Six Nations Once Again

[Warning: The following blog contains scenes which some non-Irish readers may find disturbing...]

Today, I'd like to cover a topic that strikes a chord with me around this time every year: namely, being an Oirishman in farkin Landaan.

Obviously, having lived in london for five and a half years, this is a subject which is never far from my mind; the particular significance of February/March-time will become apparent further on. But for now, a simple question: what does being Irish in London mean to me?

Firstly, it means having a greater sense of community with fellow Irish men and women, especially those with whom you would not necessarily connect on home turf. I am reminded of the time I worked in Boston (as an electrician- despite my colourblindness- but that's a blog for another day), and driving down to Cape Cod in a car containing: one guy from Cork, one guy from Galway, and one guy from Antrim. I have never known representatives of the four Irish provinces to get on so harmoniously at such close quarters. We were all brought together by our distance from the Homeland.

But it's not just a nationwide phenonmen: even the gaping North Dublin/South Dublin divide can be thus bridged (fellow Dubs will know what I'm talking about). Example: on my first Paddy's Day in London, many moons ago, I was running around Leicester Square trying to find the O'Neills pub. I asked a bouncer if he knew where it was, and he responded in a thick Dublin accent...

Bouncer: O'Neills? Yeah bud- just up the road there, to the left.
Me: Cheers.
Bouncer: No worries man, no worries. Where yeh from bud?
Me: Dublin.
Bouncer: Fooks sake, I know tha. What part?
Me: Er (apologetically) Killiney. But don't hold that against me..
Bouncer: Ah fook sake man, least yer a Dub. That's all tha matters. Least yer not a fookin culchie.
Me: Phew.

This brings me to the obvious exception to this extra-Ireland feeling of community: the people, which we in Dublin collectively term, 'the D4-heads'. How to describe? Pompous, up-their-own-arse, spoilt-rotten, conceited little shits. There, that should do it. Oh, and they all inexplicably wear the collars up on their rugby jerseys. In short, the D4-head label is not about their wealth, and it's not about their address- it's about pure arrogance and the misplaced misbelief that they are somehow better than anyone else.

I should point out that I myself am a Southside Dubliner, but hopefully don't fall into the D4-head category; I escaped from, what I affectionately call, Killiney Hill 90210 a long time ago. Thank God. So you can't really blame the Northsiders from being suspicious of anyone living closer to Wicklow than they do.

From a cultural standpoint, the social equivalent of the D4-heads in London would probably be the 'Sloane Rangers'. In fact, there's probably an equivalent in every capital city in Europe. But the worst thing about the London-based D4-heads is their refusal to acknowledge their fellow countryfolk with a warm smile and a hearty hello. It's not that difficult to do, is it? I was recently snubbed myself by a couple of D4-heads at a bar in Clapham not so long ago; I recognised their whiny, transatlantic twang a mile off, along with the disdainful glance that says "Oh no, not another Irish person, I like totally came to London to get away from them." Why the feck do you think I came to London yiz little shits?

The second crucial point about being Irish in London is the swelling of pride you feel toward figures for which otherwise your feelings would probably be neutral. Take the following for example:

Barack Obama: But he's not Irish! I hear you protest. Au contraire mes petits filous; around the time of his election in 2008, various newspaper articles emerged proclaiming Obama's Irish ancestry, going so far as to suggest his ties with an 18th Century Dublin shoemaker. And after all, with the American-President-of-Irish-Origins Club featuring past alumni such as JFK, Ronald Reagan and, of course, Slick Willie Clinton, can you really doubt it?

So- lets give it up for the 44th President of the US: Barack O'Bama, of the Leinster O'Bamas.

Bono: Has there ever been a figure more capable of polarising Irish public opinion? Well, yes- there's probably a few. But fuck it, I'm making a point here: Bono's definitely one of them. I was in a pub in Camden a few years back, in which there was this bucket placed by the bar with a scrawled label, "Tip here if you hate Bono". Naively, I believed at the time that this was some sort of covert anti-Irish message, but nope: turns out the majority of Ireland are sick of him too.

Okay- his sermonising and self-importance are grating I admit, but if some good comes from all his posturing in terms of raising awareness to global poverty, is it really that hard to tolerate? Plus, nothing raises the hairs on the back of my neck like hearing the live version of 'Pride (In the Name of Love)' from Rattle and Hum. So in fairness, whatever you think of him, you have to admit: the songs are still pretty good.

Jedward: Speaking of polarising public opinion.....it's a little known fact that, in 2007 a deranged geneticist escaped from a mental hospital in Dundrum and set up a laboratory in the dark wilds of County Wicklow with one sinister purpose in mind: to clone Michael Flatley. Unfortunately, the experiment went horribly wrong halfway through the accelerated gestation period, and resulted in the premature birth of a siamese twin, joined only at the quiff.

Hence, Jedward was born. Jedward were since surgically separated, claimed as government property and kept secret until 2009, when the Irish Government released them with the sole purpose of slow and methodical world domination. Where's the first place they sent them? That's right: England. Go figure.

