by Declan Lynch
Ireland had not lost to England, or drawn with England.
Ireland had scored one goal and England had scored no goals, and the match was over now, so Ireland had won.
There was no other way of looking at it.
And they couldn’t take it away from us now.
Ireland ... had ... won.
——
In the hotel lobby that morning, a bunch of Scandinavian pilots and air hostesses had arrived, and I had observed them as Paddy had always observed such people, as a kind of a different species, one to which he could never belong, into whose company he could never be admitted as an equal, his best hope being to entertain them with his antics. I now knew that I was as good as any of them, that Paddy could even win football matches now.
I would be going back to a land transformed. I would be bringing home this tiny T-shirt, with the Manhattan skyline on it.
My daughter, Roseanne, was a month old.
You should never trust a man who supports the Republic of Ireland. By this I mean a man who supports the Republic to the exclusion of all other football teams. It is perfectly normal and good to support the Republic along with the club you support for most of the year, be it a League of Ireland club or a Premiership club, or ideally both — genuine football men have always found it natural to maintain such a portfolio, and deeply unnatural to pursue a more narrow, nationalistic line.
At one level, it is simply a matter of putting in the hours. The genuine football man does it every day of the week, most weeks of the year, and weekends too. It is a full-time occupation, which gives him certain rights — the right to comment, for example, on the game with a certain degree of credibility.
The man who comes across like a football man but who only supports the Republic is essentially a bullshitter. He may vouch for his commitment by pointing out that he follows the lads to foreign countries, but that can also be classed as a drinking holiday, an extension of adolescence into infinity, not the job of work that it should be. And in a good year, he can get away with about eight matches, which would hardly represent a month’s endeavour for the real people. He is, in every sense, only here for the beer.
Yet it is his voice, and the voices of many more like him, which have tended to prevail in our official version of the Charlton years — the Olé Olé voice, as we know it. It behoves us to question all the received wisdom on this, even the parts that seem most persuasive, such as the assertion that the unprecedented achievements of Charlton’s teams in qualifying for major tournaments gave the Irish a new sort of positive attitude which contributed to the subsequent economic boom.
Personally I would have subscribed to that one, up to a point, and in a lazy-minded way, until I heard it said for about the fourteenth time on RTÉ’s Questions and Answers, which renders it automatically suspect.
Indeed to gauge the mentality of the Olé Olé crowd, you might recall the way that assembled members of the Irish establishment on Q&A would respond to any question about sport, usually the last question, the ‘funny’ one. They would immediately lapse into a fit of girlish giggling at the ‘light relief’ provided by the mention of sport, after all their grave reflections on supposedly more serious matters such as, say, the new Fine Gael policy document on neutrality.
These people know nothing. But worse, they do not even know that they know nothing.
So when I hear the consensus forming that the Celtic Tiger can be traced back to the Boys In Green, as they call them, something bothers me. Perhaps they are just reaching for the familiar embrace of a cliché, in this case the one that ‘success breeds success’. But if that is the case, what bred the success that Jack had? Is it not also true to say that failure breeds success, inspiring us to do better, to rise above the morass in which we find ourselves? In fact, given the economic and social context in which U2 and the Gate Theatre and Christy Moore were formed, and considering how well they were doing back in the late 1980s, can it not be argued that failure actually breeds success better than success does? It is such a fine line and we need to remind ourselves that the first phase of the Charlton years had ended in failure, or so everyone thought at the time.
It had been universally accepted that Ireland would not qualify for Euro 88, that they would finish second in the Group. Jack’s first campaign had had its uplifting moments — the best research suggests that Olé Olé was first heard in Lansdowne Road around this time — but with the last match about to be played, in which we needed Bulgaria to get beaten at home by Scotland, it was clear that ultimately Jack had failed.
