He wishes for a new Ireland shirt

Had I the brand new Ireland shirt,
A masterpiece of emerald green,
Embossed with logo extrovert
And “Eircom” writ in font eighteen,
I would wear it to all home games.
But I being poor have just the top
From World Cup 1994,
Which my wife uses for a mop.
Mop lightly, for you mop with my shirt.

The gaffer regrets

The gaffer regrets he’s unable to lunch today, madame,
The gaffer regrets he’s unable to lunch today.
He is sorry to be delayed,
But did you see the way the national team played,
Madame?
The gaffer regrets he’s unable to lunch today.

When he woke up and found that the Cypriots were one up, madame,
He tried to avert a most embarrassing display,
But the longer the match went on,
It was clear that the gaffer was gone,
Madame.
The gaffer regrets he’s unable to lunch today.

Well the mob came along and dragged him from Croke Park, madame,
And strung him up on the old willow across the way.
And John Delaney redefined what’s meant
By the phrase “by mutual consent,”
Madame,
The gaffer regrets he’s unable to lunch today.

Selecting the new manager

Hey, why don’t we have a reality show?
Phone in for the coach of your choice.
The popular vote is the right way to go,
Let Rasher and Niall have a voice.

All the contestants can show us their skills
On Playstation games or Nintendo.
We’d watch their decisions without any frills
Or smearing or gross innuendo.

The money we raise when we get on the phone
Can help fund the manager’s salary.
Get people evicted till one’s left alone,
Depending on who’s in the gallery.

And thus we would all be inclined to support
The people’s mandated decision
Though, knowing our fickleness, ‘specially in sport,
We’ll soon revert back to derision.

The Gunslinger (above the pass)

Above the pass, he lies in wait,
His craggy face carved out of scorn.
Intolerant of “second-rate,”
His gun now from its hoster torn.

The little band rides into view,
Scanning hard the barren trail,
Lined with boulders that accrue
Among the dust and settled shale.

No cover from the rifle fire,
No place to ‘scape the cross-site threads.
The mocking sun spreads waves of fire
Upon the trav’ling party’s heads.

Above the pass, he cocks his gun,
The click resounding like a shot.
The shadows deepen in the sun,
His lips now strangely dry and hot.

The fair-haired sheriff casts his eyes
To where he fears attack may come.
No chance for talk or compromise,
The seconds ticking like a drum.

The shot rings out! The sheriff falls!
The band of cowboys spur their steeds
And gallop past the valley’d walls,
No thought now of heroic deeds.

The prostate body on the track
Is covered by no mourning shroud.
Above the pass, his head thrown back,
The Dunphy’s laughter echoes loud.

He draws a blade of weathered steel,
Surveying long the dark deed done,
And carves another inch-long weal
Upon the barrel of the gun.

My Friend Stan

My friend Stan needs to make a new plan
Oh yeah, ah-hah.
He tells me he’s been fired and’s no longer required
Oh yeah, ah-hah.
And from the way you blacked his eye,
Oh Eamonn, you’re the reason why,
And from the day he walked on by
You’ve been gunning for him
Really gunning for him.

My friend Bobby says he needs a new hobby,
Oh yeah, ah-hah.
Because he’s lost his job and he needs a few bob,
Oh yeah, ah-hah.
And from the way he seemed to cry,
Oh Eamonn, you’re the reason why,
And from the way his smile was wry,
Its not bothering him,
No, not bothering him.

My friend John says he’s sorry Stan’s gone
Oh yeah, ah-hah.
He says he’s wished Stan well but it all went to hell,
Oh yeah, ah-hah.
And from the way he said goodbye,
Its clear that Stan’s hung out to dry,
And from the way he fixed his tie,
He’s abandoning him,
He’s abandoning him,
He’s abandoning him,
He’s abandoning him
Oh yeah.

In Lehmanns Terms

When the Germans visit Dublin,
There’s always such a buzz.
The atmosphere is bubblin’,
If not for them, for us.

But apathy’s in fashion,
The atmosphere was flat.
Keane’s miss evoked no passion.
We merely shrugged at that.

For us the game scarce mattered,
Since we went down to the Czechs
Our dreams now crushed and shattered.
Contenders? Please add “ex-.”

The Germans were delighted
To return home with a draw,
But we were unexcited
And could scarce restrain a snore.

And later on the panel,
Poor Eamo and the boys
Just churned the same old flannel
And made the same old noise.

I stayed away from Croker,
I’m glad now that I did.
It would have been a choker
To have coughed up fifty quid.

.

Ireland 0 Germany 0

A Rinky Dinky Manager

I’m a rinky-dinky manager
And Eamonn gives out stink.
My heinous crime
(He says) that I’m
So full of rinky-dink.
I’ve searched the Oxford Diction’ry
And followed ev’ry link,
But cannot find
This term defined –
Oh, what is rinky-dink?