The third main indicator of being Irish in London: the strengthened bond with your hometown. Despite having been largely absent from it for over five years, I love Dublin. In fact I love it so much that, a few years ago, at the end of a ten-hour pub-crawl along Upper Street in Islington, I flagged down a taxi and asked the driver to take me home. To Dublin.

The ensuing conversation went pretty much as follows:

Driver: Where to, mate?
Me: (hic) Kill..iney...(hic)
Driver: Kill-where, sorry?
Me: (louder) Fckn..Killiney...KiLLINey...(hic)
Driver: Kill-oy-ney? Where the fark is that mate?
Me: KILLINEY! Fcksake...Killiney...(hic)...'sfuckin...south of d'river..
Driver: Wot? Sarf of the rivah? Is it near Balham?
Me: Fckin..Balham? BALHAM? Where d'fook's Balham....'sfuckin KillINEY!! (hic) kil...killiney
Driver: I'm sorry, I don't know it mate.

Me: Fckin KILLINEY! yerfckin taxidrivr...you (hic), you should know...where yer fuckin (hic) fckin going!
Driver: Listen mate: piss off.
Me: (hic) Wellll yer a SHIT tax(hic) taxidrivr (hic)...yer SHIT! HEY WHERE Y'GOIN? COME BACK! YA PRICK!
Driver: (Drives off, me shouting after him)

I flagged two more taxis down, and essentially had repeats of the same conversation, before flagging down a third and miraculously remembering that I had lived in Ealing for the past year.

The fourth factor that living in London presents to an Irish person is that it highlights national traits that may have hitherto been unnoticed. For example, I went to a meeting of a ramblers club (don't ask) last year, and upon arrival at the agreed meeting spot, I shook hands with the four people already standing there and introduced myself. So far, so good. Little did I know, more were coming. Many more. In fact, about thirty more people arrived, bit by bit, and I found myself therefore obliged to introduce myself to, and shake hands with, each and every one of them. One of them remarked how it was very unusual to do this, and that an 'Englishman' would never have behaved in this way. Seriously. Then again, this was the same guy who- bearing in mind this was all before the recent economic meltdown- later said to me, "Oh I find it really inspiring now that Ireland have got up on their own two feet and don't need help from England any more." So he was probably a total cock. I bit my lip to stop from pointing out that England's 'help' to Ireland has historically been tantamount to a someone lifting their foot from the head of a drowning man to allow him surface.

I am therefore constantly reminded of my Irishness in London. So why is February/March so important in relation to this? Simple: the Six Nations Ireland/England rugby match (almost upon us as I type).

At this point, I should probably point out that I'm not the world's biggest sports fan. Apart from tennis, snooker and Swedish lingerie-model mudwrestling, there are few sports I actually watch; I'm more of a movie junkie. In fact, a female friend recently asked me about the rules of rugby (such was my excitement about the impending Six Nations Tournament), and I believe my answer was: "It's simple really- one side gets the ball and has to make it to the other side. In the achievement of this, extreme violence is permitted and indeed encouraged." Though I suspect there's really more to it than that.

Anyway, the Ireland/England match: what does it signify? Well, for me, it acts as an important barometer of Anglo-Irish relations. Okay, so rugby is generally considered- even at the worst of times- to be more 'gentlemanly' than football. As a teenager, I remember watching the 1995 football riots at Lansdowne Road on television and being pretty shocked: hooliganism has historically been pretty rife in English football, but this was the first time I had seen it so close to home, particularly as two of my good friends were actually at the match. The riots, engineered by Combat 18 (neo-nazi links), all kicked off after David Kelly's goal; and such was the cultural significance, the two sides have not met to play football at this ground since, even fifteen years on.

Controversy struck Lansdowne Road again in 2003, this time in the guise of rugby, and ever more subtly. Martin Johnson, then captain of the England side, staunchly refused to move his players to a certain part of the red carpet, thereby causing the Irish President, Mary McAleese, to walk over uncovered grass. The non-Irish amongst you may wonder, what's the big deal? Well, there are two important points to consider: firstly, the Irish President is the country's national figurehead, tantamount to say, the Queen in England; secondly, imagine if the Irish rugby team had behaved similarly towards the Queen? I doubt they would have even got that far. Conclusion: Martin Johnson is a disrespectful ballbag.

And then there was the Ireland/England Six Nations match in 2007. This game carried particular cultural significance, as it was the first ever rugby match ever to be played at this venue, Croke Park being historically designated specifically for Irish sports (e.g. Gaelic football, hurling). Add in the fact that 'Croker' was also the setting for Bloody Sunday in 1920 (when British armed forces burst into the Park mid-match, opened fire and killed fourteen civilians in retaliation for an Irish terrorist attack earlier that day) and you've got the toaster of international sportsmanship resting precariously on the edge of a steaming hot political bathtub.

I remember watching the 2007 match in a pub in Dumfries, Scotland (long story). And I also remember being filled with immeasurable national pride at the silence and respect Irish fans showed to the English team during the opening anthems. That's how grown-ups behave, Mr Johnson.