Not that we were too disappointed, this time. We had not actually been overtly cheated on this occasion and we had not disgraced ourselves. We did not have to look at Eoin Hand and the other lads on the bench in the pouring rain with their heads in their hands, mourning another night of appalling misery. We had had our low moments, in particular a scoreless draw against Scotland at Lansdowne which would be regarded as one of the most boring football matches ever played by trained professionals — then again, there was a night in Hampden Park when we beat the Scots 1-0, which gave us a brief foretaste of the fine madness which was to come.
Though we had again resigned ourselves to not qualifying, we would live off these advances, until the next time.
Even the two draws with Belgium had not been without honour — and in particular the 2-2 result in the Heysel Stadium was viewed as a moral victory. Which might not seem like progress, for a country such as ours, where we had so many moral victories, we had become connoisseurs of the things, noting their unique characteristics and subtleties the way that a master sommelier would analyse a mouthful of Château Lafite. Though to extend the analogy, most of us couldn’t bring ourselves to spit it out when we were finished. No, we would swallow it and hold our glasses out for more, because we knew that more would inevitably be coming.
Probably, we had become addicted to the moral victories, and we would have great difficulty in adjusting to life without them, if that day ever came.
So we had savoured that 2-2 draw with Belgium downstairs in the International Bar, our base camp close to the offices of Hot Press for whom I did most of my work at the time, because it had featured an ingredient none of us had ever encountered before.
It wasn’t just the fact that Ireland equalised twice, away from home, against a team which had reached the semi-final of the last World Cup — we had always had the fighting spirit — it was the fact that the second equaliser had come so late in the game: generally, we didn’t ‘do’ late equalisers. Late equalisers were done to us.
And it had come from a penalty, which was quite extraordinary, really, after all that we had been through. And the penalty had been a gift presented to us by the Belgian keeper, Jean-Marie Pfaff, who had made a lunatic charge which upended Frank Stapleton in a position in which he had seemed most unlikely to score.
All of these things, coming together, had left us high on the improbability of it all.
It was on that night, that I first heard the line that Jack Charlton must be one of Napoleon’s ‘lucky generals’. It would later become such a common line that it would even filter through to the panellists on Questions and Answers, the line that the quality which Napoleon most desired in his generals was that they be lucky. But I had first heard it said by Bill Graham, my old Hot Press colleague and mentor — Bill was also U2’s mentor, in fact, he was everyone’s mentor, if they had any sense — in the International Bar on the night that Jean-Marie Pfaff crazily gave us the penalty which was scored with thoroughbred conviction by Liam Brady.
There was a distinct sense of novelty about this ... this ‘luck’ thing ... and we didn’t quite know how to deal with it. But we were back on familiar ground anyway by the time the Group was being wound up with Bulgaria playing Scotland at home. A win for Scotland would get us to Germany 88 — but it seemed certain that whatever luck we had had, there wouldn’t be enough of it to see us through.
We would watch the formalities of the match in
Sofia anyway, because someone had to. And we probably had nothing better to do than sit up at the counter of the International on a very grey afternoon in November, supping pints and watching football and waiting for something good to happen.
By ‘we’, here, I don’t mean the Irish nation as a whole and certainly not the Olé Olé nation or the corporate nation or the Q&A nation, just a few loyalists such as myself and my friends Arthur Mathews, who would later co-write Father Ted and I, Keano, and the controversial rock journalist George Byrne. And Con Houlihan was down in Bambrick’s of Portobello. He has written of this grey day, bringing us the lovely image of the owner’s dog snoozing in front of the fire.
There was no-one banging a bodhrán, dressed as a leprechaun. Big Jack himself had gone fishing. In the International, we had to ask for the telly to be turned on, and it was just a telly, not a big screen. There was nothing big about this. There was considerably more interest in the recent demise of Eamonn Andrews than in the inevitable demise of the Republic’s latest effort — our most celebrated broadcaster would only die once: the Republic would die many times.