I’m a rinky-dinky manager,
Unlike, say, Gus Hiddinck
Who, people say,
Does not display
An ounce of rinky-dink.
The heap of scorn thrown at me
Would drive a nun to drink.
Please tell me why
He thinks that I
Am full of rinky-dink.

I’m a rinky-dinky manager
My vision’s on the blink.
All I can see
Surrounding me
Is miles of rinky-dink.
I’m teetering (says Eamonn)
Like a man who’s on the brink.
Perhaps I’ll fall,
Weighed down by all
This surplus rinky-dink.

I’m a rinky-dinky manager
Or so the pundits think.
But they’re all wrong,
I’ll stride along,
Devoid of rinky-dink.
My plans are clear as crystal,
I’m feeling in the pink.
I have no need
In thought or deed
For any rinky-dink.

In a hotel room

With a hint of regret,
We watched the sun set,
As we flew out of Dublin last night.
The seats were so narrow
They squashed up my marrow,
But sure, ‘twas a very short flight.
And back on the ground
At Girona, we found
We’d but ten miles of driving ahead.
And it wasn’t too far,
But they’d shut down the bar,
So we shrugged and trooped off to our bed.

In the morning, the room
Had been lifted from gloom
And was bathed in the light of the sun.
And I scratched my big belly
And turned on the telly
To find out just how Ireland had done.
We’d been playing the Czechs
With the axe o’er our necks,
And our hopes hanging fast on a thread,
And I laid back and prayed
I would not be dismayed
On that large but uncomfortable bed.

There it was, on the screen.
No joy, boys in green.
In Spanish they read out the score.
One nil doesn’t alter
From Ireland to Malta,
But it conjured up questions galore.
Were we great? Were we flattered?
Who messed up when it mattered
To prevent them from going ahead?
All our dreams have now died,
There is nothing inside,
All false hopes are put firmly to bed.

.

Czech Republic 1 Ireland 0

Slovakia 2 Ireland 2

There were ice-creams and cakes
Topped with chocolate flakes,
And balloons
All festooned
Round the doorway.
We lit luminous flares
And played musical chairs,
Which was won
By a young
Kid from Norway.
We danced out in the street
To that old conga beat
And the sing-
Ing was ring-
Ing and hearty,
But the Slovaks struck back
With a late, late attack,
Which totally
Ruined the
Party.

Ireland 1 Wales 0

It was turgid, lacklustre,
All puffing and bluster,
With both teams deserving to lose.
There was honest endeavour,
Bad passing (as ever)
And the commonplace chorus of boos.
Our great blonde-haired winger
Is no Peter Stringer,
He can vanish like any damned elf.
And my wife says irately,
“Good God, Stephen Gately
Could have done a lot better himself.”

Thank God I’d no ticket
To watch Ireland nick it,
‘Twas money well saved in the end.
The media is baying
At the way we are playing
And Stan’s looking long for a friend.
The radio thundered
Out Haircut 100,
And my wife said, while drying the delph,
“Those passes so wayward?
Sure, even Nick Hayward
Could have done a lot better himself.”

Long balls, ineffective
Just rouse the invective,
The manager’s sulky and glum.
And Eamonn was vicious,
Though quite repetitious,
At the thought of the matches to come.
My wife swears avowedly
And, yawning quite loudly,
Puts the coffee jar back on the shelf.
And says “Robbie? You’re joking!
The lad’s hardly smoking!
I could have done a lot better myself.”

Our National Shame

The city burns and Kathleen turns,
Her pain-wracked face a-quiver,
As Ireland’s blood from true and good
Dissolves into the river.
Was it for this – this Judas kiss –
That Pearse was honest broker?
Ah, freedom, yes! But who could guess
At soccer played in Croker.

The wild geese spread their wings and fled
Before they would surrender,
And many tried to stem the tide
And died in bloody splendour.
But now we say, “Let’s have some tay,
Yon weather’s mediocre.
We’ll have a sup and then go up
And watch the lads in Croker.”

The hall of fame, our national flame,
Now bows her head contritely.
Humiliated, desecrated,
Pain not taken lightly.
Her pristine turf now badly perf-
-Orated by this joker,
The wild and zany John Delaney,
Hair gone mad at Croker.

From cold Kilcock to Kiltimagh,
From Curracloe to Kinnitty,
Men bold and true give penance to
The blesséd Holy Trinity.
The Virgin smiles down dim-lit aisles
As sobbing men invoke her
To intercede in that black deed
Committed up in Croker.

That hallowed ground should e’er resound
To Irish names, not Saxon,
Like Shefflin, Green and O hAilpín,
And little Mickeen Jackson.
Kilbane and Duff? Not good enough!
Shay Given? What a choker!
On Hill 16 no Gary Breen
Should e’er be seen in Croker.

