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.

Ce n’est pas la guerre

We knew it was over when FIFA declared
The play offs were going to be seeded.
No matter how well little Ireland had fared,
‘Twas the French that the World Cup brass needed.

We knew all too well that they wanted the French
And their audience of seventy millions.
‘Twas better by far if we sat on the bench
And watched, and not played, the Brazilians.

Televisual rights, for a country like ours,
Was not going to swell FIFA coffers.
And so, no surprise that the footballing powers,
Decided to steal our dreams off us.

The Finals approach and the French will be there,
Despite all the cynics and doubters.
I hope they do well, but ce n’est pas la guerre
As the spectacle happens without us.

Strangely I was more disgusted by FIFA's sudden decision to seed the playoffs than by Henry's hand ball

Three minute hero

Like Alan McLoughlin, it could’ve been permanent,
His name writ forever in Ireland’s bright firmament.
There could’ve been fireworks, a legend forever,
Writ loud in the annals of Irish endeavour.

So closed to attaining that scarce immortality,
Snatched cruelly away by the jaws of banality,
St. Ledger, your hands were out grasping the crown,
Till Alberto Gilardino’s late blow struck you down.

Priorities

As they lowered you down in the cold, clammy clay,
Distinctly I heard you knock-knocking.
The rest of the fam’ly had all turned away,
Only I saw the pine coffin rocking.

I should have cried “Halt! I believe she’s alive!”
I should have said something, dear Nellie,
But, alas, all I knew was at quarter past five,
Ireland were playing on the telly.