Big Jack’s Farewell Speech

I will arise and go now,
Back to the granite that carved me.
Back to the country that starved me.

Content in the love of a woman,
That clasped a stranger to her breast
And gave him all that she possessed.

See! She stands upon the shore,
Headscarf tight around her cheeks,
And though she now no longer speaks,

All is well and content.
In our eyes there is fond admiration,
A bond between step-child and nation.

Ten years in which a team,
Moulded from clay, finely chiselled,
Even as the grey clouds drizzled,

Soon to pass. And then a day,
Bright as any Eden dawning,
Blinded by the wealth of morning.

Big Jack’s Resignation Speech / Match abandoned

Big Jack's Resignation Speech

.

We’ve passed a lot of water since my service was first courted,
And you’ve become familiar with the old cloth cap I’ve sported.
Your football team was in a mess – I worked and got it sorted,
And now our style of football round the world has been exported.
In our three major finals, we’ve been wonderfully supported,
Except by one small journalist, whose views are quite distorted
[No wonder he’s so wrinkled with his face always contorted]
But by and large the media with fairness have reported,
And haven’t run with any allegations they’ve purported.
Unfortunately, the bloody Dutch once more our hopes have thwarted,
And travel plans to England will now have to be aborted.
And so, for several reasons which are lengthy and assorted,
To my resignation letter I have finally consorted.

.

Match abandoned

.

The ashen-faced young boy,
Holding tight his father’s hand,
Watches hooligans destroy
All the seating in the stand.

As the debris is slung down
With triumphal shouts of hate,
He just stares with puzzled frown
At the tumbling plastic spate.

Every seat that’s rudely hurled
With repulsive racist cries
Makes his innocent young world
Fall away before his eyes.

Camera cut to Graham Kelly
Shouting “Is my hair okay?”
As he moves to go on telly
To deflect the blame away.

Packie Bonner’s Blunder - Orlando 1994

We gazed dumbfounded at the screen,
And with uncomprehending eyes,
Sought desperately to realise
The impact of the goal just seen.

We sought the answer in our stout,
We looked for solace from our pain,
As if bould Arthur could explain
That score from thirty five yards out.

The Dutch were quite a useful side.
No shame to lose to such as them,
For we admired the orange crème,
And thought they would not be denied.

But ‘twas the manner of the goal,
The second one that sealed our fate,
That we could not articulate,
For it defied our very soul.

Packie Bonner, ten feet tall,
The rock behind the green defence,
Reliable and so immense,
Did get his chest behind the ball.

And everybody glanced away
Before the save was made complete,
For Wim Jonk’s drive would never beat
The greatest goalie of the day.

But then, alive, the football eased
Out of his rock-steady hands.
Euphoria in the Netherlands,
As just inside the post it squeezed.

No word of blame was cried aloud,
No plaintive cursing rent the air.
There was no anger anywhere,
As Packie squatted down, head bowed.

No matter that our dream was dead,
No matter that our hopes were slashed,
No matter that the Cup was dashed,
And we were coming home instead.

It mattered more that Packie Bonner,
In stadia both near and far,
Between the posts, beneath the bar,
Had served his country with great honour.

And now, as with a crack of thunder,
His confidence severely battered,
His reputation had been shattered
By one most unbecoming blunder.

And all of Ireland, as one, felt
For Packie in that dreadful second,
As international twilight beckoned,
And cursed the hand that fate had dealt.

Tommy Coyne

Tommy Coyne of Ireland had such problems with his name.
He always seemed quite nervous just before a vital game.
The captains of each football team would chase him everywhere,
Then one of them would hold him out and flip him in the air.

The Elephant, the Giraffe and the Scouser

The sun in the Orlando sky

Beat down with suffocating weight,

And fright’ning power to dehydrate,

Until one’s mouth and throat were dry.

The Mexicans with seeming ease

Had danced around the Irish team

In burning sun and heat extreme

That brought the Irish to their knees.

What folly ‘twas to play the tie

Upon the burning hour of noon,

Within the scorching month of June,

And Ireland’s hopes about to die.

But then the Gaelic fans were cheered,

As Aldo, trim, and clad in white,

To every Irish heart’s delight,

Upon the touchline soft appeared.

So Tommy Coyne then left the fray,

And shook bould Aldridge by the hand,

And sat down wrecked before the stand,

As Aldo itched to join the play.

