GALWAY 6-30 KILKENNY 3-15

With the Saffron Army embarking on an intensive training weekend on Bundoran beach doing things like horsey-backs and running up steps a la Rocky in preparation for the visit of Galway next week, something I’ll come back to, I took myself off to the GAA’s Mecca called Croke Park in order to mingle with the Galway people. It’s a quick journey from Belfast to Dublin, halted only by a pay station. I had never encountered one of these on a road before and asked the young lady what the money was for. She told me to ‘put one Euro eighty cents into the bucket and buzz off ye bollocks.’ None the wiser, I arrived in Dublin and managed to park outside a hotel called the Skylon.

Murray and Neeson mid-training.

Luckily there were a few Galway supporters enjoying a pre-match drink in the hotel so I availed of the opportunity to mix with them and gather their thoughts on next-week’s collision in Casement Park. The first couple were a bit suspicious of me I thought. Maybe it was my English accent and the microphone but I was told to ‘fuck away off’ and that I was a ‘typical useless undercover gobshite’. I decided to abandon my microphone and ordered a pint of Guinness, standing at the bar out of harm’s way. As luck had it, an elderly Galway gentleman was doing the same so I took a more informal, casual approach. As it turned out I had to explain to him three times about the game in Casement next week. When it dawned on him it was football and not hurling he snorted and I was swiftly told to ‘fuck away off’ again. This was proving to be a tricky assignment.

The hurling men didn’t like football, or me.

I made my way to the pitch and was overawed by the stadium. It’s a fine building. The game itself was called hurling. It’s a bit like hockey only you can lift the ball with your stick and wallop it up to 100mph in the direction of the opposition’s goals. Galway were playing Kilkenny – the so-called Brazil of hurling, nicknamed the cats. Well, they turned out to be more like pussys as Galway pounded them in the first half, scoring 6 goals in the first 10 mins before easing off. The singing and rejoicing in the stands was something I’d never witnessed before. The Galwegians taunted the Kilkenny followers with a spirited rendition of “What’s New Pussycat?” throughout half time. The Cats’ following retorted with a chanted “To Hell or To Connacht!” which I didn’t understand and, after my earlier attempts to mingle, didn’t ask for help. The second half was a pit of a procession with Galway allowing the Cats to weigh in with a few goals to take the bad look off the thing.

Galway might re-release their version

Although it was a fruitless journey in terms of what I wanted to achieve – mingling with the Galway community – I did enjoy the spectacle of hurling and will have a word with the hockey authorities at home as to how to jazz their game up a bit. Even shoulder charging in polo is something I’d pay to see.

Back to Antrim and I managed to catch the least session on Bundoran beach, hiding between two dunes. The Butcher never ceases to amaze me. He has taken the psychological aspect of game warfare to a new level. In the aftermath of the news that Donegal use codewords on the pitch, The Glenullin Genius has gone a step further – he had all the lads sitting behind desks on the beach learning Latin. When Kerr is kicking left he has to shout ‘reliquit’. ‘Dexter’ is right. ‘Meduis’ is middle. If he’s hitting it short, he bellows ‘brevis’. For Tomas McCann, if he’s not going to pass and wants the glory shot, he has to shout the word for shoot – ‘contendo’. Aodhan Gallagher, if he wants everyone to clear away so he can leap like a salmon and claim the ball, shouts ‘mea’ for mine. If Magill wants to be subbed, he harks ‘substituto’. If McBride wants on he quietly whispers ‘bulla’ for boss. The reason he needs to whisper it is because it also means ‘stud’ which would give the wrong impression to the latin experts in the ground. Sweeney asked if they could dress in Latin costume too. He was thrown into the sea.

How Sweeney wanted the Saffrons to tog out

It’s a match-winner I think.

GALWAY IT IS! Antrim v Galway

The draw for the next round of the Antrim odyssey that has the world on tender-hooks saw them paired with Galway at home. The draw was made on an Irish TV station by the name of TV3. I had the misfortune of tuning into it early and was put through 30 mins of sheer misery and doldrumity. I remember watching an episode of Fr Ted and they based a show around a rather unexcitable character called Fr Stone. The presenter here was his long lost twin brother. I nearly lost the will to see who’d draw who live and hoped others would update us all on Twitter but I managed to stick at it.

