HEART BEAT:United in glee as we give the Brits a kicking
‘Then ye returned to your trinkets, then ye contented your souls
With the flannelled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals.’
Kipling, the Islanders
I WAS THERE, supporting the Green muddied oafs. Now I'm back with the few trinkets this miserable Government has left us, but with contentment in my soul. The natives in their low-swinging sour chariots didn't think it should be like this. In the old days of Empire it never was. Don't things change? It's bad enough that Pakistanis and Indians can challenge and win at cricket and hockey but it's the end of the world when the Paddys come to Twickers and bear away the palm. It's not supposed to happen. When Lord Cornwallis surrendered a British army at Yorktown; essentially ending British involvement in North America; as the defeated troops marched away the band played The World Turned Upside Down. So well they might, and the tune would have been fitting again on that great Saturday.
What is it that makes the Irish forget their dismal little squabbles over petty matters like religion, and unite as Prods, Papes and Dissenters to give the Brits a kicking? It is the same motivation that inspires the Scots and the Welsh and the Southern Hemisphere rugby world. We post-colonials may have forgiven, but we have not forgotten the bad old days. We take a decorous pleasure in beating one another, but you guys are the icing on the cake.
My first trip to Twickenham was a long time ago. I travelled with the Mater Hospital RFC to play St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. St Mary’s, many times winners of the London Hospitals Cup, were reputed to give preference to rugby players over ladies or mere academics in their selection policies for medical school. I’m sure that can’t have been true. We travelled in the mail boat to Holyhead and then by the boat train to Euston. Then there was the unhealthiest breakfast we could afford and we struggled to the ground and battle was joined. As George Orwell wrote “it is war minus the shooting”. Sometimes we won; sometimes we lost; that was immaterial. It was the camaraderie and the great hospitality that counted most. The following day we made our way to Twickenham. Another glorious defeat was usually our lot. The Paddys were quelled again and things were in their rightful place. Another night on the town and broke but happy we returned to Dublin, leaving all tales behind.
It was essentially the same on trips to Edinburgh. Paris was a little different with language difficulties and a less tolerant attitude to medical students out on the town. I suppose that we didn’t contribute much to the economy. One memorable year in my capacity as honorary secretary of the club I succeeded in booking the team into a temperance hotel. We also had Consultant minders. Their main function was to allay thirst and they were judged accordingly. They kept away from us as far as possible and only occasionally did they have to intercede with the authorities over some trifling matter.
March 16th, 1968; the HA and I were part of the diaspora and this particular Saturday afternoon we were both in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. The HA was in the maternity ward awaiting the arrival of number two. Her anxious husband was located in the Residents’ Mess, a few floors away, seated in an armchair right in front of the TV. The kick-off, England vs Ireland, was moments away. The phone rang and I was called. A Scottish voice advised me that delivery was imminent and would I like to be present. I told the Scottish voice to get a grip on itself, which was interpreted as a negative. He informed the HA that “he’ll nae be up till after the match”. I might say in mitigation that at that time it was rare for fathers to attend deliveries. At full time I conveyed the happy news that Ireland had won to my new son and his mother.
Forty years on, last week I was back in London with a team of highly respectable citizens from our Dublin club to play our annual match against Royal Mid-Surrey Golf Club in Richmond, a stone’s throw from Twickenham. History knows we won the rugby. History doesn’t care that we lost the golf. A Green Saturday night in London; does life get any better?
mneligan@irishtimes.com