True Confessions Of An England Supporter In Ireland

THERE ARE moments when I think I'll be okay, that I'll somehow manage to make it through the day. Then somebody says something and all the hurt, all the despair comes flooding back. Yup, 10 years on and I still haven't got over England being beaten 1-0 by Ireland in Stuttgart.

The game itself was the most public of humiliations - me and a mate of mine, Dave Shearer, sat in Limerick's Malibu Bar surrounded by 100 or so very inebriated Boys In Green. By the middle of the second-half Shearer, the turncoat, was singing 'The Fields Of Athenry' while I braved it out till the final whistle and then went and 'phoned my mum. Actually, there have been a lot of 'phone calls to Mrs Clark - usually in close proximity to penalty shoot-outs with the Germans. Let's face it, I was never going to get any sympathy from the inhabitants of a country that still holds the old enemy responsible for most of its woes.

Exercising my democratic right to walk round Ireland in an England shirt, I've been accused of everything from causing the famine to fitting up the Birmingham Six.

Normally I laugh it off but there are occasions - e.g. when Cameroon have just stuck their second past Bobby Robson's brave boys at Italia '90 and a total stranger's calling me a "British cunt" - when a my forehead/their nose collision is unavoidable..

There are a few things at this point that I ought to clarify. I despise hooliganism; my politics have never veered any further right than voting for the Liberal Democrats; and I didn't cheer when the Belgrano got sunk.

I'm aware of my country's historical baggage - and ashamed where appropriate - but when it comes to football, I'd be betraying myself and my family if I cheered for anyone other than England.

Liam Mackey came up with an interesting theory when he suggested that the reason why people here want England to lose is not because of 800 years of tyranny, but 30 years of Jimmy Hill. If not quite dancing in the streets, there was certainly mild jubilation in Irish pubs when Bobby Moore & Co got their collective mitts on the Jules Rimet in 1966. After all, these were the same blokes that were worshipped every week when they played for their league teams. But by the time Mexico '70 came round, Hill and his Empire throwback cronies were so confident of us giving Fritz another stuffing that I almost wanted West Germany to win in the quarter-finals myself.

That said, to dismiss everyone in England as a jingoistic gobshite because of Jimmy Hill is like me pointing at Foster & Allen and saying the entire Irish population goes round wearing green leprechaun suits. At best it's a sweeping generalisation and, at worst, it's racism.

TORRID TIME

I knew I was in for a torrid time during this World Cup when on hearing the draw for the group stages, Barry Glendenning explained how his complex family tree has branches in Colombia and Tunisia. Not only that but it seems that at some point in January, Birr became twinned with Bucharest. There was only one thing to do, get on to our man in Dublin and see if he could offer me sanctuary:

"Hello, I'm just ringing to see if the British Embassy are organising any events around the World Cup?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Are there expat groups that might be getting together to watch the games?"

"I haven't heard of any. The thing is, with the language being the same, we tend to integrate quite well here. I'd say you'll be safe enough in a bar."

"While I've got you, I was wondering whether the Embassy's ever thought of staging a St. George's Day Parade?"

"What, in Dublin?"

"Yeah, I thought with the peace deal and all that, it'd be nice to march down O'Connell Street with a brass band and a bit of Morris Dancing, perhaps."

"Mmm, I'm not sure how well that would go down."

I realised a long time ago that you're more likely to find a Woolly Mammoth in Ireland than an England football shirt - strange given that on a recent scouting mission I spied not only a Rangers but a Linfield top. Hell, you can even buy the Holland strip and it was one of their side that started this nonsense in the first place.

Having had my natty red, white and blue number flown in - thanks mum - it was off to the t-shirt place in Stephen's Green to have "66 Winners" steam-pressed on to the back. So horrified was the assistant by this request that for a moment I thought I'd made a mistake and asked for "666 I Fuck Goats".

"'That'll be £10'. 'Okay'," was as cheery as the conversation got but, hey, who needs idle chitter-chatter when you've England vs. Tunisia to look forward to? Having been shown the red card by the Embassy, I had to decide whether I'd watch the game in the privacy - not to mention safety - of my own home or do what I vowed I'd never do again and brave the pub.

Outside of my Stuttgart and Cameroon experiences, I still bear the mental scars of a Galway landlord ringing his last-orders bell each time Sweden scored one of their three goals against England at Euro '92.

The other reason my football viewing has become an increasingly solitary experience is that, in a tit for a tat move, I've started rooting for the opposition whenever the Republic's involved in serious competition. Not even the torrent of abuse from the flat below could stop me celebrating Ireland's exit from USA '94 and when the Dutch beat you again at Anfield, well, I came round to thinking that maybe there's a God after all.

BOWEL-TESTING MOMENTS

You don't find the likes of Paul Ince or David Batty shying away from adversity, though, which is why I eventually plumped to watch England play Tunisia in the International Bar, an establishment known for its sense of fair play and reasonably close proximity to the Meath Hospital. Dublin's Tunisian population, among them Jonathan O'Brien and George Byrne, were out in force but soon lost their appetite for the fight when Alan Shearer nodded in the opener. There were a few bowel-testing moments as the North Africans pressed for an equaliser but then Paul Scholes, bless his little ginger head, did his Maradona impersonation and it was one-man conga up Wicklow Street time.

The unilateral celebrations continued that night as I spun the platters that matter at the Mean Fiddler. No one objected to 'On Top Of The World' or 'Three Lions' but 'Vindaloo' was met with threats of violence - from the bouncers.

With this issue of Hot Press going to bed on the eve of the Romania game, our French odyssey may very well be over by now but - to use a phrase you guys were so fond of four years ago - at least we were there! n