This is so beautiful it hurts remembering it won't be seen on the pitch in South Africa this summer. Where it belongs.
I realize me dedicating a One-Shot to the new Northern Ireland top is exactly the kind of thing that keeps this blog the obscurest of the obscure. I realize and don't care. It's too gorgeous not to be brought to your attention.
Showing posts with label Northern Ireland Football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Northern Ireland Football. Show all posts
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Monday, 12 October 2009
One-Shot (12/10/09)
As we say 'round here, hauld onnn! To refer to England's current football squad as a "Golden Generation" is an insult to the term. The nucleus of France's 98 World Cup and 00 European Championship winning sides? Yes. England's "win a match, we're formidable"/"lose a match, we're worried" current crop? Nah, mate. Anyone asking what a Northern Irishman knows about golden generations in a less than friendly tone can feel free to swivel; you don't need to taste the bullet to know it ain't tasty.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
One-Shot (10/09/09)
It'd be an act of inexplicable cowardice to ignore last night's match, after going on so much about other games. Northern Ireland were beaten 0-2 by Slovakia, a result that effectively ends our chances of qualifying for next year's World Cup in South Africa. Yeah, I'm gutted, but unlike some of my fellow countrymen, I don't believe in going down with a whimper.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
One-Shot (06/09/09)
I can't stop thinking about last night's match. Consequently, I'm dedicating another day's post to it. Now that you've all closed the window, I'll finish my ramble.
There's a cracking gallery of snaps from yesterday's home nations internationals on Football 365, the site I shill out second most around here (how can I not endorse a site than actually refers to Northern Ireland as "Norn' Iron'?") Naturally, those from our game away to Poland are of foremost interest to me. Two act as a kind of Kyle Lafferty picture book. Behold!
First, we see Kyle (also of Rangers) slotting the ball through the legs of Polish keeper Artur Boruc (also of Celtic) to put the Ulstermen 1-0 up. It's a fantastic finish, one made all the more impressive given the unstable shinguard strapped to Kyle's right leg.
Then, we see young Kyle wheeling away for his well deserved celebration. There's nothing to "notice" about this picture. I just wanted to share the glorious image with you. Cheers.
There's a cracking gallery of snaps from yesterday's home nations internationals on Football 365, the site I shill out second most around here (how can I not endorse a site than actually refers to Northern Ireland as "Norn' Iron'?") Naturally, those from our game away to Poland are of foremost interest to me. Two act as a kind of Kyle Lafferty picture book. Behold!
First, we see Kyle (also of Rangers) slotting the ball through the legs of Polish keeper Artur Boruc (also of Celtic) to put the Ulstermen 1-0 up. It's a fantastic finish, one made all the more impressive given the unstable shinguard strapped to Kyle's right leg.
Then, we see young Kyle wheeling away for his well deserved celebration. There's nothing to "notice" about this picture. I just wanted to share the glorious image with you. Cheers.
Saturday, 5 September 2009
Saturday, 4 April 2009
One-Shot (04/04/09): Belfast Picture Tour, Part 6
In a blatant refusal to let anyone forget about our recent brace of sporting superglory comes this picture. Things that happen if it's clicked on:
- Magnification.
- Immersion.
- Puzzled woman glaring.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
20 - Anatomy Of A Hat-Trick
-or- Get Hi 2: Hier and Hier*
Now, in an Ian Dreams Exclusive, Chris Kamara interviews The Ginger One on his FIFA 09 online career.
Chris Kamara - "Ian, you've got off to an unbelievable three-game winning streak on FIFA 09. Has it sunk in yet?"
Ian - "I've been building up to this for months, trying to stay sharp and keep my eye on doing the job on the park. Yesterday, that's what I did. So yes, I'm very happy."
Chris Kamara - "That's an unbelievable understatement, Ian. First, you did the business with Bayern Munich in an unbelievable 2-0 win against your pal David's Barcelona. Then, an unbelievable win with Northern Ireland over England on penalties. What did that double mean to you?"
Ian - "More than words. Our win over England in 2005 was one of the highlights of my life. Achieving that result myself was little short of life-affirming."
Chris - "It wasn't all plain sailing was it, though? Dave put up an unbelievable challenge!"
Ian - "Absolutely, Chris. I was under no illusions going into the game how tough it was gonna be. But I said to myself - to all the boys in that dressing room - we go out there and we do it for Ulster. We go out there and beat them for every scrote from Ballymena to Ballyhackamore... for everyone with nothing but football in their hearts, and we did. They became men last night, those boys."
Chris - "What about your unbelievable first Northern Ireland league game against the mysterious challenger hynsebollox? Your fledgling Munich team were under the cosh in the first half, and went one - nil down to his unbelievable Inter Milan side. Did you ever think you might have met your match?"
Ian - "I knew, immediately, I was dealing with a serious contender, but my determination was constant. Once bollox scored, he grew complacent. That was our way back into the match. He became hasty, misplacing simple passes and so on. Identifying this, I pegged him back with constant pressure; I crafted patient, clear chances, while he snapped wildly at shots. Once I equalized, the game was mine. His panic proved to be his undoing."
Chris - "You famously caused a sensation when you transferred from Pro Evolution Soccer to FIFA, back in December. A lot of people wondered whether you might need a while to adapt. What do you say to those people now?"