TV3 build up to the draw

Suddenly Liam O’Neill and his magic balls appeared on the screen and sure enough Antrim were drawn out first to the tumultuous roars of approval of the studio guests and everyone at home. Galway followed and I booed so hard I almost threw up. I then set about finding out a little bit about Galway. It’s a county on the west coast of Ireland, mostly known for its rain, sleet, rocks and lightning. People go there for stag weekends and it seems to be a place of general debauchery and rascality on a grande scale. No one wrote it but it came across to me as a giant drunken brothel of a place. There’ll be no place for that in Casement Park.

How I picture Galway

I then spent the next few hours stalking members of the Antrim squad who were just walking around the roads. I knew I wouldn’t get my hands on the big stars as they were away getting massaged or winding down in their luxurious apartments. I did manage to nab a couple of the squad players.

I asked each one – “What did you think of the draw?” Their responses were as follows:

PATRICK GALLAGHER: “Great. Why are all the barbers closed on a Monday? You wouldn’t have 50p on you?”

SEAN FINCH: “Galway is it. Sure they have to travel the whole way here through rocky roads. Wee buns, Jemmy. Have you a light?”

DEAGHLAN O HAGAN: “He better fcukin pick me. I’ve an aunt there.”

CONAL KELLY: “Happy enough. Just glad it’s not away to Kildare. Can’t be bothered with more plane journeys. Here, I can get you a great deal on adult DVDs. ”

BRIAN NEESON: “I’ll say it one more time mister. Stop following me or it’s Wham Bam time. Why do you keep writing all this shit.”

MICHAEL ARMSTRONG: “Galway? Wow! Can’t believe that off-licence doesn’t open til 12. Gandhi’s flip-flop here.”

PATRICK MCBRIDE: “I should be getting a massage too you know. Corrrrr, check out the pins on that cat over there. What, she’s 55? Still, has a pulse. Where’s my skateboard?”

KEVIN BRADY: “I’m 51 you know.”

So, there you have it – Antrim Gaels are chomping at the bit for the visit of Galway. The westerners may sleep well. I see they’ve already produced a single for the occasion. Rubbish in my opinion.

;tazq

ANTRIM 2-11 LONDON 2-9

This will be made into a film in years to come. Two words. Tomas McCann. I can see someone like Danny DeVito playing him. Or maybe Dr Evil. Somebody like that. Here is how the story goes. Yesterday, McCann got hitched. That’s right ladies, the man every woman imagines when they read 50 Shades of Grey finally allowed one special lady to spend the rest of her life in a semi-erotic bliss by agreeing to be her groom. Thousands lined the roads leading to the rocket church in Dunmurry for the ceremony. Young buxom women openly cried in a show of emotion not seen since Sean McGreevy took off his top during the Antrim/Down game of 2000. One girl from Glengormley set herself on fire in protest at the wedding. She was doused by a few WKDs nearby. The rest of the Antrim team attended the wedding with all but one drinking shandies. Gallagher stuck to his Islay Whiskey knowing full well that he plays better that way. There was a slightly awkward moment when Baker attempted to dress up as one of the bridesmaids in order to spy on the lads and got away with it until the vows when the priest asked if anyone had any objections. Baker said “No, so we don’t” in a broad mid-Derry accent and scratched his knackers. He was ejected.

Baker.

The plane journey next morning was an eventful journey. Tomas’s wife refused to leave his side, such was the night they’d finally experienced and it was only when Tomas promised her ‘more of the same’ did she relent and allow the main man to join the rest of his teammates on the Easyjet flight with no luggage. Young Kirr the keeper arrived in his pyjamas and holding a Grover teddy but no one seemed to bat an eyelid at that. It turns out he’s not a morning person as opposed to young McBride who was freestyling to a Justin Bieber record being played over the sound system.

Kerr arrived on time

Arriving in London was straight forward apart from young Conor Murray trying to negotiate with duty-free, speaking Spanish and attempting to off-load Euros to purchase a bar of Toblerone. He was saved by Sweeney who explained to security staff that the Lamh Dhearg man had only ventured as far as the Devinish before this weekend. After a few mishaps the team finally made it onto the field at 12.45, 15 minutes before throw-in. Locals were a bit bemused by the Keeper Care’s approach. As with Murray, he hadn’t been out of Ireland before and appeared on the pitch with an oxygen mask for the supposed altitude deficit, factor 40 sun lotion and a translator not unlike Trapattoni’s attractive female sidekick.