For Albion’s game is Ireland’s shame,
As usual, quite perfidious.
An appalling vista, like a blister,
Deep and scarred and hideous.
No guessing where I’d like to snare
Them with a red hot poker!
Insert it slowly up that goalie
Prancing round at Croker.

Those nancy boys lack skill and poise,
They’re full of bluff and posture.
Yet have you heard how much a third-
Class ticket in will cost ya?
I’d sooner smear me arse with beer
And lukewarm tapioca
Than pay to see the infamy
Of soccer up in Croker.

San Marino 1 Ireland 2

We thought the principality
Would brush us off with ease,
And no-one voiced opinions contradictory.
But lo! in actuality
We brought them to their knees
And even snatched an unexpected victory.

The first half started brightly,
We were massive in defence,
We never let them get into their rhythm.
We shepherded them tightly,
Dunne and Felix were immense,
And Harte and Stevie Finnan joined in with ‘em.

And when the game restarted,
A great miracle occurred,
We pinched ourselves for fear that we were dreaming.
Kilbane, the lion-hearted
Soared like some gigantic bird,
And nodded home to leave the green fans beaming.

We hung on with great courage
As the home team battled back,
Distraught at that shock goal that they’d conceded.
Their fans tried to encourage
Them to go for blind attack,
Believing that was what their game plan needed.

Of course they scored a screamer
That would shatter Ireland’s hopes
Of taking one of Europe’s famous scalps.
Perhaps I am a dreamer,
But we had them on the ropes,
Beneath the snowy-capped Italian Alps.

But as the minutes ticked away
With Ireland hanging on,
We prayed that we could hold out for a draw.
But Stephen Ireland made the day,
The mighty Sans were gone,
And the match was added to our football lore.

The papers all went crazy
As the fans danced through the night,
Stan and John Delaney were exalted.
The memory is hazy,
I was drunk with sheer delight
(And also with a 25-year malted.)

My grandkids will come calling
When I’m wrinkled and half daft,
And beg me to impart to them the story
Of how we sent them sprawling
Through fine artistry and craft
In that great night of European glory.

Hatchet Buried

A fest’ring wound, a deep incision –
Be careful not to scratch it.
‘Tis better far to have the vision,
To grit your teeth and patch it.
The hurt incurred in that collision-
‘Twas best they should despatch it.
Throughout the year in that division
Nothing else would match it.
So, live upon the television,
All eyes tried to catch it,
When Mick and Roy made their decision
To bury Saipan’s hatchet.

Ireland 5 San Marino 0

There once was a striker called Keano,
Who starred for the boyos in green-o,
He suffered a drought
With the shots staying out,
But bagged three ‘gainst a poor San Marino.

.

Ireland 5 San Marino 0

Redemption Song

The Czech match seemed dauntin’,
We hadn’t a hope.
The form they were flauntin’
Meant we couldn’t cope.
But fair play to Staunton,
Instilling some pride,
And showed the whole world that
We’re not a bad side.

The injured were moaning
They couldn’t compete.
Much texting and phoning,
Escaping the heat.
Why are we condoning
McGeady and chums?
How many will recover
When Saturday comes?

We had no O’Brien,
No Given or Dunne.
The nation was cryin’
For the prodigal son.
So in he came flyin’
And helped stem the tide.
Lee Carsley was magic
And transformed the side.

The headlines were written
That Stan’s reign was dead.
In Ireland and Britain,
They looked for his head,
But he wasn’t for quittin’,
His mind was applied
And confounded the critics
Who’d blasted his side.

Jan Koller kept lurking,
His bald head held sway.
But McShane wasn’t shirking
And kept him at bay.
He never stopped working,
Took it all in his stride,
Staked a claim for the future
In Steve Staunton’s side.

One worthy of mention
Was Kevin Kilbane,
Who’d caused much dissention
From every fan.
But he was no abstention,
And bravely he tried,
And scored a great goal to
Give heart to the side.

The crowd showed great patience,
And loudly they roared,
And what celebrations
When Zinedine scored!
The fans’ trepidations
Were all swept aside.
Oh the Czechs found the hard way
We’re not a bad side.

.

Ireland 1 Czech Republic 1

Ireland v The Czech Republic Preview

Like the Colosseum plebs,
For whom fine favour flows and ebbs,
We will take our seats with very mixed emotions.
Half-afraid, through parted fingers,
We will watch the fare they bring us,
Like a sceptic kneeling palely at devotions.

For we think the bubble’s burst
And we roundly fear the worst,
And we’re fearful that we might receive a drubbing.
And the crowd will wax linguistic
In a manner masochistic
To a backdrop of three million people blubbing.