Ian - "Three wins out of three speaks for itself. We're a young team, still learning, but we've sent a very clear message to our competitors, both North and South, that there's a new force in Irish football."
Chris - "Totally unbelievable. Unbelievable unbelievable unbelievable, unbelievably. Unbelievable?"
Ian - "I think that's a fair assessment."
Chris - "Thank you, Ian."
Ian - "Thanks. Well done."
--
* Non-football fans, get ready to skip!
Now, in an Ian Dreams Exclusive, Chris Kamara interviews The Ginger One on his FIFA 09 online career.
Chris Kamara - "Ian, you've got off to an unbelievable three-game winning streak on FIFA 09. Has it sunk in yet?"
Ian - "I've been building up to this for months, trying to stay sharp and keep my eye on doing the job on the park. Yesterday, that's what I did. So yes, I'm very happy."
Chris Kamara - "That's an unbelievable understatement, Ian. First, you did the business with Bayern Munich in an unbelievable 2-0 win against your pal David's Barcelona. Then, an unbelievable win with Northern Ireland over England on penalties. What did that double mean to you?"
Ian - "More than words. Our win over England in 2005 was one of the highlights of my life. Achieving that result myself was little short of life-affirming."
Chris - "It wasn't all plain sailing was it, though? Dave put up an unbelievable challenge!"
Ian - "Absolutely, Chris. I was under no illusions going into the game how tough it was gonna be. But I said to myself - to all the boys in that dressing room - we go out there and we do it for Ulster. We go out there and beat them for every scrote from Ballymena to Ballyhackamore... for everyone with nothing but football in their hearts, and we did. They became men last night, those boys."
Chris - "What about your unbelievable first Northern Ireland league game against the mysterious challenger hynsebollox? Your fledgling Munich team were under the cosh in the first half, and went one - nil down to his unbelievable Inter Milan side. Did you ever think you might have met your match?"
Ian - "I knew, immediately, I was dealing with a serious contender, but my determination was constant. Once bollox scored, he grew complacent. That was our way back into the match. He became hasty, misplacing simple passes and so on. Identifying this, I pegged him back with constant pressure; I crafted patient, clear chances, while he snapped wildly at shots. Once I equalized, the game was mine. His panic proved to be his undoing."
Chris - "You famously caused a sensation when you transferred from Pro Evolution Soccer to FIFA, back in December. A lot of people wondered whether you might need a while to adapt. What do you say to those people now?"
Ian - "Three wins out of three speaks for itself. We're a young team, still learning, but we've sent a very clear message to our competitors, both North and South, that there's a new force in Irish football."
Chris - "Totally unbelievable. Unbelievable unbelievable unbelievable, unbelievably. Unbelievable?"
Ian - "I think that's a fair assessment."
Chris - "Thank you, Ian."
Ian - "Thanks. Well done."
--
* Non-football fans, get ready to skip!
Thursday, 12 February 2009
One-Shot (12/02/09)
It's a sorry state of affairs when your football mastermind brother has, to use Jedi parlance, "a bad feeling" about a game against San Marino. All the more reason to take solace in Nigel Worthington's Green and White Army securing a comfortable three-nil win last night against the sky blue minnows.
http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/sport/football/international/job-done-as-northern-ireland-beat-san-marino-14183486.html
Better still, said victory takes us to second place in Group 3, just behind leaders Slovakia, and ahead of the Czech Republicians, Polands, Slovenias, and San Marinoeneses. Yes, we shouldn't really be so relieved by yesterday's triumph. Yes, our competitors have a game in hand over us. We've also already played and won both legs against the "*expletive deleted* fishermen", as Neil described them, a feat everyone else will surely match. Still, for now, enjoying the nosebleed is all that matters.
Elsewhere, the night threw up some other noteworthy results. The South saw off Georgia 2-1, Holland drew one-all away at Tunisia, and both Spain & Argentina proved their class with 2-0 wins over England and France, respectively. All of which probably means nothing to anyone reading this in the hope of shenanigans akin to yesterday's One-Shot. If so, lend us yer voice/s in the comments section below and Mon Calimari's favourite son may, just may return...
UPDATE!
Post-match report: tonight's "five-a-side" game from the Valley.
This evening saw a calm, friendly five-a-side match with, of course, not five players on both sides. The teams were as follows:
The End Near the Gate-
Big Phil - tall, temperamental.
Big Dave - wee Paul's older brother. Go figure.
English Mark - dead-on if ball-greedy city fan.
English Arsenal Fan (Ryan?) - dead-on, strong on the ball.
Sticky - dead-on rock enthusiast.
The End Near the Woods-
Neilly Boy - the Bro.
Me - the Bro's wee bro.
Wee Paul - see above.
Stephen - a class act, thoroughly dead-on.
Joe - dead-on if perplexing.
Frasier - poacher extraordinaire, Big Phil's dad.
As is the custom, the exact score of the match has already been forgotten. I think we won by a few, though, after playing some nice stuff. Neil complimented me on my performance, afterwards; high praise indeed. I got a nice wee left foot jab into the far corner and played poor-man's Berbatov for the remainder: tracking back, setting up others and making a nuisance of myself generally. Fun fun fun. Took on Arsenal a few times and lashed what would've been a top corner screamer but for a great save. Typical. Wee Paul gets better all the time. Kinda scary. Neil, Joe, and Stephen were all great and Frasier showed why he'll never lose it. Good game, lads. Good game.*
*Translation for non-football people: "The Reds played the Blues in the Cup. The Reds won."
