For about five minutes, at the beginning of our relationship, I feigned an interest in football. I found out that he supported Liverpool FC. I found out that he supported Portadown FC. And then I found out that not even love could make me sit through 90 minutes of a sport in which I have zero interest, aside from every four years, when the World Cup spices the game up with a spot of rampant nationalism writes Roisin Ingle.
I am aware that, as a revelation, "woman not a fan of football" is up there with "claustrophics don't like lifts" and "animal-rights activists are not really into McDonald's". I only bring it up because in the past couple of weeks there has been a slight shift in my views on the beautiful game.
Part of being a non-football-friendly girlfriend is an acceptance that, no matter how important you are to him, sometimes a game on a television will be more important. At certain times during the year - from experience, every weekend except in the summer, when there is a break of around two months - there are matches on. Mostly he doesn't tell me until I have arranged something else for us to do. "Sorry, there's a match on," he says, as though no other explanation is necessary. Which, of course, I've learned is pretty much the case.
In addition, I have learned to accept that during these periods he will not be accessible to me in any way, shape or form. I also now accept that when I go to his family home, in Portadown, and there is a match on, I will be banned from talking. In the early days his football-crazy brothers and sisters did not actually say that; they just glowered in my direction when I tried to be polite, commenting on a player's haircut or what I considered to be a skilful pass. Now they say: "Róisín, if you don't have anything intelligent to say, just keep quiet." So I do. It's humbling, actually.
In the past couple of weeks the soccer thing has acquired even more significance. Apparently there is a competition in which all the European football teams take part, and Liverpool have managed to get into the final, which will take place later this month in Istanbul.
This is very important, and not just to him. I've spent five years trying to make my boyfriend change his footballing allegiance, because Liverpool don't seem to be very good at winning things, and I don't like being associated, even at a remove, with such sporting underachievers. He claims that switching teams - to, say, Manchester United - is not possible at this late stage, citing family heritage and team loyalty. So I'm genuinely glad Liverpool seem to be achieving some kind of success. Long may it continue.
As if this weren't enough footballing good fortune, his other team got into the final of the Irish Cup. This is also very important. Portadown were playing Larne in the final last Saturday, and while it would have been a big shock had they not won, the 5-1 victory was still the cause of much joy around the town. To celebrate this great soccer triumph we went to a disco at the local rugby club. The choice of venue made no sense to me, but what would I know?
At the disco it felt as if I'd just hitchhiked back to the 1980s. I haven't heard some of those songs since I went to discos as a teenager at Marian College. They even played Time Warp, which was exactly what it felt like for much of the night.
Anyway, there I was, marvelling at the colourful language of the DJs and their penchant for running offstage to rub their faces in some young woman's breasts, when the footballers arrived.
"There's Vinny Arkins," somebody said, adding that this pleasant-looking tall man was from Dublin. It would have been rude not to go over for a chat with my fellow Dubliner, and when Arkins heard where I was from he wanted to know what the hell I was doing in this Protestant heartland.
"Well, my boyfriend is from here, and, you know," I said warming to my theme, "I support your team as well. Congratulations, you were great out there today, scoring all your goals and all the rest."
Thankfully, I found out later that Arkins had scored two goals. He's something of a local hero. And the fact that he was also the first Dubliner I'd ever met socially in Portadown made it a deeply auspicious occasion. As the night wore on and I chatted to Arkins again, I realised that I was in danger of developing an interest in Portadown FC. If I could just meet that Steven Gerrard fellow, the same might happen with Liverpool.
The next day my boyfriend's nephew Stefan taught me some chants. "Vinny super Vin, Vinny super Vin, Vinny super Vin, super Vinny Arkins," is lyrically limited, for sure, but I am assured that, when sung en masse, it is a powerful composition. Portadown fans are so enamoured of the Donabate striker that they also chant a warning to the opposition when he comes on. "Vinny's gonna get ya, Vinny's gonna get ya," they roar. He certainly got me.