

And Robbie was well pleased with all the money that he made.

A clinic was upon the list of houses to be plastered,

And Robbie practised at the trade and shortly had it mastered,

A week they toiled and mixed and screed beneath the burning sun,

Till soon there only was the pebble-dashing to be done.

But time was short and John moved on to start another job,

Leaving Rob instructions and a bonus of ten bob,

And yes, he quickly polished off the doctor’s surgery,

For Uncle John knew well that Robbie finished clinically

Robbie Keane [aged 5]

Miss Barker briskly handed out
The markers and some card.
“We’re going to make some signs about
The litter in the yard.”

The five year olds looked overawed,
At that great task ahead,
Though Robbie Keane looked tired and bored
And picked his nose instead.

The concentration was impassioned
As children started drawing,
And marvellous works of art were fashioned,
Though one child found it boring.

“Why aren’t you drawing, Robbie?” came
The shrill voice of Miss Barker.
“Please miss, I’m really not to blame –
I’ve gone and lost my marker.”

Macedonia Nightmare

There was no need for them to score,
No reason for such boldness.
The header which earned them a draw
Just wrapped our hearts in coldness.
No benefit to them, that goal
That chilled the warmest Gaelic soul.

In Skopje, ‘twas a goal from Quinn
That launched our celebration.
A tight and scrappy one nil win
Ensured our qualification.
Injury time was almost up,
Dreaming of the Euro Cup.

“Four minutes,” screamed the neon sign,
As we howled at the telly.
And then we got some luck divine –
A brilliant save from Kelly.
Into the fifth minute went
The Macedonians, almost spent…

The Spanish ref alas allowed
The corner to be taken.
“Defend! Defend!” we screamed out loud,
Our insides stirred and shaken.
But someone let the full back go,
And thus they struck a tragic blow.

A header we will ne’er forget
Amid such abject wailing,
Crashed into the Irish net
With Alan Kelly flailing.
Our cup of joy was dashed away
With but a second left to play.

Why did the scorer not stay back?
Why did he come up running?
Why did he join his own attack
With fortitude and cunning?
They’d long since fallen off the wall.
A draw would bring them bugger all.

The reason that this sod attacked
Was selfish and gratuitous.
Dreams of glory, though in fact
‘Twas pretty damned fortuitous.
He put his dreams of pers’nal deeds
Before our nation’s urgent needs.

Instead of coming out on top,
We only finished second.
Airline tickets got the chop
And play-off places beckoned.
And Turkey beat us with some ease
To bring a country to it’s knees.

The travel brochures may well say
That Macedonia’s brilliant.
But bitterly, I’ll stay away,
Sulking, but resilient.
Sure, I’ve not been to Holland since
That Wim Kieft header made us wince.