The survivors of the 1948 Grand Slam Supporters' Club gathered, as usual, after the match last Saturday in their little clubhouse, a mashie niblick chip nor'-nor'-west of the Royal St George. Kevin Myers observed.
There was a curious kind of exultant despondency in the air, the masochistic joy of valetudinarians that their worst predictions had once again come true.
"What the Dickens," murmured the Grumpiest Member as he looked around in bewilderment for the coat-hooks, as he always did ever since they had been moved in 1973. The club secretary silently took the coat to the cloakroom. "Always shifting things round, never the same from one year to the next," the Grumpiest Member continued. "Why do we bother?"
The Cheeriest Member blew in. "Another disappointing result," he chuckled, rubbing his hands and holding them against the fire. "Never mind. There's always next year."
"Next year? Next year? Do you know how many years we've been saying next year for?" snarled the Grumpiest Member. "Where's the damned barman? Never around when you need them."
"If we make it through to 2008 without winning the Grand Slam," said the Coolest Member, who, being an accountant, slowly did his sums on his fingers, "it'll be, ooh, about 60 years."
"No," said the Mathematical Member. "It will be precisely 60 years."
"As it is," mused the Historical Member, "the 57 years since our last Grand Slam is greater than the amount of time between the Battle of Waterloo and the Franco-Prussian War."
"If we manage to fail for just one more year," added the Gloomiest Member, "and we unquestionably shall, then we'll match the passage of time that elapsed between the Wright Brothers' first flight and Yuri Gagarin going into space."
"But we've had some great occasions, nonetheless," chortled the Cheeriest Member. "A few Triple Crowns here and there."
"And some terrible times," the Gloomiest Member interjected, with deadly effect. The room went silent as they thought of the appalling 1980s and 1990s.
"The defeat by Tibet was the low point for me," said the Mathematical Member. "With the Dalai Lama at scrum-half, and a couple of yaks in the centre, I thought we might manage that one. I think what did for us was the Abominable Snowman on the wing."
"Only to a degree," said the Historical Member. "Remember he died of heat stroke and oxygen poisoning before half-time."
"Is this a clubhouse where alcohol is served, or a Sistine monastery?" came the impatient cry of the Grumpiest Member, who, being of the Reformed Faith, was a little vague on such ecclesiastical matters.
"Cistercian monastery, I think you mean," corrected the Mathematical Member, an adherent of Opus Dei. "Was that worse than the defeat by Mother Teresa's orphans? "
The Gloomiest Member cut in: "No, the direst moment for me was when we were beaten by the Lithuanian Blonde Beach Volleyball Team."
"They cheated," declared the Historical Member with some warmth. "Insisting on sharing the same dressing-room with our boys, and giving one another nude warm-up massages and bikini waxes before the match. Bloody hell, our chaps could barely walk onto the pitch, never mind play rugby."
"Chaps," said the Cheeriest Member wistfully. "Back in '48, we used to say chaps. And blokes. And lads. Now it's all guise."
"Guys," corrected the Historical Member.
The Mathematical Member, whose Opus Dei loyalties prevented him from knowing about such matters, suddenly asked in baffled tones: "I've always wondered. What precisely is a bikini-wax?" The slightly heated silence that followed was interrupted by the Grumpiest Member hitting the bar with a half-crown.
"Service! Bloody hell. This place is like the Marie Celeste."
"So Irish rugby has achieved almost nothing during all those decades," observed the Historical Member, who was a Dublin Jew.
"Just about nothing," agreed the Cheeriest Member, who was a working-class Catholic from Limerick.
"Looks like that," concurred the Grumpiest Member, who was a member of the Ahoghill Church of the Seventh Day Adventist Elim Latter Day Saints.
"Wasted years," mused the Mathematical Member, a Cavan Catholic.
"So little achieved," added the Coolest Member, a republican from Portadown.
"Roll on next year," the Cheeriest Member suddenly cried. "And maybe the next Grand Slam!"
And with that, the barman arrived, and the 1948 Grand Slam Veterans Supporters once again looked forward to yet another campaign to emulate the triumph of all those decades ago.