It's not the taking part, it's the winning

By the time you read this, the world will have changed irreparably. You will either be consumed with a grief so great as to defy description, or you will be in terrific form, and, in all likelihood, as drunk as forty cats.

You will have witnessed Norn Iron and The Republic at Windsor Park, and if you are a person from The Republic, your mood will, of course, entirely depend on the result of that uproarious encounter. If you are from Norn Iron, you will probably be in a bad mood one way or the other, and so you should be.

In the case of the result going against The Republic, the likelihood is that you will not be reading any other part of the Hot Press on this Thursday, because basically, you wouldn’t bother your arse opening the magazine to find out what treasures lie within. I might point out that there is a nude centrefold of Albert Reynolds in this issue.

Only kidding.

But it’s a good idea for the future. Write it down.

In fact, chances are that if the outcome is a bad one for Jackie Charlton’s green and white army, you will not even be able to bring yourself to read this far in Foul Play. That is the magnitude of the monstrosity that faces us.

So to keep the attention going, I will tell you a joke.

These three guys are doing an interview to join the Foreign Legion. The first one says that he wants to join the Legion because of a tragic love affair. He is accepted.

The second one wants to be a Legionaire because he’s a violent type of guy and a bit of a bollocks all round. He is, of course, accepted.

The third guy says that he wants to join because he hates Arabs, and conveniently enough, the Legion is at that time locked in a bloody conflict with the Arabs, so he, too, is accepted.

The three new Legionaires are marching up and down the barracks under a boiling hot desert sun, learning the ropes of the famed outfit.

Suddenly, the sentry up in the lookout post sounds the alarm, and shouts, “the Arabs are coming, the Arabs are coming.”

Amazingly, the third guy up for interview takes aim and shoots the sentry. He is immediately pinned to the ground and hand-cuffed by the other Legionaires, who ask him what in the name of fuck he is playing at.

And the guy says, “if there’s one thing in the world that I hate more than an Arab, it’s a grass.”

Yeah, I like it too.

Of course, in the event of The Republic having booked their passage to the World Cup, you will probably think that this is the funniest joke in the history of the universe, and you will be weeping with laughter before shouting for another twenty pints, and being generally boisterous.

You will probably think that the gig guide is fucking hilarious. If there is an article about Sellafield, you will say, “it sounds like a barrel of laughs. I must go there on my holidays with a view to living there on a permanent basis.” If there is a photograph of Phil Collins inside, you will think, “when the light catches him a certain way, he’s a very handsome fellow. And of course he’s a hugely talented artiste. Very professional.” You will be out of your mind.

Incidentally, I see that a senior official in the psychiatric industry has taken up the baton from the last episode of Foul Play, and warned of the high levels of anxiety surrounding the Windsor Park gig, and the potentially dangerous consequences for the mental health care system.

I applaud his perspicacity, and soundly congratulate myself for being the first to raise the issue. It was good of me to notice.

Writing in this terrible void before The Match, I was toying with various other sporting issues which might be dealt with in this column.

It might have been interesting to herald the start of the international rugby season, and to assess Ireland’s victory over Romania with the benefit of hindsight.

But basically, I couldn’t give a flying fuck.

Then there’s the World Cup of Golf, an event of some magnitude which all the golfing readers of Hot Press will no doubt be anxious to see covered.

I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. The Golf World Cup can go fuck itself.

The fortunes of the Jordan team on this year’s Grand Prix circuit are also of passing interest to some people, and with good reason. But not to this person. Not now. Not while the Windsor nightmare is in progress. Eddie Jordan can shove his carburretor up his ass for the time being.

No, there will be little point in such tawdry evasions, and one way or the other, come Thursday, you will not want to read about anything other than football, unless I were to reveal that Cardinal Cathal Daly is having a torrid affair with a Labrador.

That is all for another time and another place.

G’day, mate.