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Broken Dream Theatre, Part 2: Footballer
Today, you’re getting the goods. Never has there been a better marriage of messenger and message than this weightily-dubbed series. To say that this series is the blog’s magnum opus is an insult of I Am Legend-proportions. This is its Magnum Force, its unloading a pulse rifle clip into the face of indifference.
We’ve all had dreams. Some have more than others. I fall into the latter category. Over the course of the coming posts I aim to prove beyond all doubt that I am living evidence that a jack of all trades masters none.
Note: as I am, at the time of writing, still alive (and 22), it’s problematic to decree any dream “broken” as in permanently caput, defunct, or dead, even if it feels justified in my current state of pessimism. For this reason, the list shall take the form of a prosaic hospital ward with me, the ‘doctor’, ushering you, the ‘reader’, through the ‘ward’, assessing the dire straits of its many ‘patients.’
--
Broken Dream: Footballer
Dream Breaker/s: doubt, fear, other interests, my lack of the goods.
Dream Status: Coma’d.
Heartbreak rating: World-Class
This post has easily been the hardest to write. Strange, as it’s not my number one “broken dream.”* I realize that football isn’t a passion shared by all of my peers. That said, I present a harsher than usual edit, the Aliens theatrical cut of Ian articles.
If you grow up in certain places, football becomes more than a game. It is part of you. Northern Ireland is one such place. From the time kids here are old enough to stand, they’re kicking. They’re kicking everything in reach, until they’re old enough to stroke a ball around the street, local park, or nearest school. Anywhere decent. Anywhere cars or neighbours aren’t constantly interrupting. Even when many of these same kids start kicking other kids around the street on alcopop induced highs, they’re still at it. The game’s beauty lies in its simplicity. If you’ve got a football, you’re away. There’s no need for extraneous equipment or players. When the ball’s at your feet, all that separates you from the theatre of your particular dreams is imagination.
1998 was a big year for me. I started high school. Amongst other things, I fell in love with football. I’d enjoyed it before then (mostly playing it personally or watching international matches) but never like that. I haven’t thought about in donkeys, but, for a time, I was poised. A rare John Hughes moment saw me rushing to tell my family how I’d “made the team.” That said team was “B” is irrelevant. If school squads were regulation size I might well have snuck onto the A-team bench for “the championship game” or some equally Rudy/‘One Tree Hill’ moment.** Even though my football career proved more Diego Forlan than Wayne Rooney, I’ll always fondly regard that moment, both for the possibilities it represented and the fantasy wiggle room it provides.
You know when you’re in the company of real football fans. I’m not talking about the kind of track-suited numpties who exist only to glower and menace society. I’m talking about the football nerds, the kind of cats who can tell you where the Scudetto is headed or who’s managed Red Star Belgrade for the last three seasons. In their company, you will become fast-friends. You will discuss clubs, bonding regardless of shared allegiances, you will argue over Pro Evolution and FIFA, and you will talk about your own ‘career.’ Not your day job, your other career.
While writing, a number of potential career trajectories and mirror universes amused me. Ever the jugular grabber, instinct first led me on a path of unparalleled glory. I was a Manchester United striker. And a prolific goal-scorer at that… for club and country. Northern Ireland were making it to World Cups on my back. Endorsement deals were landing on my doorstep enough times to give Rod Tidwell a heart-attack. And on and on.
Before long, blue-sky casting got old. Playing for an Irish league team would’ve more than sated this soccer ambition. Had I got my freshman finger out way back when, it wouldn’t have been beyond the realm of possibility either. I’m no Spike Ferguson, but then again, not everyone has prompted an opposing player to remark “he doesn’t miss!”*** I may be lightweight, even for a “forward”, but I mix it anyway. More than enough to pose a threat to some of the chancers who ply their trade in the local game. And physicality you can always work on, build up.**** The seed of a half-decent player was/is there. It just never got watered.
Alas, that gap in the market for a poor man's Dennis Bergkamp goes unfulfilled.
If a blue-skinned Robin Williams offered me the world in a hand-cart, I’d see what else he had in the trolley. I would. When the sky’s the limit, who wants to live with their head in the clouds? Hollywood endings are a blast for pub-chat purposes, but restraint is where its really at. Leading a less than box-office life for long enough will do that to you. Unlike Bright Lights Big City summer transfers and all that jazz, 5 a-side on waterlogged astro turf never loses its luster.
* See part one for all your wallowing needs.
** Fans of the latter should watch the former immediately.
*** Stephen Maxwell, I thank you.
**** I hope you’re taking notes, Kyle Lafferty.
--
Ian Pratt could regale you with the tale of that lob he scored two weeks ago, but you’ve suffered enough for one post. Anyway, it was a beaut.
We’ve all had dreams. Some have more than others. I fall into the latter category. Over the course of the coming posts I aim to prove beyond all doubt that I am living evidence that a jack of all trades masters none.
Note: as I am, at the time of writing, still alive (and 22), it’s problematic to decree any dream “broken” as in permanently caput, defunct, or dead, even if it feels justified in my current state of pessimism. For this reason, the list shall take the form of a prosaic hospital ward with me, the ‘doctor’, ushering you, the ‘reader’, through the ‘ward’, assessing the dire straits of its many ‘patients.’