Any discussion of Anglo-Irish relations would not be complete without a mini-rant about one Oliver Cromwell. It's a national tradition in Ireland to despise Cromwell. Unfortunately, I suspect that most of the people aren't sure exactly why. Sample exchange:

Why do you hate Oliver Cromwell?
Cos he's a fuckin' prick.
But why?
Cos...cos...he said that thing about hell and Connaught. And he's a fuckin' prick.
Yes, but why is he a prick?
Cos he just is. And...and..you're a prick too.

Et cetera.

So I did some research, and lo and behold, Oliver Cromwell is indeed a prick. Or more technically was. He and his troops were heavily involved in the slaughter and exile of thousands of Irish during their mid-17th Century Irish Campaign. Ancient history, you may say. But the most worrying aspect of all, is that Cromwell was voted number 10 in The Top 100 Greatest Britons in a poll carried out by the BBC as recently as 2002. [Note: that is 'greatest' not 'most famous'; I mean, I accept that Hitler may be a 'famous' German...but I'm not sure if I'd exactly call him 'great']. So it's refreshing that Cromwell is today still held in such high regard despite his crimes to the Irish people. The only thing that quelled my anger upon reading this was the questionable accuracy of the poll: Bono, Bob Geldof and James Connolly were also somehow included in the top 100 'Britons'.

My own take on the current perception of the Irish in London is probably best summed up by the following tale. About three years ago, I was walking home from a session in a pub in Hendon. Finding myself without a map, I was utilising that historically tried-and-tested method of finding my way home, just as our forefathers did: namely, checking maps on any bus-stop I drunkenly stumbled across. Unsurprisingly, I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up slightly lost.

So I'm walking down this street, when I hear someone call out to me: 'Oi, blad!'

I turn around slowly and see two hooded punters standing across the darkened road. I decide to ignore them and continue moving.

'Oi man, I'm talkin' to you blad,' says the voice, slightly louder this time. And I realise they're following me. Shite.

'Yo, he's talkin' to you innit,' comes a second voice, the other hoodie. I try to break into a run, but.....well, if you've ever had your household pet sedated at the vet and watched it stumble around the house after you've brought it home, you'll have an idea of both the grace and speed I was displaying that night in my efforts to escape.

'You not hear me blad?' says the first voice, right behind me now. I slowly turn around. The two hoodies are staring at me. They look so pissed off, it's hard to imagine anything I could say would piss them off any further. And yet I still find it hard muster any words.

'Look..(hic) lads,' I feebly slur, hands held up in placation. 'I (suppressing burp) I'm jusht (hic) tryin' to get home.'

One of the hoodies cocks his head and regards me suspiciously. He jabs a finger at me, miming a pistol: 'You Irish?'

You Irish? I reckon I could've made it to the final question on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' and don't think I would have felt a millionth of the pressure I was feeling at that particular moment. I ran the question through my head again: You Irish? I prayed that one of my braincells was still awake at that moment, but it turned out they had all clocked off for the night. My brain was empty, apart from a post-it note which simply read: 'Back in five minutes'.

'You hear me blad?' repeated the hoodie.

You Irish? what was the correct answer to that question these days? I tried to picture a timeline of Anglo-Irish perceptions in my head. It went something like this:

1960's: Bloody paddies.

Early 1970's: Hmmm, there's something fishy about these guys.

Late 1970's: Whooa, these fuckers sure know how to make bombs.

1980's: Danger Will Robinson- these guys are EVERYWHERE.

Early 1990's: Still suspicious....

Riverdance, 1994: Fuck the bombs: they can dance- who knew?

Late 1990's - 2000's: Aww, they're actually loveable buffons. That Father Ted show is pretty funny too.

So I took a chance. 'Yes,' I said eventually. 'I'm Irish.'

The two hoodies stared at me for about three seconds, and I swear to fuck it was the longest three seconds of my life. Then they both broke into smiles.

'Irish, yeah? Fo' real yeah?' said the first hoodie, warmly.

'Umm, yes,' I replied, nodding tentatively.

'I''m Somalian!' he proudly exclaimed. He expected some sort of response, but I simply couldn't work out what the connection was between him being Somalian and me being Irish. He enlightened me.

'We both like guns yeah?!' he said excitedly, and mimed a machine gun.

'O-oh,' I stuttered. 'Guns...yeah. Er.. love em.' I mimed a machine gun back. 'Can't get enough of 'em. Yup. Guns guns guns. I love guns.'

'Yeah man,' he said, still smiling. Then he performed some sort of complicated handshake with me. 'Where you heading blad?'

'Er...Whetstone,' I mumbled.

'Aw man, you're going the wrong direction,' he said, then pointed me in the opposite direction. 'Down that way, take a left, then follow the high road.' He slapped me on the back, did the handshake again and waved me off. I then tottered home and changed my boxer shorts.

So what does all that say about Anglo-Irish relations in the twenty-first century? That you truly never know what the fuck to expect. Hence, occasions like the Ireland/England match are so important- they let us know where we all stand. And I, for one, will certainly enjoy the day, and in particular the match, no matter what the result.

As long as we hammer the fuckers.