But lo! A man of mighty girth,

Bespectacled with fingers fat

Came forth to cause a mighty spat

That sent disgust around the earth.

And thus, he held great Aldo’s arm

And warned him off the football field,

And Aldo, livid, had to yield,

But vowed he’d do the Fat Man harm.

Then Charlton rose with finger taut

And jabbed it at the Fat Man’s chest,

Particularly unimpressed

Because his team was one man short.

The elephant and the giraffe

Went head to head quite unrestrained,

As Skinny Man with force maintained

The elephant had made a gaffe.

For fully six whole minutes long,

While Ireland played with but ten men,

The slanging match went on and then

The language got supremely strong,

As Aldo, in deep fury, turned

Upon the hapless bureaucrat

And let a stream of curses that

In days to come a large fine earned.

And finally he joined the fray,

But still he turned and mouthed his worst,

With pressure levels fit to burst

Upon that most exhausting day.

And shortly after, he jumped up,

In such a leap we’ll ne’er forget,

And nodded sweetly in the net

To keep oul’ Ireland in the Cup.

Born in the USA

The World Cup in Ninety Four,
Denis Irwin hurt his jaw,
Steak was out, it was too tough,
So he tried some seafood stuff.

Prawn in the USA,
He had Prawn in the USA
Prawn in the USA
Seafood chowder in the USA

Abba were not in the charts,
But Paul McGrath was in their hearts,
Three watched on their TV screen
But one came out for the Boys in Green.

(It was) Bjorn in the USA
Bjorn in the USA
Bjorn in the USA
No Agnethe nor Benny in the USA.

Jack Charlton threw his weight around,
Tried it on at every ground,
Didn’t use his brains too much,
Tried to mix it with the Dutch.

Brawn in the USA
Brawn in the USA
Brawn in the USA
No tact or guile in the USA

Andy Townsend dyed his hair,
Went from very dark to fair.
The sex industry was impressed,
Tried to coax him to get undressed,

(It was) Porn in the USA,
Porn in the USA,
Porn in the USA,
Let it all hang out in the USA.

Giant in the Giants’ Stadium

Scorned women and the fires of hell do not possess the fury,
Of I-ta-li-an support, when someone scores ‘gainst the Azzurri.
And Houghton’s goal did stir them up,
Attack! Attack the ball!
But none of them had reckoned with the majesty of Paul.
Oooh Aaaah Paul McGrath,
The majesty of Paul.

They loaded up their weapons and they jumped into their tanks,
And tried to catch the Irish out by storming down the flanks,
But one man saw the danger,
And he formed a one-man wall,
The men in blue could not get round the tow’ring might of Paul.
Oooh Aaaah Paul McGrath,
The tow’ring might of Paul.

They let loose with their hand grenades and sent their bombers in,
Desperate to make sure that the Irish didn’t win.
Shells rained down upon the lines
Where Ireland set her stall,
But through the heavy smoke emerged the mighty frame of Paul.
Oooh Aaaah Paul McGrath,
The mighty frame of Paul.

Blackened-faced commandos rained on down with parachutes,
A sight that might have left the Irish quaking in their boots,
But Paul McGrath just pursed his lips,
And blew a mighty squall.
Blew them out to Coney did the powerful lips of Paul.
Oooh Aaaah Paul McGrath,
The powerful lips of Paul.

The generals sent the army in, each soldier armed and primed,
The terrifying attack was most immaculately timed.
But they miscalculated if
They thought that we would fall,
For nothing ever got beyond the mountain that was Paul.
Oooh Aaaah Paul McGrath,
The mountain that was Paul.

At last they got the message and the white flag was displayed,
Bestowing ‘pon the Irish team the greatest accolade,
One of the best performances that Irishmen recall,
Inspired by Ireland’s demi-god, the sprightly, ageless Paul
Oooh Aaaah Paul McGrath,
The sprightly, ageless Paul.

Paul McGrath’s Knees

Was there anything wrong with Paul McGrath’s knees?
Or did he just hate doing training?
All of the time, we accepted his pleas
That his tired old joints were complaining.

And yet, his career got longer and longer,
Defying advancing old age.
And year after year, his physique got much stronger,
As far as outsiders could gauge.

So despite those bad knees [if they really existed],
His career had tremendous longevity.
While healthier men, who with training persisted,
Played but with comparative brevity.