--
Broken Dream: Footballer
Dream Breaker/s: doubt, fear, other interests, my lack of the goods.
Dream Status: Coma’d.
Heartbreak rating: World-Class
This post has easily been the hardest to write. Strange, as it’s not my number one “broken dream.”* I realize that football isn’t a passion shared by all of my peers. That said, I present a harsher than usual edit, the Aliens theatrical cut of Ian articles.
If you grow up in certain places, football becomes more than a game. It is part of you. Northern Ireland is one such place. From the time kids here are old enough to stand, they’re kicking. They’re kicking everything in reach, until they’re old enough to stroke a ball around the street, local park, or nearest school. Anywhere decent. Anywhere cars or neighbours aren’t constantly interrupting. Even when many of these same kids start kicking other kids around the street on alcopop induced highs, they’re still at it. The game’s beauty lies in its simplicity. If you’ve got a football, you’re away. There’s no need for extraneous equipment or players. When the ball’s at your feet, all that separates you from the theatre of your particular dreams is imagination.
1998 was a big year for me. I started high school. Amongst other things, I fell in love with football. I’d enjoyed it before then (mostly playing it personally or watching international matches) but never like that. I haven’t thought about in donkeys, but, for a time, I was poised. A rare John Hughes moment saw me rushing to tell my family how I’d “made the team.” That said team was “B” is irrelevant. If school squads were regulation size I might well have snuck onto the A-team bench for “the championship game” or some equally Rudy/‘One Tree Hill’ moment.** Even though my football career proved more Diego Forlan than Wayne Rooney, I’ll always fondly regard that moment, both for the possibilities it represented and the fantasy wiggle room it provides.
You know when you’re in the company of real football fans. I’m not talking about the kind of track-suited numpties who exist only to glower and menace society. I’m talking about the football nerds, the kind of cats who can tell you where the Scudetto is headed or who’s managed Red Star Belgrade for the last three seasons. In their company, you will become fast-friends. You will discuss clubs, bonding regardless of shared allegiances, you will argue over Pro Evolution and FIFA, and you will talk about your own ‘career.’ Not your day job, your other career.
While writing, a number of potential career trajectories and mirror universes amused me. Ever the jugular grabber, instinct first led me on a path of unparalleled glory. I was a Manchester United striker. And a prolific goal-scorer at that… for club and country. Northern Ireland were making it to World Cups on my back. Endorsement deals were landing on my doorstep enough times to give Rod Tidwell a heart-attack. And on and on.
Before long, blue-sky casting got old. Playing for an Irish league team would’ve more than sated this soccer ambition. Had I got my freshman finger out way back when, it wouldn’t have been beyond the realm of possibility either. I’m no Spike Ferguson, but then again, not everyone has prompted an opposing player to remark “he doesn’t miss!”*** I may be lightweight, even for a “forward”, but I mix it anyway. More than enough to pose a threat to some of the chancers who ply their trade in the local game. And physicality you can always work on, build up.**** The seed of a half-decent player was/is there. It just never got watered.
Alas, that gap in the market for a poor man's Dennis Bergkamp goes unfulfilled.
If a blue-skinned Robin Williams offered me the world in a hand-cart, I’d see what else he had in the trolley. I would. When the sky’s the limit, who wants to live with their head in the clouds? Hollywood endings are a blast for pub-chat purposes, but restraint is where its really at. Leading a less than box-office life for long enough will do that to you. Unlike Bright Lights Big City summer transfers and all that jazz, 5 a-side on waterlogged astro turf never loses its luster.
* See part one for all your wallowing needs.
** Fans of the latter should watch the former immediately.
*** Stephen Maxwell, I thank you.
**** I hope you’re taking notes, Kyle Lafferty.
--
Ian Pratt could regale you with the tale of that lob he scored two weeks ago, but you’ve suffered enough for one post. Anyway, it was a beaut.
Wednesday, 24 December 2008
4: On Ire, Ireland du Nord, and Football
‘Twas the night before Christmas when Ian gave to me... a tale of insouciance, anger, and glee.
If I were the sort of “Hey, guys!” blogger who seeks New Year’s resolutions just for the because of it:
a) you wouldn’t be reading.
b) I’d probably choose “lowering” my anger.
But seeing as no-one’s reading anyway I’m going to:
a) do as I darn well please.
b) relate the tale in a censor-friendly, yet 100% faithful form.
c) make no resolutions, especially regarding my anger. It’s a gift.
The only necessary back-story for this tale is that I’m a Northern Irish guy with rage to burn. Like many of my fellow countrymen and women, I’m not above venting. I could rant for Ireland, as we say. And few things are better to rant about than football. Now, I realize that some of you may just have consciously switched off at the thought of this being a “sporty” post* Rest assured, no knowledge of football is necessary to understand this post. I’ll be the Yoda to your Luke, the Basil Exposition to your Austin Powers, the Drama to your Vince. Err, hang on…
For the purposes of discretion, identities will be concealed.
On Monday, a high school friend of mine - let’s call him Bob Contraband - posted an item on a popular social networking site. Let’s call it Countenance Tome. Bob, a huge fan of Northern Irish football, was delighted that his beloved Crusaders** had earned an impressive weekend win. He posted a link to the game’s Irish league page on BBC Sport, so that he might share his joy with the world; so that he might acknowledge that, though our local game may be less than stellar, though our “stadia” are Dickensian at best, though tickets are laughably overpriced, love conquers all. Bob loves the wee Crues and wanted everyone to know.