After a while we weren’t really watching it, we were just ‘keeping a watching brief’, as they say. Bulgaria had an awe-inspiring record at home in Sofia, an achievement which was embellished by legends of referees loudly consorting in their hotel rooms with state-sponsored Bulgarian prostitutes, but somehow none the less impressive for all that. As for Scotland, we knew that they were capable of anything. They could beat Brazil and then they could lose to Liechtenstein, for no reason except that they were Scotland. In them, too, there is a deep restlessness of the soul.
But by the looks of it, they clearly weren’t going to be doing anything perverse in Sofia, on this day.
Then something good happened. Colette Rooney came in from Hot Press, just up the road, to ask me if I could go to London the following day to interview Robbie Robertson. Of course I could. The former mainman with The Band had just released a solo album, which contained at least two wonderful tracks, ‘Somewhere Down The Crazy River’, and ‘Fallen Angel’, which could stand alongside his classic cuts such as ‘The Weight’, and ‘The Shape I’m In’, and ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’. I revere The Band above all others, and to meet Robbie Robertson himself would be a signal honour.
And then Scotland scored.
It is not true to say that everyone in Ireland remembers where they were when Gary Mackay of Hearts, winning his first cap, scored that goal for Scotland with four minutes to go. Because like I said, the only people actually involved at this end were a few lost souls scattered around the country and Bambrick’s dog.
What they also forget, is the agony that was yet to come. Brutalised by the abuse inflicted on us over the years, despite George Hamilton’s now-frenzied commentary, we were loath to even celebrate that goal until we saw with our own eyes that they were kicking off again at the centre circle.
So many times, it seemed, we had seen good goals for the Republic disallowed, we had lost hope that there was even the most rudimentary form of justice at work in this football world. Joy had turned to disappointment so many times, we didn’t bother with the joy any more.
For years we couldn’t properly celebrate a goal until we had something akin to forensic proof that the referee had allowed it, that all the paperwork had been done and everyone had signed off on it.
We had instant recall of some of the bleaker legends of Irish football, such as the times Frank Stapleton had vital goals disallowed against Belgium in Brussels and against France in Paris for no reason, or at least none that was vaguely plausible. Had there even been an Irish goal disallowed for no reason on this very ground in Sofia, a long time ago?
——
So even though this Scotland goal was being allowed to stand, it seemed inconceivable to us that another four minutes of normal time and God knows how long of injury time could go by without it all being taken away from us, in some uniquely twisted manner.
This is what Ireland had done to us.
This is the way we were, near the end of the 1980s. Not just the football, but all the other bullshit, the wrecked economy, the divorce referendum and the abortion referendum, the North, everything that was done under the colours of green, white and gold, had eventually worn us down to this level. We were sick men. Anyone who made it out of here had made it despite all the bullshit, driven by a desperate desire to be free of the bullshit.
It became strangely forgotten during the era of the Tiger, but as I recall, one of the more influential events of the late 1980s was the publication of a book by Professor Joe Lee, Ireland 1912–1985: Politics and Society.
Again, because we got locked into that bullshit narrative of success breeding success, we overlooked the fact that failure was also a powerful motivator, and that we had it in spades.
This book, which was a surprise best-seller, was essentially a long and detailed history of failure in Ireland since the foundation of the State. The author was then Professor of Modern History at UCC, a man who could increasingly be heard on RTÉ radio explaining how everything in Ireland was broken.
Clearly he was a man who loved his country, and who was scrupulously, even obsessively fair, about what had been done right, and what had been done wrong. He gave respect where it was due. You would feel at times that he almost gave too much respect, even where it wasn’t due. But if anything, his well-known even-handedness made his book even more important and powerful and depressing — this guy wasn’t saying this stuff for effect, he was saying it because it was true, and he could prove it.
Little wonder that so many of us bought his book, but so few of us had the heart to read it.
But we would hear those who had been able to read it all the way through speaking in solemn tones about the sadness of it all. About Ireland, and how we had done so many things so badly compared with similar countries, who had somehow worked out how to govern themselves in a vaguely intelligent and responsible fashion.