Alan McLoughlin Gets us to America [1993]

Ireland could not equalise,
Bingham had us on the ropes.
Joy in our near-neighbours’ eyes,
Banishing our U.S. hopes.

Where our superstars had failed,
Alan relished the occasion.
Where some bigger nerves had failed,
His now balanced the equation.

Never one to be the bride,
Content with a supporting role,
Called at last into the side
And scored the all-important goal.

Took the crossed ball in his stride,
Rifled it into the net.
Hail the shy and blushing bride!
Alan, we will ne’er forget.

Ireland’s Most Underrated Goal

The atmosphere around the ground was so thick it was spreadable.
For weeks we’d thought of little else, the tension was incredible.
All wound up to get at Spain and claim the two points needed,
The caution of the realists went very much unheeded.

Sure, didn’t we get a draw in Spain? The Sevillians had been cowed,
And Aldo even had a goal unjustly disallowed.
They wouldn’t relish playing here, their chances would be slender,
We’d pressurise them from the off and force them to surrender.

Big Jack went for 4-5-1, with Quinn up front alone,
And here and there among the crowd was heard a plaintive groan.
But mostly we were on a high – Jack knew what he was doing,
And nobody suspected the disaster that was brewing.

Thirty minutes on the clock, our World Cup dreams were shattered.
Three times did the Spanish forwards snatch the goals that mattered.
Our sails were limp and windless, as we watched with great contrition,
Succumbing very meekly to the Spanish inquisition.

Of course, the game was over, and the crowd was quite subdued.
We’d been so sure we’d hit the net, we’d hopelessly miscued.
The Spanish were delirious and waved their red scarves proudly,
Dancing on their sectioned seats and chanting very loudly.

The Spaniards took the pressure off, though still in clear control,
As we hustled and we bustled in attempts to find a goal.
We switched it back to 4-4-2 and got some more possession,
But had no joy until the middle of the second session.

Houghton found John Sheridan, who had been quite impressive,
Threading passes here and there and being most expressive.
He skipped around some tackles with redoubtable persistence,
Then passed the ball into the net from barely six yards distance.

The crowd’s response was fairly mute, half-heartedly they cheered,
For many of our so-called loyal fans had disappeared.
A poor reward, one reasoned, for the way he found the net,
Although it’s true significance was not apparent yet.

It saw us to America, that “consolation” shot,
As Denmark failed by just one goal to gain that second spot.
That super strike from Sheridan thus brought us to salvation,
Though, to our shame, it garnered such a very poor ovation.

Tony Cascarino

Tony Cascarino was so solid and dependable,
Though first with Aldo, then with Quinn,
Jack thought he was expendable.
But when he got called off the bench, he thought he was Mike Tyson,
Rampaged at defenders like a badly wounded bison.
Many of the goals he scored were vitally important.
But should he have been capped at all?
Some people say he oughtn’t,
For questions have been raised about his mammy and his daddy,
But with a name like Cascarino, sure,
He had to be a Paddy.

Houghton’s Miss vs. England 1991

Half-poised to leap aloft and roar
To celebrate a brilliant score.

No-one was the least surprised
When Dixon’s goal was equalised.
A fluent move, despatched by Quinn
Which surely set us up to win.
And so with hopeful hearts we pressed
Around the England box with zest,
Playing with such self-belief
That England could get no relief.
Then, as the final whistle neared,
There it was! The gap appeared!
And Razor Houghton, eight yards out,
With foot so sure and heart so stout,
Was all alone in front of goal,
With too much sugar in his bowl.
He had to score! Our backsides rose,
Our fists were clenched, expressions froze,
And as we waited, open-eyed,
He blazed his effort inches wide.

We closed our eyes and grimaced for
It was our final chance to score.
And so, alas, the match was tied
And England later qualified
When one of Lineker’s late goals
Unjustly beat the gallant Poles.
And Ireland, very narrowly second,
Lost out as further glory beckoned.

In Stuttgart, Ray, you scaled the heights,
And gave the nation drunken nights.
And in New York, you did the same
And garnered everlasting fame.
One of the greatest players seen
To wear the famous Irish green,
You gave us rapture, gave us bliss,
But Jaysus, Ray! How did you miss?
For though so much rode on a win,
My granny would have knocked that in.

The Olympic Stadium, Rome

Packie’s parry on the line,
Stumbling as he fell,
Schillachi star about to shine,
Sounding our death knell.