The game was rather exciting. Antrim forged ahead when the grandfather of the team, Aodhan Gallagher, scored a screamer from 45m out. This man was here to entertain and he didn’t disappoint. The over 45s in the female section of the crowd swooned, believing that Grant Mitchell was making a new movie. Tomas McCann, despite his night of virginal passion, still had enough energy to score 0-5 in the first half included one effort he headed over, backwards.

Tomas, tired after wedding night.

Cerr, on the other hand, had a torrid first half. He was half-eaten by mosquitoes and agreed to buy a timeshare by someone on the sideline. Two goals flashed past him, the first time that’d happened since he was in p2 when CJ McGourty nutmegged him twice in one move at breaktime. After that it was plain sailing for the Galls shot-stopper as Baker assured him at half time that he could eat more paella and frites after the game. He made a blinding save from some cockney who clearly exclaimed ‘cor blimey!’ in amazement. Antrim won the encounter after a boy called Niblock, who also does news reports for the BBC, scored a wondrous goal from his own half – a real 60m daisy-cutter. This man could be big. There were other good performances too from Mick McCann and Magill. Both lads managed to blag their way into staying over that night as they wanted to take in a ‘show’ involving cross-dressing.

So, onwards to the next round and we find out where the Saffron juggernaut will venture next. Bouncer Bradley has few concerns and hopefully Tomas will have the whole honeymoon craic out of his system. What a win. What a weekend.

Scorers – London: C McCallion, E O’Neill 1-1 each, S McVeigh, M Gottsche (0-1f) 0-2 each, S Kelly (0-1f), M Mullins, J Scanlon 0-1 each
Antrim: T McCann 0-5 (0-4f), K Niblock, A Gallagher 1-0 each, J Loughrey, C Murray 0-2 each, M Sweeney, C Kelly 0-1 each

LONDON: E Byrne; J Scanlon, S McVeigh, D McGreevy; A Gaughan, S Mulligan, S Hannon; L Mulvey, M Gottsche; S Kelly, K O’Leary, M Mullins; C McCallion, E O’Neill, G Crowley.

Subs used: P McGoldrick for Kelly (41 mins), B Osbourne for McGreevy (46), P Finn for Crowley (53), M Carroll for Mullins (64), N Egan for O’Neill (67).

ANTRIM: C Kerr; A Healy, R Johnson, K O’Boyle; T Scullion, J Crozier, J Loughrey; M McCann, A Gallagher; C Murray, M Sweeney, C Kelly; T McCann, M Magill, M Johnston.

Subs used: D O’Hagan for Healy (61 mins), M Armstrong for Murray (69).

LONDON, BABY. Down 2-25 Monaghan 2-24.

Well, the time is almost upon us. My Saffron Heroes are about to board the flight to London and enthrall the English nation with their thrill and spills with a size 5. I’ve been in close contact with many friends and family from home and they reckon this is bigger than the time Halley’s Comet visited our galaxy and threatens to completely overshadow the Jubilee celebrations in the capital.

Antrim – Bigger than Halley

Barman Bradley has finally made contact with me and we’ve drawn up a plan for their few hours on English soil, much of which I cannot relate here due to the increased security of such a visit. All I can release is the information I received from a certain PC Winston in Tottenham who said there were a pile of women in tanning salons in preparation for the ‘fit’ ‘talent’ about to set foot on their land. Unfortunately they won’t be able to press flesh with the likes of the McCanns and Neeson but, as it was with The Beatles, they’ll be glad just to share oxygen with the Antrim Adonises.

The sort of women awaiting Antrim GAA

Last week I made my way to Armagh and took in the Down/Monaghan game. It was a mind-blowing affair with big kicks and high catches. The Monaghan men were big strong glipes and seemed to be more used to running and rolling around on grass. There was a boy called Dick Clerkin and he spent much of the game chewing on the stuff. I could have sworn he’d developed udders by the finish of it. Down were your team of Ronaldos and Darren Fletchers with their silky skills and majestic flicks. The latter won out after the ref had “rode the hole clane off them” as my GAA pal informed me in the toilets in Portadown a few hours later.

Clerkin

Down possessed two of the smallest men I’ve ever set eyes on by the name of Poland and Laverty. Laverty was an unusual looking man with enormous eyebows on such a diminutive figure, reminding me terribly of one of the oompa loompa’s from the factory, without the colouring. He was the star though and was a Mourne Zola. It was a tremendous comeback as Monaghan shot into a 12 point lead after 10 minutes with the balding Finlay notching 0-9 from sideline kicks. Down clawed their way back into the game by ignoring the referee’s whistle and apart from one crazy moment when the ref tricked a Down player into pretending he was going to book him (which was a hilarious practical joke IMO) as Monaghan played a sneaky quick free, they were good value for their 2-19 in the last 15 minutes.