Is the end now nigh for Stan
Just as soon as it began,
With the players pulling out like drowning rats?
Or will those quirky football gods
Conspire to upset all the odds,
And earn a reprieved manager caveats.

Are we going to watch a hanging?
To engage in vicious slanging?
Or will we go to cheer like proper fans?
Will the thumb be up or down?
Red paint decorate the town?
Or will we re-evaluate the plans?

.

Ireland 1 Czech Republic 1

Do we have to play the rest of our games?

Do we have to play the rest
Of our qualifying games?
We’re all just too depressed
To go on.
The Cypriot defeat has left
Us firmly in the soup –
Our chances to compete
Are now gone.

Can we not just stay at home,
Lick our wounds, drink our beer?
The world is monochrome,
Pallid grey.
The death knell’s slowly drumming
As the funeral draws near,
Can’t we just say we’re not coming
Out to play?

The Slovaks and the Czechs
Must be rubbing hands with glee,
The German rubbernecks
At our fall.
The Welsh and San Marino
Must now sense a victory,
While we enjoy a vino
Overhaul.

We’re the bottom of the pile,
We’re the lowest of the low,
It’s hard to raise a smile
At our plight.
Where once we were red hot,
Now we’re twenty five below.
Believe me, we are not
A pretty sight.

.

Cyprus 5 Ireland 2

Where are we now Stan?

1985
“Where are we now, Eoin?” the football scribes wrote,
As we slipped to another defeat.
“Here is your hat, mate, and here is your coat,
And there is the door to the street.
You’ve taken the team ‘bout as far as you could,
But the future just doesn’t look bright.
It’s time that we had new injection of blood,
Stage directions are ‘Exit Stage Right.’”
1995
“So where are we now, Jack?” the headlines enquired
As the Dutch once again shot our dreams.
“Your squad’s getting old and you look very tired.
The side needs revamping, it seems.
You’ve taken the team to the mountain and back,
But can we re-scale former heights?
You said you’d resign ere we gave you the sack,
Now it’s time for your funeral rites.”
2002
So where are we now, Mick?” the tabloid heads screamed,
With our Euro hopes mauled by the Swiss.
“Results are not up to the levels we’d dreamed –
We should be doing better than this!
Saipan showed your failings –it’s hard to forget –
We should have whipped Spain in Korea.
We’ve been having a bit of an oul’ tête-á- tête
It’s time you were leaving, we fear.”
2005
“So where are we now, Brian?” the papers demanded,
As our hopes disappeared down the drain.
You’ve reversed our direction, almost single-handed –
Where once there was hope, now there’s pain.
The team has no passion, we’re way off the pace,
We’ve slipped even more down the list.
So thanks for your efforts, you ran a good race,
But our former heroics are missed.”
2006
“So where are we now, Stan?” the whole nation yelled.
“Have we struck the rock bottom at last?
Look how our country by Cyprus is felled.
Are World Cups a thing of the past?
The world is a circle, we’ve come a long way,
A journey not for the faint-hearted.
No need now to answer where we are today –
We’re back at the place where we started.”
.

Cyprus 5 Ireland 2

Germany 1 Ireland 0

We thought there’d be a mighty blitz,
We feared we might get burnt.
We thought we would be blown to bits,
But thankfully we weren’t.

Poor Stevie had been stammering
‘Bout geeing up the players.
But we foresaw a hammering
And bowed our heads in prayers.

At times poor Shay was left to rue
The absence of protection,
But still, we only went down to
A really cruel deflection.

I still don’t think we’ll qualify,
Our strength in depth is lacking,
But this team won’t lay down and die,
And thus deserves our backing.

Ireland 0 Holland 4

“This is the way we’ll play,” said Stan,
“In Germany next Wednesday week.
We’ll stick devoutly to the plan,
And watch the havoc that we wreak.”

But sadly it was not to be,
The Dutch, with little sweat, notched four,
And, if we speak with honesty,
They could have scored a whole lot more.

Okay, without brave Richard Dunne,
Without Shay Given, Keane and Duff,
‘Twas on the cards we’d come undone,
We’d always find it tough enough.

But this was really quite a rout,
The Dutch exposed our lack of pace.
Our poor defending was found out
As we presented them with space.

In Ibarak’ four years ago,
Within the shadow of Saipan,
We matched the Germans blow for blow,
And found them wanting, man for man.

But that was then and this is now.
Our tactics are a football crime.
Its difficult to figure how
We’ve fallen in so short a time.

Amongst the fans, the humour’s wry,
We played the game with little heart.
The Germans must be on a high
To watch us simply fall apart.

Oh yes, this thrashing’s hurt us much,
Its like a knife thrust in the groin,
The worst defeat against the Dutch
Since Billy whupped us at the Boyne.