All who heard this drank deep and were silent.
That big book felt like an epitaph for the whole doomed project that was the Republic of Ireland, one that was superbly and lovingly crafted in itself, but an epitaph all the same, for something dead and gone. Lee stopped short of saying that we should just hand the country back to whoever we got it from and say sorry about all that. But to many, that was the only reasonable conclusion to be drawn.
So that’s roughly where we were, near the end of the 1980s in Ireland, without even venturing towards the badlands of international football and the men who had been forging our destinies in that regard. Throw in the FAI, described by writer Michael Nugent as ‘a perpetually exploding clown’s car’, and various Bulgarian hookers and so forth, and you get a sense of what we were up against here.
Which is how, in the International Bar on 11 November 1987, even though this extraordinary thing had happened, with Scotland scoring so late in the game, we were convinced that it could only be the precursor to some grotesque denouement. We were already steeling ourselves for it, as the Bulgarians were now playing with a wild urgency, the blackguards, startled out of their cynical torpor by the unthinkable event which had just befallen them.
Sportingly, if insanely, a Scot had rushed to retrieve the ball from the net after the goal, a goal that wouldn’t have happened if the ref had stopped play for a bad Bulgarian foul in the build-up.
Their captain, Nasko Sirakov, sent a shot from the edge of the area which seemed certain to squeeze inside the far post, but which somehow went wide. The equaliser was coming. We knew it was coming. We cursed this savage new twist, this cruel raising of our hopes.
Then Arthur Mathews came up with a formula, which seemed to make it bearable. ‘There’s about three minutes to go, including injury time,’ he said. ‘That’s about as long as “Teenage Kicks” by The Undertones.’ Which wasn’t long at all really, since he put it like that. And so myself, George and Arthur, in the privacy of our own tormented heads, �
��played’ that record by the Undertones, that three minutes of pop perfection which itself had been forged against a backdrop of pain and terror.
——
When it was over, the RTÉ studio had become a place of madness.
John Giles was there, Maurice Setters and Mick McCarthy.
Jack couldn’t be found.
Gone fishing.
He couldn’t be phoned, faxed or texted, and even when these technologies became more common, Jack was not the sort of guy to be checking his messages when he had gone fishing. Avoiding any flak that might have come his way when we didn’t qualify, he was now missing his moment of triumph, yet acquiring just a little more mystique in the process. What other manager in world football would be incommunicado on such a day?
Arthur and George and I went downstairs to our usual spot in the International, where the real drinking could commence. Already I could tell that I would be severely hung over for Robbie Robertson, but then he is a great artist and a great humanitarian, who would be no stranger to men in that condition.
I did not care.
We were still there at closing time at 11 o’clock on the 11th of November.
It was the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.
Bob Geldof was my landlord at the time. That would be Bob Senior, father of famous Bob, who owned a large Edwardian house on Crosthwaite Park in Dun Laoghaire divided into flats. Liam Mackey, my friend from Hot Press, lived in the basement flat and when he moved upstairs to a slightly larger premises, I moved in to the basement along with Jane — our baby Roseanne would soon be born.
He was a lovely man, old Geldof, still kicking around the world in a camper van which young Bob had bought for him. We were paying him more than we’d been paying for the olde worlde flat in Leinster Road in Rathmines where we had been living, but Dun Laoghaire had distinct advantages such as the nearby DART, which, it was increasingly felt, might not be such a bad idea after all. And there was Dun Laoghaire itself, where we now had characters such as Barry Devlin, formerly of Horslips, in the neighbourhood, as well as Sonny Condell, who played at the first rock gig I ever attended, wearing the first pair of leather trousers I had ever seen, in the Dean Crowe Hall in Athlone. He’d been supporting Peggy’s Leg. In Rathmines, we had had Father Michael Cleary living across the road.