As a casual yet committed follower of the Crues, I complimented Bob on his actions. More power to ye, I thought (and come on the Shore Road Brazilians, we can still go all the way this season!) But somewhere along the line - Doncaster or some equally depressing sounding English burg - the plot got lost. Not by Bob or myself, you see. No, it took that most ignorant and hate-filled of football fans to do this. It took an Englishman. Specifically, a patriotic Englishman.
Now, first off let me start by clarifying a few things:
a) I love England. I studied at university there and (generally) had some of the best times of my life.
b) I (generally) love English people. During uni, I met the most wonderful people I’ve ever known, many of whom are nationals.
c) I (generally) love English Football. Like the vast majority of football fans from all-across Ireland, I support an English Club.***/****
d) I love me a list.
With the inevitable “anti-England” retort dealt with, let me just add that I’m nowhere near the wrong end of the list of bad football fans. I’m the Mary Poppins of football fans. But, you know, angrier. There’s nothing wrong with getting behind “the lads.” As long as you don’t decide to crack a bottle over the head of your rivals-supporting opposite number, it’s all (mostly) brown and water.
Back to Monday. So Bob posts the item. He and I have already had a quick chat about the win so I smile and click there to check out his typically heart-warming happiness and contentment. (All speech not mine paraphrased...)
Bob: Anyone who doesn’t like this doesn’t like football. What a great advert for our local league. Come on, ya wee Crues!
Here here, Bob. That’s pretty much my reaction. Within 20 minutes, an anonymous, ignorant friend of Bob’s responded thusly:
Bob’s Ignorant Friend: Ugh what the *expletive deleted* is this? This is *expletive deleted* What an *expletive deleted* standard of football. Lool xoxoxo
Untoward, right? Bob, ever the good-natured sort, responded in kind.
Bob: That coming from a Leicester City fan?
Bob’s Ignorant Friend: Ugh. Yeh. Datz rite. Innit. (LOOOLZZZ)
Bob: I don’t see how you can justify saying that, when our players are on a par with yours.
Ok. Bob took a few liberties there. Leicester City would destroy Crusaders any given Saturday. But Bob didn’t say that ‘cos he knows the chances of the two meeting under competitive circumstances are negligible. So Bob rustled the cage. Harmless fun… or was it?
Enter the Mega-Tool! No, that’s not his real name (though it ought to be! Fnarr fnarr.) No, this tool is cut from a more regular, bland cloth and goes by the name of - oh, yeah - um, let’s just call him Mega-Tool.
Mega-Tool: Bob Bob Bob… think I’m gonna have to disagree with ya there, buddy. Your patriotism is commendable. Your league, however, is primarily semi-professional and, as such, is filled with predominantly sub-standard players. You really think players from your league could even begin to cut it in (English) League One or Two? You’re wrong. They couldn’t, which is, of course, why they ply their ‘trade’ in lesser leagues.
Ok. Some fair points (re: the league itself, Bob’s patriotism) well made. Others (re: our league’s players) less so. Though, he’s far from a “mega-tool”, right? Keep reading…
Bob’s Ignorant Friend: LOOLZ, BOB! Watch it again. Look at the defending! It’s *expletive deleted* shameful. My *expletive deleted* Sunday League team’s well better. Old *insert his mate’s name here* would well be bangin them in in that ‘league.’ PONED!
Then, a random Irish League enthusiast/Linfield fan chimed in:
Random Linfield Fan: Come on, Linfield.
At this point, I made my debut comment. I offered a list of players that disproved the Mega-Tool’s earlier theory about our players “cutting it” in England and concluded with a nice non-offensive Crues chant. Bob took this thought and ran with it yesterday, adding players to my list. One of whom being Gareth McAuley, an ex-Crues defender who made it all the way to (ironically enough) Leicester. Content that he’d made his point, Bob finally added:
Bob: Leicester, though, simply aren’t good. ‘Nuff said. “In case I don’t see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.”
Nice touch that at the end, I thought. Now, pay attention. This was where the Mega-Tool could no longer conceal his grotesqueness and revealed himself. He commenced his slip with:
Mega-Tool: Ugh, you just about managed to name about 3 players out of countless others. You are both wrong. I am right. That is that.
Gloves be gone, then. At this point, Bob’s Ignorant Friend spouts some guff about that Leicester thing again, but that’s unimportant. So we’ll skip ahead to my verbatim response to yer man…
Me: Yeah, the first three players that came to mind (far from a representative list, right?) Also, we’re not Brazil… we’re Northern Ireland. The proof lies here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUamyEOzaAU
(If, for some reason, this doesn't link properly, copy and paste yourself there. It's well worth it.)
The crowning touch? “Motty’s” sarcastic jibe moments before King David goes medieval. In the words of a wise man, “thank you and good night.”
I don’t need to not be me to know that my comment was obviously a bit of playful fun from a passionate Northern Irish patriot.***** Nothing more, nothing less. Anyone who’s seen their beloved “massive” club or country thrashed/humiliated/knocked out of a cup in the first round by minnows knows what me and Bob were at. We were giving the aforementioned cage a good rattling, then letting the cat inside it free amongst a whole mess of pigeons. As Northern Irish football fans, it was our right. It is our right. Or, to use Harp’s expression, “it’s our thing.” Why? Because it’s all we’ve got. We have a population of around one and half million. Not long since, we were the wrong side of 100 in the FIFA world rankings. What do you do when you can’t beat ‘em? Rage against the machine. Joke around with it, at least. Part of football’s fun is taking one another down a peg or two.
