Monday, February 28, 2005
Hand me my laminated certificate (made in China), funny leprechaun beard (made in China) and bog full of blarney (made in China) for I have arrived. I have reached full plasticity in the pantheon of Paddyness. I'm going to change my name to something more, er, Irish. Because Oim Oirish Oi am, no really, oi rarlly am.
I had a grand weekend (see how easily this funny new language comes to me): Whelans on Friday night (and you should see this dude if you ever get the chance cos he's fair dinkum and proper bo, as the older generation of Dubliners might say), Saturday night/Sunday morning dancing the drunken, doped-up dyked-up Tango, and finally, most gloriously, walking out into Lansdowne Road at 2 o'clock on sunday afternoon to discover what happens when Ireland take on England in the rugby. I have only experienced such an atmosphere at rock concerts and music festivals before. I pay particular tribute to the guy who passed me dressed as St Patrick, in full Irish colours, for the match. But the sentimental bit I have to say is that halfway up Pembroke I realised, in one of those semi-demi-quasi-epiphanic moments that this city is now my home and i'm damn lucky to be here.
an hour later, I'm sitting in my lounge watching the match, windows open to hear the crowd from the stadium (yes, if anyone wants to come round and fuck me/kill me, i live in the heart of D4 not too far from the stadium - i'll be waiting with clean cotton/plastic sheets) and I realise, with even greater shock, that i'm cheering for the guys in green and hoping those blokes in the white aren't going to score. It all becomes quite abstract with me and sport, admittedly, but i quite obviously found myself supporting Ireland and completely depersonalised the English team from my mind. And when 'we' won, I felt as happy as Larry, or Paddy to be more precise.
(aah, isnt that just the pithy way we Irish literary giants like to end our witty articles these days...)
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I had a grand weekend (see how easily this funny new language comes to me): Whelans on Friday night (and you should see this dude if you ever get the chance cos he's fair dinkum and proper bo, as the older generation of Dubliners might say), Saturday night/Sunday morning dancing the drunken, doped-up dyked-up Tango, and finally, most gloriously, walking out into Lansdowne Road at 2 o'clock on sunday afternoon to discover what happens when Ireland take on England in the rugby. I have only experienced such an atmosphere at rock concerts and music festivals before. I pay particular tribute to the guy who passed me dressed as St Patrick, in full Irish colours, for the match. But the sentimental bit I have to say is that halfway up Pembroke I realised, in one of those semi-demi-quasi-epiphanic moments that this city is now my home and i'm damn lucky to be here.
an hour later, I'm sitting in my lounge watching the match, windows open to hear the crowd from the stadium (yes, if anyone wants to come round and fuck me/kill me, i live in the heart of D4 not too far from the stadium - i'll be waiting with clean cotton/plastic sheets) and I realise, with even greater shock, that i'm cheering for the guys in green and hoping those blokes in the white aren't going to score. It all becomes quite abstract with me and sport, admittedly, but i quite obviously found myself supporting Ireland and completely depersonalised the English team from my mind. And when 'we' won, I felt as happy as Larry, or Paddy to be more precise.
(aah, isnt that just the pithy way we Irish literary giants like to end our witty articles these days...)
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