The Lost Shoe Diaries - Part IX

‘What the f**k are you doing?” my good friend, the member of the FAI officer board, wondered. He was on his fourth gin and tonic – not that I was counting.

“I’m going through my receipts,” I said. I was pulling the things out of my pockets – hundreds of them – and smoothing them out on the table in front of me. “From the last four weeks.”

“Your expenses, is it? Could you not leave that till we get back home. You don’t even have a drink in front of you.”

“It’s nothing got to do with expenses. I always do this at the end of a trip. Pull the receipts out of my pocket to remember where I’ve been. It’s like doing an archaeological dig on your recent social past.”

“That’s deep. That is – that’s fierce deep.”

“For instance, do you remember the night in Kitty Kiernan’s in Paris?”

“I don’t and that’s being totally honest with you.”

“I’m not surprised after what you had.”

I showed him the receipt and he laughed – the word is ruefully. “There’s some bits of archaeology,” he said, “is best left buried. And I’m saying that to you.”

“It was some night all the same,” I said. “I lost a good pair of Hugo Boss leather lace-ups. I watched a fella from Cloughjordan drink Sambuca out of one, then Frangelico out of the other. Not a bother to him. He earned his memento of the night even though they cost me a small fortune.”

“Frangelico. There’s elements of that night starting to come back to me. I’m having flashbacks, like one of those fellas who was in – what do you call that dump of a place?”

“Vietnam?”

“I was going to say Saipan – but I suppose it’s all the one.”

“It’s sad to be leaving. Am I right?”

“Leaving what?”

“The tournament. France. You know what I’m talking about.”

“You’re not wrong. It’s always sad being out. But all good things, as the fella said.”

“That’s true.”

“I just hope that Iceland do a job on England. And I’m saying that out of sheer badness.”

“One more song!” the fans started chanting. “One more song!”

Eyebrows raised

My other friend, the member of the FAI staff, turned to me with his eyebrows raised. “It’s you they’re talking to,” he said. “Are you going to give them what they want? Close out the tournament.”

"You know me," I said. "I'm a people pleaser, if nothing else. What about Sean South?"

"Sean South is a good one," the officer said. "And of course it's part of Ireland's rich heritage."

“I’m just trying to remember how the thing goes,” I said.

"Is it not: It was on a dreary New Year's Eve, as the shades of night came down, a lorry load of volunteers . . ."

“No, there’s a bit goes before that.”

“Before it?”

"A little-known first verse. Like the National Anthem has. Sad are the homes around Garryowen. Something, something else... "

“You’re saying the National Anthem has a first verse?”

“I think the full song has three verses, but the anthem is just the chorus.”

The member of the FAI staff took out his iPhone. “Why don’t I just Google the Jaysusing thing?” he said.

“Now you’re showing initiative,” I said, “and delivering on the promise I saw during your interview.”

He described himself as a self-starter.

“Ah, I don’t believe it,” he said.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s no f**king signal in here.”

“No signal?”

He showed me his phone. “Look – I’m not seeing any bars.”

“Makes a change,” the officer said. “You’ve been seeing 10 or 11 a night since we left Dublin.”

Well, we all had a laugh at that one.

“One more song!” the chant went up again. “One more song! One more song!”

“I’m going to have to give them something,” I said. “You fellas have no idea what it’s like to be a top football administrator who’s also a man of the people.”

Trending

“Why don’t you just give them

Joe McDonnell

?” the officer said.

"I'm not giving them Joe McDonnell. I told Tubridy I'd never do that one again. All it takes is one sneaky f**ker to film it and I'm – what's the expression? trending again? Trending all over Google specifically."

"What about Only Our Rivers Run Free?"

"Only Our Rivers Run Free. Now that's a song!"

“Do you need the words?” the member of staff said.

“No,” I said, “I’ve the words in my head.”

“One more song!” the chant continued. “One more song! One more song!”

I stood up. There was a collective cheer from the Ireland fans. It’s nice to be loved – I’m not going to lie to you.

"Okay, fellas," I said, "one more song, just to draw the curtain on Euro 2016! Okay?"

They cheered, then a respectful hush fell. I closed my eyes, and I gave them the opening line – all sombre, like. "When apples still grow in November..."

I’ve a lovely singing voice – it’s been commented on.

"When blossoms still bloom from each tree. When leaves are still green in December, It's then that our land will be free... "

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and turned to see a pretty blonde girl smiling at me. “Sir,” she said, “just a reminder that the pilot has switched on the fasten seatbelts sign.”

“Right,” I said.

It turned ugly then. The Irish fans let her know – let the whole of Aer Lingus know – how they felt about being denied another one of my famous ballads.

“If you could please retake your seat,” she said, “we’re going to be landing in Dublin in about five minutes.”

There were hisses and boos.

“Don’t worry about it, fellas,” I shouted. “World Cup qualifying starts in 10 weeks. I’ll sing it for you in Serbia!”

The roar that went up – you should have heard it. Then, as we descended towards the runway, I felt a tear or two slip from my eyes because the Irish fans were chanting, not Martin O’Neill’s name, and not Roy Keane’s, and not Darren Randolph’s, and not Robbie Brady’s. They were chanting my name.

“Okay,” I said, “you win. I’ll sing it for you in 15 minutes in the airport bar!”