Pity no-one told Mega-Tool. Like the coming of a rancid tide, his response smothered all that was good and true almost an hour later:
Mega-Tool: I recall that game. 2005. Correct? I also recall beating you 4-0. I was unable to find any video “proof”, though. Perhaps, that’s because it was just another win for the great England. Oh well. Perhaps, that is just the price of greatness. Might I also reveal to you how most of your players play in England. Most of whom being in the Championship, I believe. Nonetheless, this is all apropos of our original discussion’s theme. In conclusion, your league isn’t the best league in the world. Personal opinion dictates everyone’s favourite choice of league. Nonetheless, the fact remains that there are myriads of reasons why our leagues - especially the weaker ones - are better than yours. Your league has never and WILL NEVER be the best league in the world. *expletive deleted* ELVIS LEFT THE BUILDING!
Meow. It’s easy to see how this response came almost an hour after mine. It takes faux-erudite poseurs a little longer than us proles to formulate a response. I didn’t discover the comment for hours, let alone get a chance to reply, because even I leave the house sometimes. Needless to say, I was none too amused. The pleasantries were dispensed.
In the interest of impartiality, I now present, verbatim for the second time, my response:
Me: Yes, 2005's correct. Speaking of internationals, I don't remember "the great" England in the Euros this summer. Oh, that's right, they failed to qualify. And were outstripped, outfought and generally outquaffed in every way by - who was that again? - that's right: the Green and White Army in the qualification process. Did any of England's strikers match Healy's (internationally recognized, award-winning) magnificence? Did they beg. Furthermore, shy of a crystal ball, I think we are both ill-placed to provide speculations on which league "will or will not" become the greatest in the world. That said, let's keep it grounded in facts shall we, and leave outlandish, defeat at our hands-inspired statements like that aside? The conversation's starting to go off topic again.. As for most of our international class players playing across the Irish Sea: Money is a factor. Someone must have broken out the smelling salts, 'cos Elvis just re-entered the building and he's doing the bouncy!
Yeah, I know. I got a little cooked, but I'm OK. Resisting playing the game would’ve been a missed opportunity to try reaching a deluded dude, while giving myself a chuckle in the process. I couldn’t pass it up. They can’t help but bite. And never, NEVER resist the last word. Sure enough…
Christmas Eve (!) - Late morning (!)…
Mega-Tool: Awww, somebody’s trying a widdle too hard to be wintawectual! Aren’t they? Yes, they are! Yes, they are! I shall only make one further comment before conclusion. This conversation threatens to get out of control (!) and just go in circles (!) When England didn’t qualify for the Euros, it was a big deal. If Northern Ireland qualified for a big competition it would be a big deal. Here endeth the lesson!
I was stunned. I was, literally, astonished, after I stopped applauding. (Tense shift) Thank you, Mega-Tool. Thank you, for this wondrous bounty. Northern Ireland - a team who haven’t qualified for a major tournament since the year I was born, who are currently ranked fifty-second in the World, behind Lithuania, Iran, and Honduras - would celebrate if they qualified for a major tournament. That’s something. That is really something. There you go now. Yesterday’s article just keeps on bringing the truth.
I didn’t delete Mega-Tool from my friends list. Every fiber of my being urged me to. We only “met” through Bob and I know nothing more about the guy than what he revealed above. I’m glad I didn’t delete him. That’s not how I roll. Like the Corrs before me, I forgive, not forget. I didn’t do anything wrong. He crossed the line and, when he realizes, I’ll enjoy the apologetic message in my inbox (‘cos it’s private, see?) If I reach that one person, it’ll all be worth it.
Merry Christmas (even You Know Who!) Thank you and good night.
* Look out for Broken Dream Theatre, Part 2: Footballer, coming January 09!
** “We’re red, we’re black, the hatchet-men are back! Super Crues, Super Crues!” etc.
*** UNITED! - clap clap clap - UNITED! - clap clap clap - UNITED! etc.
**** If you’re one of those people who’s thinking right now “Ugh, you can’t support more than one team!”, you don’t get it.
***** The origin of my eponymous Premier Football team’s name on Mug-Volume, but of course.
--
Ian Pratt has this message to the football-loving, patriotic citizens of Northern Ireland: Sure our league is far from significance, sure our national team may languish in a low seeding, and we may be all but out of hope of qualification for Africa in 2010, but you can thank your lucky stars we’re not from Turkmenistan.
If I were the sort of “Hey, guys!” blogger who seeks New Year’s resolutions just for the because of it:
a) you wouldn’t be reading.
b) I’d probably choose “lowering” my anger.
But seeing as no-one’s reading anyway I’m going to:
a) do as I darn well please.
b) relate the tale in a censor-friendly, yet 100% faithful form.
c) make no resolutions, especially regarding my anger. It’s a gift.
The only necessary back-story for this tale is that I’m a Northern Irish guy with rage to burn. Like many of my fellow countrymen and women, I’m not above venting. I could rant for Ireland, as we say. And few things are better to rant about than football. Now, I realize that some of you may just have consciously switched off at the thought of this being a “sporty” post* Rest assured, no knowledge of football is necessary to understand this post. I’ll be the Yoda to your Luke, the Basil Exposition to your Austin Powers, the Drama to your Vince. Err, hang on…
For the purposes of discretion, identities will be concealed.
