THE WEIRDEST thing happened late on Tuesday afternoon. I'm in Kiely's of Donnybrook with JP and Oisinn, making a banner that says, "Irish By Birth, Munster By The Grace Of A Defective Gene", when I realise, very suddenly, that my hort isn't actually in it? The truth is – and bear in mind that my hands are trembling as I write these words – I don't hate Munster people anymore, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY
Oh, sure, I feel sorry for them. Who wouldn't? We've all seen the harrowing image on RTÉ's Nationwide. I mean, I know people from Limerick who watched Angela's Ashesand went, "Snobs!" But the actual hatred – always singing "the threeproud provinces of Ireland" during Ireland's Call– has weirdly gone.
So I bring this up with the other two in, like, a roundabout way, by asking them if they saw the Lions announcement. Obviously they had? “You know,” I go, “when The Big O got the captaincy, I wasn’t thinking, Oisinn cleared that dude out on a regular basis back in the day. Or that he still walks with a limp from the time in the schools trials when I held him up five yords from the line. I was actually weirdly happy for the goy. Munster didn’t even come into it. What’s happening to me?” Then it’s JP’s turn to suddenly bear his soul.
“The time they destroyed us at Lansdowne, I was leaving the ground and this reporter comes up to me. She obviously copped the baby blue Hollister and the shades on the head and she wanted to get the view of a typical Leinster supporter.
“So I told her the truth – ‘It was a fair result, Rog stepped up like he always does and I hope Munster go on and win it now.’”
Oisinn's like, "You actually saidthat?" and JP's there, "I know how wrongthat must sound? But I just don't think we get as upset as they do when we lose. There's always something else to look forward to up here, isn't there? Be it Cirque du Soleil, Toys For Big Boys, the internet – down there, they have literally nothing."
I remind him that there's supposedto be a match on next week. Croke Pork is going to be jammed to the gills with people who despise our civilisation and want to destroy our way of life – and between the three of us, we can't come up with anything bad to say about them.
I shout the round. Three pints of Vitamin H.
“See, I think the problem is actually Leinster,” Oisinn goes, being the brains of the three of us here. “I just happened – by complete fluke – to see a map of it the other day and you wouldn’t believe the counties that are actually in it. We’re talking Wicklow. We’re talking Meath. You know there’s even a West Meath now?” “Probably invented by some estate agent,” I go. “Speaking of which, I’ve seen the same map and I’ll tell you where else is in it. JP, what was the name of that place where we sold those aportments – Elysian Heights?
“Remember, there was a fella outside the local supermorket with red hair and a transistor radio up to his ear telling passers-by that you could never write off Cork even in a bad year?” “Kilkenny,” he goes.
Oisinn’s there, “That’s my point. I mean it must be hord for the likes of Drico, Dorce, even Fitzy, to go out there and play, knowing that that’s what they’re representing.” “As far as I’m concerned,” JP goes, “Leinster storts at Terroirs and ends at Foxrock Church,” and we all raise our glasses and say amen to that.
We spend an hour trying to come up with even one thing about Munster that we actually hate. It’s like sitting the oral Irish again – the three of us sitting with these, like, agonised faces, going, “Errr,” but not forming any actual words? Eventually, roysh, we’re disturbed from our work by a dude in his possibly early 50s, wearing – get this – a shirt with a polo-neck sweater underneath it. Wherever he’s from, it’s obvious that the 1990s were just a rumour.
“Leds,” he suddenly goes, “have ye any tickets?” and I immediately recognise that sing-song accent – up and down like a drunk at a Radiohead gig – as being the accent of Cork.
I’m about to run him out the door, roysh, when out of the blue, Oisinn and JP turn around at exactly the same time and go, “How much?” I end up nearly falling off the stool. “You’re actually thinking of selling your Wilsons?”
The dude goes, “I’ll give ye torty euros for each ticket ye can get me,” and the two goys look at each other and pull a face as if to say, not a bad offer, all things considered. “Spread the word among yeer friends as well.” I’m like, “Goys, that’s not even what you paid for them,” but Oisinn goes, “Ross, some of us need the shekels.”
It suddenly hits me that we’ve been torgeted. Three dudes sitting in a south Dublin pub on a weekday afternoon; he’s obviously seen us for what we are – a redundant estate agent scratching out a living as a port-time bailiff, a ladies perfume designer who lost everything he had playing internet poker, and a jobless, soon-to-be-homeless outhalf who could have been one of the game’s all-time greats if he hadn’t been cursed with this face.
We’re basically what the Celtic Tiger washed up.
I end up totally losing it. I'm thinking, the cheek of this focker, to come here, the capital of Leinster, to walk into this sacred place and stort splashing around his money. I'm thinking, can you imagine if we rocked up to Flannery's in Limerick asking theirlot to sell their tickets. You'd end up watching the match in traction – and proper order.
The dude is licking his hand to seal the deal when I suddenly go, “Fifty – goys, I’ll give you 50 snots not to sell them and I’ll top any offer this dude makes. And tell any Leinster fans you know that I’ll do the same. Because this is war now. And I’ve just discovered a reason to hate.”
rossocarrollkelly.ie