Top Issue 1-2024

27 August 2010

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The Last of Dublin’s summer wine

YOU REALISE that you are losing the plot when you find yourself arguing with a woman sitting on top of a large horse. What used to be called a Ban Garda, to be accurate. The only excuse that I will offer is that I was in an emotional state of mind as I approached the junction of Clonliffe Road and Drumcondra just after Laois (take a bow, Maurice Deegan)  - sorry, Cork - had just beaten Dublin in the All-Ireland football semi-final. By one point. Pah!
The post-match depression was being compounded electronically.
It is bad enough losing without being the recipient of mocking text messages from people who only seem to remember that I exist when Dublin lose a big game. I don’t even know a lot of them. Or at least I don’t recognise their numbers.
I really ought to know whoever it is feels it necessary to advise me to “Boo hoo. Dry ur eyes.” Or “Don’t jump, Matt, u mgt land on someone nice.”
I particularly liked the last one, conveying as it does both a clear enjoyment of my disappointment and a concern for the rest of humanity. Anyway, they all received the standard response which is not fit for a periodical such as this.
But back to the horse.
Yes, in hindsight there was probably a good reason why the horses were lined up to stop people pouring across the road into oncoming traffic. I took exception to this and asked the Ban Garda if Chelsea were playing. She politely requested me to repeat what I said. Having weighed up the situation and deciding that getting arrested by a horse was not something I really wanted to add to my CV, I meekly stood to one side and waited for the equine polis to allow us to pass.
Of course, my companions had loyally decided to pretend that they didn’t know me until we managed to squeeze ourselves into the cave that is Quinn’s public house. Now if you enjoy the type of physical intimacy with total strangers that only normally takes place after you have at least gotten to know their names, then Quinn’s is the place for you. Maybe I am getting old but being pressed up against by sweating chaps with beer bellies doesn’t float my boat. Time to go.
It is all a bit of a blur after that.
There was the traditional stop over at The Auld Triangle where the sushi is to die for. We commiserated with Ger Brennan and family, talked a lot of rubbish, drank lots of cider and replayed old matches in which our gross exaggerations of our heroic feats were diplomatically allowed pass in silence.
By now we had added a Cork woman to our entourage and we toasted the Rebels in several other low taverns with black Russians (the drink that is, not a newly-discovered ethnic minority). Losing is not so bad after a while and it is not like we are not used to it. It is character-building, apparently.
Most of all, though, it was the last of the summer wine and from now on we can only regard with envy those lucky people whose summer won’t end until September. It was nice to be part of it all again for a while. But, best of all, was to see a Dublin team that reminded us of why we still wear the blue jersey with pride.

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