On Monday, a high school friend of mine - let’s call him Bob Contraband - posted an item on a popular social networking site. Let’s call it Countenance Tome. Bob, a huge fan of Northern Irish football, was delighted that his beloved Crusaders** had earned an impressive weekend win. He posted a link to the game’s Irish league page on BBC Sport, so that he might share his joy with the world; so that he might acknowledge that, though our local game may be less than stellar, though our “stadia” are Dickensian at best, though tickets are laughably overpriced, love conquers all. Bob loves the wee Crues and wanted everyone to know.
As a casual yet committed follower of the Crues, I complimented Bob on his actions. More power to ye, I thought (and come on the Shore Road Brazilians, we can still go all the way this season!) But somewhere along the line - Doncaster or some equally depressing sounding English burg - the plot got lost. Not by Bob or myself, you see. No, it took that most ignorant and hate-filled of football fans to do this. It took an Englishman. Specifically, a patriotic Englishman.
Now, first off let me start by clarifying a few things:
a) I love England. I studied at university there and (generally) had some of the best times of my life.
b) I (generally) love English people. During uni, I met the most wonderful people I’ve ever known, many of whom are nationals.
c) I (generally) love English Football. Like the vast majority of football fans from all-across Ireland, I support an English Club.***/****
d) I love me a list.
With the inevitable “anti-England” retort dealt with, let me just add that I’m nowhere near the wrong end of the list of bad football fans. I’m the Mary Poppins of football fans. But, you know, angrier. There’s nothing wrong with getting behind “the lads.” As long as you don’t decide to crack a bottle over the head of your rivals-supporting opposite number, it’s all (mostly) brown and water.
Back to Monday. So Bob posts the item. He and I have already had a quick chat about the win so I smile and click there to check out his typically heart-warming happiness and contentment. (All speech not mine paraphrased...)
Bob: Anyone who doesn’t like this doesn’t like football. What a great advert for our local league. Come on, ya wee Crues!
Here here, Bob. That’s pretty much my reaction. Within 20 minutes, an anonymous, ignorant friend of Bob’s responded thusly:
Bob’s Ignorant Friend: Ugh what the *expletive deleted* is this? This is *expletive deleted* What an *expletive deleted* standard of football. Lool xoxoxo
Untoward, right? Bob, ever the good-natured sort, responded in kind.
Bob: That coming from a Leicester City fan?
Bob’s Ignorant Friend: Ugh. Yeh. Datz rite. Innit. (LOOOLZZZ)
Bob: I don’t see how you can justify saying that, when our players are on a par with yours.
Ok. Bob took a few liberties there. Leicester City would destroy Crusaders any given Saturday. But Bob didn’t say that ‘cos he knows the chances of the two meeting under competitive circumstances are negligible. So Bob rustled the cage. Harmless fun… or was it?
Enter the Mega-Tool! No, that’s not his real name (though it ought to be! Fnarr fnarr.) No, this tool is cut from a more regular, bland cloth and goes by the name of - oh, yeah - um, let’s just call him Mega-Tool.
Mega-Tool: Bob Bob Bob… think I’m gonna have to disagree with ya there, buddy. Your patriotism is commendable. Your league, however, is primarily semi-professional and, as such, is filled with predominantly sub-standard players. You really think players from your league could even begin to cut it in (English) League One or Two? You’re wrong. They couldn’t, which is, of course, why they ply their ‘trade’ in lesser leagues.
Ok. Some fair points (re: the league itself, Bob’s patriotism) well made. Others (re: our league’s players) less so. Though, he’s far from a “mega-tool”, right? Keep reading…
Bob’s Ignorant Friend: LOOLZ, BOB! Watch it again. Look at the defending! It’s *expletive deleted* shameful. My *expletive deleted* Sunday League team’s well better. Old *insert his mate’s name here* would well be bangin them in in that ‘league.’ PONED!
Then, a random Irish League enthusiast/Linfield fan chimed in:
Random Linfield Fan: Come on, Linfield.
At this point, I made my debut comment. I offered a list of players that disproved the Mega-Tool’s earlier theory about our players “cutting it” in England and concluded with a nice non-offensive Crues chant. Bob took this thought and ran with it yesterday, adding players to my list. One of whom being Gareth McAuley, an ex-Crues defender who made it all the way to (ironically enough) Leicester. Content that he’d made his point, Bob finally added:
Bob: Leicester, though, simply aren’t good. ‘Nuff said. “In case I don’t see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.”
Nice touch that at the end, I thought. Now, pay attention. This was where the Mega-Tool could no longer conceal his grotesqueness and revealed himself. He commenced his slip with:
Mega-Tool: Ugh, you just about managed to name about 3 players out of countless others. You are both wrong. I am right. That is that.
Gloves be gone, then. At this point, Bob’s Ignorant Friend spouts some guff about that Leicester thing again, but that’s unimportant. So we’ll skip ahead to my verbatim response to yer man…
Me: Yeah, the first three players that came to mind (far from a representative list, right?) Also, we’re not Brazil… we’re Northern Ireland. The proof lies here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUamyEOzaAU
(If, for some reason, this doesn't link properly, copy and paste yourself there. It's well worth it.)
