Rugby - Ireland v England and the price of stupidity

The annual tour match started so badly as I looked at the e-ticket before setting off to Gatwick with plenty of time to spare. People, including members of my own family, have alleged in the past that I lack organisational skills.

But I’m not an idiot and understood it was important to book a flight well ahead of the international rugby weekend. So I was happy with the £42 ticket from Gatwick to Dublin, booked it, and wrote the details in my diary – 6.25 pm which would leave plenty of time for a sociable evening on the Friday night. Sorted.

Came the day, I was walking out of the house looking at the freshly printed e-ticket from the web site. Gill had tried to organise my seat online (generally I don’t care where I sit), but the web site wouldn’t allow her to do so. “Funny,” I thought and looked at the ticket details. The time said: 06.25. It seemed an appropriate moment to say: “Bugger,” followed by several other expletives cursing the obsession among travel operators for the 24-hour clock.

Isn't it funny that when we do something dumb, we clutch at the nearest available straw to try and mitigate the error? It must be a kind of comfort mechanism. Using the second person in grammar is doing a similar thing. It's quite possible that "we" do not do these things. But I confess I have form.

These kinds of occasions are always difficult; the real test of a relationship. It happened that I had a flight booked from Dublin to Paris on the Sunday so Gill was only able to mutter about the ultimate sanction. “You wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for that,” she said.

Could this be true? That in our consensual marriage arrangement one of the partners would attempt to apply the right of veto (if indeed it exists)? The atmosphere turned noticeably chillier as I looked for another flight and was quoted £242 for a one-way flight from Heathrow.

“That’s your birthday present,” said Gill as I booked it in recognition that this was the going rate for stupidity today. Never mind, the Irish trip is always a good crack, you only get one life, and a fine game was assured.

The only problem was that the organisers had fixed a 5.30pm kick off to suit TV (not the travelling supporters). The kick off time sounded alarm bells with the potential of a day-long wall-to-wall Guinness drinking session.

So I had a plan. Googling “things to do in Ireland” I was attracted to something called the 1916 Walk: two hours of history and walking around Dublin, starting at the International Bar (pictured) in Wicklow Street.

Getting off the Dart from Dun Loghaire (I won’t go in to why we stay here but it has more to do with history than convenience), there was some disagreement because Stuart didn’t want to take a taxi but it had to be. Unfortunately neither our Nigerian taxi driver nor his Satnav had a clue where to go and we drove in circles for a while, arriving at the bar shortly after 11.30 am.

“Not to worry,” said the barman when I asked about the walk, “It never starts on time.”
“Err, so where is everyone?”

“Ah tisn’t on today. It starts tomorrow.”

“Bugger,” I said.

Was anyone downhearted? Not at all. Nice bar, nice Guinness, might as well have one, and so it continued until we arrived at Croke Park with our €95 tickets that were upsetting Stuart. As the picture below reveals, he had mellowed by the end of the evening, the time of night when he uses his irony-laden catchphrase: "Another pint? Just what I needed."

The first half happened in a blink. Stuart was struggling to keep his eyes open. “That little rest of the eyelids cost you £5,” I said, not that it was £5 in lost entertainment. The second half wasn’t much better.

Suffice to say the result pleased the Irish and we repaired to Keoh’s bar, one of those Dublin centre bars that have been preserved, nicotine stains and all. A good few Guinnesses later we were singing on the Dart, followed by more Guinness in Dun Loghaire.

The Sunday morning was like many others after international matches – general whole body illness, pains in limbs, and the desperate need for a darkened room. A forgiving God would have guided me home. But the God of rugby took me to that special place reserved for misguided behaviour – the pit of eternal damnation that is Euro Disney.

To be continued.....