Laverty and Poland warm up

But all of this is a backdrop to the London trip this weekend. There are rumours that Bradley has asked Kerr, Magill and Cunningham to kiss the English ground as they step off the plane in the current spirit of Anglo-Irish relations but it was pulled as he was afraid Kerr would perhaps take a liking to the tarmac.

 

Armagh 1-23 Tyrone 0-29

Important stuff first. Antrim’s training regime for the qualifiers has been catapulted into a new dimension with the shocking news that Bonkers Bradley whisked his team off to Malaga for a training weekend last Friday. Under the cover of darkness, and mirroring the old internment swoops of the early 70s we were taught about in boarding school, Bonkers’ backroom team kidnapped the current squad in their own beds and forced them onto a private jet owned by Club Antrim guru Colm McKenna. Having arrived in Malaga’s capital Dunamurrala, Bradley put them through a 72-hour marathon session of fiddily-dee music, buxom senoritas and plentiful WKD. On the way back he let them know this was only a ‘taste of the wrecking we’ll do if we win a lock a games’.

Gallagher was amazed at her skills.

I interviewed Aodhan Gallagher coming off the plane about the weekend. All he said was, ‘I didn’t know a woman could do that with a size 5.’ My men looked motivated.

I wandered off to see another game this weekend and it involved the ecclesiastical capital of Ireland, Armagh, and the home of the ginger actor in Coronation Street, Tyrone. It was a tremendous game littered with magical moments and players. There was a young floppy haired fellow on the Armagh team whose appearances fooled all. I initially thought the young man was lost and had dandered from a live reading of Seamus Heaney’s latest turf collection. Little did I know but the Ben lookalike from Outnumbered can play ball. He scored 0-12 in the first half, 5 off each feet and two efforts so quick no one knew what body part it came off.

Clarke in pre-match photoshoot

He had 7 different markers on him at different times and one called Penrose who jumped on his head and tried to ride him like a jockey by sitting on his head and holding on to his ears. There’s nothing in the rule book which says you cannot do that.

Penrose on Clarke

On the other side there was the aforementioned Penrose. He was even smaller than Tomas McCann and some people from the other side complained that they couldn’t see him at all. On one occasion he ran through the legs of a man mountain Ciaran McKeever who stood at 8 feet 2 inches and 30 stone or pure granite. A bit slow though. Penrose scored 0-21 in all but had a very average game compared to a boy named Cathal McCarron, the most beautiful man seen on the field since Paolo Maldini retired. At one point the ref took his name. No reason, just took his name.

McCarron. Nothing more needs said.

The overriding experience here was the appearance of the crowd. After getting used to the persistent smell of manure emanating from the East Tyrone/North Armagh amalgamation, the clothing really brought a lump to my throat. It was like being back in the Durham County disco of 1977 all over again. I just adored the ability for a mass community to hold on to the past in all its forms. I saw a young lad with ‘Cookstown Sausages’ on his tshirt playing a Rubik’s Cube and showing all his mates who were overawed. I regretfully heard he got the shite kicked out of him after the game by other lads wanting the ‘magic cube’.

Tyrone fans arrive early

 

Next week – on to Derry/Donegal and another attacking party with updates on Antrim’s latest bonding adventure.

Down 4-13 Fermanagh 0-6

It’s just not Antrim.

I can’t pretend that I was excited by this. All I could think about was Bam Neeson sitting in his settee drinking Coors Lite and doing the Sunday Sport crossword. I managed to reach Enniskillen after much consternation after my satnav refused to work as soon as I hit Fermanagh as no satellite covered that area it seems. I find that hard to take in. They can think about sending a man to Venus but they can’t set up a freaking non-terrestial system in the Erne County. Not that there’s much terra firma in that part of Ireland anyway. I was overtaken by a duck on one of their flooded by-roads.

The duck didn’t like foreigners

The game wasn’t overly memorable. Fermanagh had a man sent off early on for chewing the testicles off Benny Coulter who was posing as a full back in order to claim his GPA money at the end of the year. Down then scored 4 goals in succession, all notched by Paul McComiskey who wasn’t named but I was reliably told it was him by Ross Carr who was sitting beside me.