The crowning touch? “Motty’s” sarcastic jibe moments before King David goes medieval. In the words of a wise man, “thank you and good night.”
I don’t need to not be me to know that my comment was obviously a bit of playful fun from a passionate Northern Irish patriot.***** Nothing more, nothing less. Anyone who’s seen their beloved “massive” club or country thrashed/humiliated/knocked out of a cup in the first round by minnows knows what me and Bob were at. We were giving the aforementioned cage a good rattling, then letting the cat inside it free amongst a whole mess of pigeons. As Northern Irish football fans, it was our right. It is our right. Or, to use Harp’s expression, “it’s our thing.” Why? Because it’s all we’ve got. We have a population of around one and half million. Not long since, we were the wrong side of 100 in the FIFA world rankings. What do you do when you can’t beat ‘em? Rage against the machine. Joke around with it, at least. Part of football’s fun is taking one another down a peg or two.
Pity no-one told Mega-Tool. Like the coming of a rancid tide, his response smothered all that was good and true almost an hour later:
Mega-Tool: I recall that game. 2005. Correct? I also recall beating you 4-0. I was unable to find any video “proof”, though. Perhaps, that’s because it was just another win for the great England. Oh well. Perhaps, that is just the price of greatness. Might I also reveal to you how most of your players play in England. Most of whom being in the Championship, I believe. Nonetheless, this is all apropos of our original discussion’s theme. In conclusion, your league isn’t the best league in the world. Personal opinion dictates everyone’s favourite choice of league. Nonetheless, the fact remains that there are myriads of reasons why our leagues - especially the weaker ones - are better than yours. Your league has never and WILL NEVER be the best league in the world. *expletive deleted* ELVIS LEFT THE BUILDING!
Meow. It’s easy to see how this response came almost an hour after mine. It takes faux-erudite poseurs a little longer than us proles to formulate a response. I didn’t discover the comment for hours, let alone get a chance to reply, because even I leave the house sometimes. Needless to say, I was none too amused. The pleasantries were dispensed.
In the interest of impartiality, I now present, verbatim for the second time, my response:
Me: Yes, 2005's correct. Speaking of internationals, I don't remember "the great" England in the Euros this summer. Oh, that's right, they failed to qualify. And were outstripped, outfought and generally outquaffed in every way by - who was that again? - that's right: the Green and White Army in the qualification process. Did any of England's strikers match Healy's (internationally recognized, award-winning) magnificence? Did they beg. Furthermore, shy of a crystal ball, I think we are both ill-placed to provide speculations on which league "will or will not" become the greatest in the world. That said, let's keep it grounded in facts shall we, and leave outlandish, defeat at our hands-inspired statements like that aside? The conversation's starting to go off topic again.. As for most of our international class players playing across the Irish Sea: Money is a factor. Someone must have broken out the smelling salts, 'cos Elvis just re-entered the building and he's doing the bouncy!
Yeah, I know. I got a little cooked, but I'm OK. Resisting playing the game would’ve been a missed opportunity to try reaching a deluded dude, while giving myself a chuckle in the process. I couldn’t pass it up. They can’t help but bite. And never, NEVER resist the last word. Sure enough…
Christmas Eve (!) - Late morning (!)…
Mega-Tool: Awww, somebody’s trying a widdle too hard to be wintawectual! Aren’t they? Yes, they are! Yes, they are! I shall only make one further comment before conclusion. This conversation threatens to get out of control (!) and just go in circles (!) When England didn’t qualify for the Euros, it was a big deal. If Northern Ireland qualified for a big competition it would be a big deal. Here endeth the lesson!
I was stunned. I was, literally, astonished, after I stopped applauding. (Tense shift) Thank you, Mega-Tool. Thank you, for this wondrous bounty. Northern Ireland - a team who haven’t qualified for a major tournament since the year I was born, who are currently ranked fifty-second in the World, behind Lithuania, Iran, and Honduras - would celebrate if they qualified for a major tournament. That’s something. That is really something. There you go now. Yesterday’s article just keeps on bringing the truth.
I didn’t delete Mega-Tool from my friends list. Every fiber of my being urged me to. We only “met” through Bob and I know nothing more about the guy than what he revealed above. I’m glad I didn’t delete him. That’s not how I roll. Like the Corrs before me, I forgive, not forget. I didn’t do anything wrong. He crossed the line and, when he realizes, I’ll enjoy the apologetic message in my inbox (‘cos it’s private, see?) If I reach that one person, it’ll all be worth it.
Merry Christmas (even You Know Who!) Thank you and good night.
* Look out for Broken Dream Theatre, Part 2: Footballer, coming January 09!
** “We’re red, we’re black, the hatchet-men are back! Super Crues, Super Crues!” etc.
*** UNITED! - clap clap clap - UNITED! - clap clap clap - UNITED! etc.
**** If you’re one of those people who’s thinking right now “Ugh, you can’t support more than one team!”, you don’t get it.
***** The origin of my eponymous Premier Football team’s name on Mug-Volume, but of course.
--
Ian Pratt has this message to the football-loving, patriotic citizens of Northern Ireland: Sure our league is far from significance, sure our national team may languish in a low seeding, and we may be all but out of hope of qualification for Africa in 2010, but you can thank your lucky stars we’re not from Turkmenistan.
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