“Well, how did you enjoy the rugby?” Noah asks.
Noah and I are standing our Irish friends to breakfast at a local restaurant. This is a sensible way to entertain them, as even they are civilised enough not to drink alcohol before noon.
From what Noah told me, I understand that they make an exception for Guinness. Apparently, they believe that dark hops are the functional equivalent of fruit juice. By checking in advance, I have discovered that this restaurant does not serve Guinness. Yes, I know, Killjoy was here, but I really do prefer them sober. They tend to be less Irish, if you know what I mean.
The two Irishmen live together and come as a pair. Not a couple, mind you, but a pair. If you invite the one, you must invite the other. A bit like Castor and Pollux or, slaying aside, Cain and Abel.
Not the Bold and the Beautiful, sad to say. Lookers they are not, nor, save when in quest of Guinness, particularly enterprising. But, if not distinguished, they are undeniably distinct. Sean is what unkind people call bog-Irish, while Seamus affects a cultivated air and can be a bit PC. When you socialise with them, you must take the rough with the smooth. In the course of my rather chequered life, I have been happy to take both.
Seamus looks po. “What rugby?” Of course, he knows exactly what Noah is referring to, but he likes to play dumb.
We do him the service of telling him. “The Saffers v New Zealanders,” Noah says through gritted teeth.
“I didn’t follow it. I only watch Irish games. I go where my patriotic heart takes me.”
Mmmm, I muse. You can say Irish, English, British, Scottish, even Welsh, but you can’t say New Zealish. No wonder they plumped for ‘All Blacks’.
“Me too,” Sean grunts.
“Which Ireland? North or South?” I ask, provocatively. “Oh, and if North, Protestant or Catholic?”
Seamus looks at me bleakly. “In rugby, we come together as a single nation.”
“Oh, I see. On important things you unify, but on matters that scarcely signify, you happily butcher each other.”
“It’s tribal. In matters of rugby, we are All Gaels. When the Irish team dons the emerald green, when it runs out onto the green sward, we can see who we really are.” Seamus is being poetic. It’s not a pretty sight. ‘Green sward’, for goodness sake.
“You think that they embody your spirit and your soul?” I ask, impishly.
“Well, yes, I do. They are our champions who fight for us and defend our pride on the field of play. If they win, I raise a brimming beaker in joyful celebration. If we lose, I down it, to still my sorrows.”
Sean explodes. “Then you are a bloody fool. You have no hand in finding the players, coaching them, or selecting them to play. You do nothing to organise their lives or pay their salaries. You can do no more than gawp. They play the national anthem to fire you up and, by St Patrick, you suddenly are filled with patriotic zeal.”
“Well,” says Seamus. “Why do you watch rugby, old bean?” What Sean has said has surprised him. He looks a little forlorn.
“I like to see men who look like me bugger up people who look like, erm, Noah. I watch for the same reason I watch a bar fight or a boxing match. Blood and guts are what I like.” Actually, he didn’t say ‘bugger’, but truth must sometimes bow to decorum. This column is not canonical.
Noah’s ears have pricked up at the mention of his name. The reference to him has had a comparable effect on his tongue.
“What about the artistry of a backline in full cry? What about the aesthetics of the game?”
“Don’t make me laugh. Rugby is about as aesthetic as a picture by Andy Arsehole.” I divine that he has little respect for the work of Mr Warhol. Seemingly, not even faithful reproductions of soup cans one on one in serried ranks can animate his spirit. He is an inveterate clod.
“I agree, it is a seriously stupid game,” says Noah. “Webb Ellis presumably thought it better than football. I imagine he found it as boring as I do.”
Seamus agrees. “Soccer is lethally dull. They seem to score goals only to relieve the tedium of passing the ball back and forth between them. That, and taking dives à la Swan Lake.”
Noah presses on. “Still, I cannot help myself. When the Boks are playing, I sit glued. My emotions go on a roller-coaster ride, and I rejoice when the final whistle seals the fact of a win. I mean, really, imagine watching something only to applaud when it is over!”
Noah reflects for a moment, then continues. “I suppose it’s because I played the game as a youngster. I played cricket, too, and become equally involved when the Proteas are playing in a test match.”
Our breakfast arrives. “I’d like a pint of Guinness,” says Sean. Poor boy, yet another disappointment. No cup of all-black brew for him, just as there was none for the New Zealanders.
The views of the writer are not necessarily the views of the Daily Friend or the IRR.
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