Carefully he picked his spot
With great deliberation,
An accurate, well-measured shot
That earned deification.

The cross that came in from the right
That reached McGrath’s strong head.
Just was not to be our night,
Our dreams were put to bed.

Franco Baresi on the ball,
Calm and self-assured,
Didn’t see Townsend at all
Till well and truly skewered.

The crowd that tarried in the ground
Although the match was finished,
The constant, marvellous wall of sound
That never once diminished.

The memory is fading now,
The details have gone hazy,
But wasn’t it fantastic how
The country all went crazy?

With O’Leary in the Grave

Behind the couch, I watch him slowly
Place the ball upon the spot.
By the Lord of all thing’s holy,
He will miss it, sure as not.
Who decided he should take
This most important penalty?
A quarter final place at stake,
The populace in agony.
George Hamilton is commentating,
Cue: “A nation holds its breath!”
And he isn’t overstating,
This is really sudden death.
As he runs, my wife’s eyes wince,
My mother cowers behind the door,
My heart knots up like never since,
Georgie Boy lets out a roar.
Now O’Leary’s on his knees,
Throws his arms into the air,
Joy in the Genoan breeze,
This is much too much to bear.
Dancing round and round the telly,
Giving mother-in-law a hug,
Thighbones twitching like a jelly,
Collapsing breathless on the rug.

Birth of a Legend

One of five brothers born on the same day,
To a mother of very fair skin,
Born on the river in Egypt, they say,
And so he was named Nile Quin.

Quinn’s Equaliser Against the Dutch – Italia 90

‘Twas a second half of tension,
Fingers gnawed in apprehension,
Chances far too few to mention,
Holland still maintained their lead.
Was this where our World Cup ended?
Not the way that we intended,
Though we bravely had defended,
Scoring was a vital need.

Though the minute hand was ticking,
Jack was to the game plan sticking,
Play’n’ the way that we were kicking,
Pressurise and keep it tight.
Packie sent a kick-out flying,
Way up, altitude-defying,
With the Dutch defenders trying
Hard to judge it’s soaring flight.

Cas and Quinn were watching, lurking,
Both so honest and hard-working,
Never once their duties shirking,
As the leather orb did fall.
And with Tony set for pouncing,
Van Aarle tried to stop it bouncing,
Most inelegantly flouncing,
Swung a leg and kicked the ball.

Towards the goal, he lobbed it deeper,
Past the startled orange sweeper,
Near the waiting, watchful keeper,
By chance, perhaps, or by design.
Van Breukelen though did misjudge it,
Unusually for him did fudge it,
Inadvertently did nudge it,
Sideways ‘cross the six yard line.

Dutch defenders were still dreaming,
Irish fans were roaring, screaming,
In came mighty Quinner steaming,
Sliding in to reach it first.
And, as the ball with great elation
Bulged the net in celebration,
The total Irish population,
Hollered as if fit to burst.

Packie Bonner

I

Packie Bonner, in the pink,
Went to fetch himself a drink.
The barman took his order and
Delivered it into his hand.
But, as poor Packie turned to go,
Some unobservant so-and-so,
Did nudge his elbow with his arm,
Which caused the keeper great alarm.
Reflexes, quicker than a wink,
Were not enough to save his drink.
For lo! the massive Irish star
Did tip it blithely o’er the bar.

II

The old judge looked down at the shameless defendant,
The goalkeeping hero, Pat Bonner.
“You admit that you grimaced?” he asked, wig resplendent.
Said Packie, “I grimaced, your Honour.”

“Very well,” said the judge, “that is rather convenient,
And seeing that you show no repentance,
Community service is really too lenient –
I impose a custodial sentence.”

Typical Egyptian Throw-In Italia 1990

[to be read as slowly as possible]

