Leinster’s Scottish win made taking our clothes off seem like the right – the only – thing to do, writes ROSS O'CARROLL KELLY.
"WE DINNAE see many of yeer kind aroond here," the cop goes and by our kindhe presumably means streakers?
“Cannae take the cold, most of them.”
He’s pacing the back of the van, talking to us – if I’m being honest – like an actual school teacher.
“I’m just wondering what tae charge yee with – public indecency or lewd behaviour.”
“Could we at least have a blanket?” JP goes. “As in, aren’t we entitled to one under the, I don’t know, Geneva Convention?”
“I don’t know,” the dude goes. “I’ll see is there a copy ae it lying aroond the station. See does it say anything aboot yobbos coming over here and making an arse outae the Edinburgh police.”
Me and Oisinn actually laugh out loud at that. I’m like, “He got you there, JP.”
The cop gives me a serious filthy. He’s there, “Are yee no ashamed? Are yee no embarrassed? What aboot your families?”
I tell him that my old dear writes books that are basically porn and my old man spent two years in the clink for pretty much corruption. Being dragged buck-naked into a police van in front of 70,000 people – and probably, I don't know , billionswatching on TV – is, like, nothing?
Oisinn makes a better fist of explaining himself than I do. "Dude," he goes, "we come from a land that's changing so fast that people wake up in the morning dizzy. Me, I made the Sunday TimesIrish Rich List last year – now, I'd need to borrow about €20 million off you just to tell you that I'm skint.
“And there’s a lot more where we’re coming from. People who never thought they’d know what it is to be poor – losing their jobs, their homes, their pensions, their very sense of themselves. And a depression weighing down on us all, so focking heavy that you wonder will the little pilot light in your soul ever burn again.
“And then . . . Then we go and win the European Cup . . .” I’m wiping away tears with the palm of my hand. So is JP.
“And taking our clothes off seemed like the right thing to do. The only thing to do.”
It’s been that long since I saw Oisinn smile that I’d forgotten what his teeth looked like.
There’s suddenly all this, like, banging on the side of the van. Outside, we can hear the chants of, “Legends! Legends! Legends!” The cop says we’ve certainly got our admirers and I tell him we’re well used to it, having been part of the famous Castlerock Dream Team of 1999. He nods like he knows what I’m talking about, then throws us each a blanket.
My mind keeps drifting back to the match. “Johnny Sexton,” I suddenly go, just shaking my head. “Focking hell.”
JP's there, "Reminded me of you in your day, Ross," which is an amazing thing for him to say, even if it istotal bullshit? I sent the kid, like, a text on the morning of the game, same one I always send to Rog – "Eat nerves, shit results" – and he was straight back with, "Thanks, Maestro," even though there's nothing – nothing! – that he needs to learn from me.
“Hey, what about those Munster fans sitting behind us?” Oisinn goes. We all laugh, because they were Meinster by the final whistle.
I remember the laughter coming from them when we arrived in our seats with our takeaway coffees. For the first 10 minutes, it was all, “What’s thet, a Frappa Lappaccino?” thinking they were hilarious. I had to turn around and let rip.
I was there, “You’re a basic disgrace,” at, like, the top of my voice. “Whatever about coming here – but wearing red? It’s like turning up at your ex’s wedding in a top hat and tails – in other words, pathetic,” which earned me a standing ovation from nearly everyone in our part of the stand.
But then as the game wore on, you could hear them being won over. It was all, "If they do win it, begorrah, I'd be made up for Leo Cullen," and "That Heaslip's some player all the same, be-to-hokey," and, by midway through the second half, theywere leading usin the chants of, "Rock-y! Rock-y! Rock-y!"
It was about 15 minutes after the final whistle, when the trophy was being paraded around the pitch, that I noticed Oisinn slip his Leinster jersey over his head and stort rubbing his body with Deep Heat. “It helps your body retain warmth,” he explained, like it was the most natural thing in the world to say, “and stops the cops and stewards from getting a good grip on you.”
He must have copped the look on my face, because he went, “Dude, I always said that if Leinster won the Heineken Cup, I’d do a streak.” I was like, “But that was 10 years ago. We were in school. Johnny Sexton there was hordly even born!”
“Ross,” he went, “I’m about to lose everything I own. This could be the last time I’m happy for a long, long time.” I couldn’t actually help it? I just went, “Fock it, hand me that Deep Heat,” and the next thing, me and JP were also handing our clothes to Fionn, the only one of the four of us with a reputation left to protect.
They’ve storted rocking the van now – and still the chant goes on: “Legends! Legends! Legends!” “Ma father was a shipbuilder,” the cop suddenly goes, staring into space. “Fae Glasgow, see. Mostae his life, he was in and outae work – never had a bean.
“You know what he told me before he died? He said that when Celtic won the European Cup, it mightae been the only day in his puff when he was ever truly happy . . .” He walks to the back of the van. “Wrap they blankets around yeer waists, boys,” he goes, then he opens the door.
There’s, like, a roar from the Leinster fans surrounding the van. “Go on,” he goes, “get oot tae fock – before I change my mind.”