Oh, look! The ball’s gone out of play.
I think that it’s our throw.
Don’t hurry now, we’ve got all day.
We’re drawing, don’t you know?
The ballboy’s picked the ball up first.
Throw it to me, sonny!
It’s hit my knee. I must be cursed.
No really, it’s not funny.
Darn, it’s rolled away again.
I’ll get it, don’t you worry.
Rushing goes against the grain,
Oh, why do people hurry?
There now, see! I’ve got the ball.
I’m back in my position.
But was it a throw-in at all?
What was the ref’s decision?
I’ll place the ball down for a free
And take a few steps back.
Is someone whistling loud at me?
Why can’t they cut some slack?
Sorry, ref, what’s that you say?
I don’t quite understand.
Why are you looking cross today
And pointing at your hand?
Oh yes, I see, it is a throw!
Forgive me, my mistake.
Sure, I’ll get on with the show.
Why not, for goodness sake?
Now where did the football go out?
Was it here or further up?
It’s hard to think, there is no doubt,
When playing in the Cup.
Here, you say, Herr Referee?
Here, where you’ve just pointed?
Thank you for your accuracy,
I’m sorry I’m disjointed.
Here, I’ll throw it down the line.
Oh no. He’s being marked.
The Irish lads don’t act benign.
In fact, they’re getting narked.
Perhaps I’ll do a massive throw
Away back to the keeper.
Maybe not. It may not go
Much further than the sweeper.
Why does no-one make a run,
Or show a turn of pace?
D’you think I’m standing here for fun?
That’s really not the case.
Someone come a wee bit nearer?
You’re all too far away.
Come in where I can see you clearer.
Don’t you want to play?
What was that? I heard a call.
Oh yes, it’s my full back.
He’s calling loudly for the ball.
I’d better throw it back.
Oh dearie, it is not my day.
God curse that Irish toe!
Oh look, the ball’s gone out of play.
I think that it’s our throw.

Ireland’s Equaliser vs. England Italia 90

[Our first ever goal in the World Cup Finals]

Beneath the hot Sardinian sun,
England thought they had it won,
Believing simply they had done
Enough to win the tie.
But Ireland were not finished yet,
And ‘bout an equaliser set,
Striving hard to find the net
As minutes trickled by.

Behind his staunch defensive wall,
Bold Packie Bonner, Ireland’s tall
And agile goalie got the ball
And clutched it to his front.
And, as he waved the lads away,
He grimaced in his unique way,
And launched the ball back into play
With an almighty punt.

Up and up and up it soared,
Defenders watching, open-jawed,
As Ireland’s mad supporters roared,
Or gave a fist-clenched laugh.
Up and up and up it went,
Quite nearly into orbit sent,
And then began it’s long descent
Deep in the English half.

And Cascarino, striving, straining,
Being dragged but not complaining,
O’er the England centres gaining,
Bravely stretched his head,
And knocked it sideways, where the weedy-
Looking frame of Kevin Sheedy,
Like an ad for Help the Needy,
Waited to be fed.

But Sheedy, nervous, miscontrolled it,
Tried to pass with time to hold it,
Straight to Steve McMahon he rolled it,
As we railed ‘gainst heaven.
But fair McMahon quite oddly gave a
Nation something great to savour,
Unusually returned the favour,
Knocked it back to Kevin.

This time, Kev was less ungainly,
In his stride, he took it plainly,
McMahon essayed a tackle vainly,
Kevin beat him to it.
Suddenly the goal was gaping,
Shilton moved anticipating,
Sheedy shot with steam escaping,
As he followed through it.

Low across the turf it arrowed,
Shilton looked distraught and harrowed,
Thought he had the angle narrowed,
But Kev’s aim was true.
Bulged the net in sweet elation,
A nation leapt in jubilation,
Sheedy took the adulation
That arrived on cue.

Lineker’s Goal Against Ireland in Cagliari

And Sheedy turned and raised his hand
To claim possession of the throw,
But Waddle had the touchline manned,
And o’er the line it did not go.

And Lineker, quick-thinking, sought
The cross from Waddle to control,
As Bonner spread, with actions fraught,
To block the passage to the goal.

McCarthy tried to make up ground,
With Morris standing much too square,
As all through Ireland came the sound
Of horror mingled with despair.

But Lineker caught it not too well,
Although it struck him on the breast,
As Bonner in great anguish fell,
The Englishman that day was blessed.

Instead of chesting in his stride,
It took an angular deflection.
Where Bonner sought to field it wide,
The ball went in the wrong direction

And trickled, trickled, oh, so slowly
To the now unguarded met,
Past the brave and valiant goalie,
Cruelly, for ‘twas so ill-met.

And Lineker and Mick McCarthy
Scrambled on in mad pursuit,
But sadly, ‘twas the English party
Reached it first with outstretched boot.

As Lineker peeled off, delighted,
Sunburnt face alive with glee,
Over here, ‘twas unrequited,
As we watched despondently.