Fermanagh brought on Seamus Quigley, late on, who got held up in Tempo as the MacDonalds drive-thru was under construction so he had to queue up like the rest of the non-county plebs. He scored 0-2 with his first touch but it was too little too late. Down proceeded to the semis and a meeting with Monaghan (spit).

What did make the day though was a meeting with Ross Carr and his mates. He introduced me to Adrian Logan who just said ‘Tyrone, Tyrone, Dungannon, Tyrone, Tyrone…’ ad nauseum. I also met Jerome Quinn. He seemed angry when I asked if he worked for the BBC and launched into a tirade about some fellow Sidearse. During quiet moments I noticed that Quinn would carress photos in his wallet of two men, muttering ‘I always will’ in romantic tones. Carr told me it was some lads called McHugh and Burns and that they were once the BeeGees of the GAA.

McHugh, Quinn and Burns. Circa 2002.

Carr also introduced me to a few ex-Antrim legends in the crowd. PJ O’Hare was first and his handshake staved my little finger. His son was also there – Darren. He’s an athletic looking fellow, along the lines of Drogba. Kevin McGourty was next – apparently he’s some sort of political guru who’s being scouted by Obama. So he told me anyway.

Anyway, next week on to the Athletic Grounds for a meeting between rivals Armagh and Tyrone. Someone said it’s like a Turkish club derby. Looking forward to it.

Monaghan 1-12 Antrim 1-9

I saw this coming. In the week leading up to the big game, we were subjected to Sahara conditions In Antrim. Temperatures around Finaghy and Portglenone rivalled those in Addis Ababa and Dubai. Receding hairlines and redheads screamed in terror at night, suffering in the aftermath of another sizzler. I lay on my bed one night, crying. All I could hear were the unmerciful yelps from no.14 – all of whom have the gingerness. Transfer that horror to those poor lads who have to play ball during the strongest sun with a man from Glenullin screaming at them to run faster and jump higher.

My neighbour put on a brave face. Bless her.

The second omen was when I saw the Antrim heroes make their way down the hill towards the changing rooms before the game. Magill looked hungry. Luckily someone threw him a cheesy chip. Kerr was squinting as the horrendous heat played havoc with his match-day spray tan. However, most telling of all was the state of Healy’s head. They’d only completed a short warm up but the little dynamo was suffering. His noggin was glowing like a blacksmith’s tool. Some local Oriel wag ran over and lit his fag on young Anto’s bonce. It was farcical. I hadn’t eaten since Friday and was starting to deliriously contemplate frying an egg on his neb. If that’s what others were thinking, how must the St Gall’s stalwart have felt. When Barra Best arrived on the scene I almost collapsed thinking about throwing the whole monster fry on his forehead.

Healy was focused.

The game commenced under what was now a 45 degree sun. As the ref threw the ball up, a fight broke out at the caravan selling Volvic water over the last 2 litre bottle. I honestly contemplated breaking off a branch to use as a weapon in case I was attacked as I’d a 50 ml bottle of Tipperary sparkling water in my breast pocket. Frighteningly Neanderthal times in Clones. Disaster struck within a few seconds when Kerr, confused by the conditions, saved a shot down to his left and failed to hold on to it. The defenders were too far gone in terms of shock to stop the rebound hitting the net. Kerr was famous for his work placement in Duffy’s Circus when he memorably repeatedly caught Tomas McCann who was shot out of a cannon by his brother Mick at 90mph. ‘Confounding Chris’, as he was known in the circus circles, never dropped him. Again, conditions.

Tomas in his heyday. Kerr had his back.

Antrim started to play their tiki-taka style of football for the majority of the rest of the game. Loughrey scored a goal that’d rival anything Messi put away this year. Magill had his hunger satisfied and every ball played in to him stuck to the great man’s chest as if he was protecting a bucket of Buckfast during his hair-raising student days. Mick McCann ruled the midfield area like a highly aroused bull domineering the cowering cows in a field in Monaghan. The man was majestic as the sun shone down on the glistening sweat, sweat that seemed proud to rest on the lord of the manor. Cunningham was buzzing like a castrated bee. Murray was fly-kicking. Big Aodhan, who seemed to be filling gaps all over the joint, finally started to exercise those gladiator legs and covered 40m in three strides.

Monaghan were beaten. So what happened? I’m not totally sure but Healy’s head surely had something to do with it. I was quite delirious at the time due to the conditions and could only see a big yellow blob on his shoulders. I was talking to a Monaghan player who wished to remain anonymous but Freeman told me that they decided to use Anto’s glowing cranium as a guide in terms of shooting accuracy, like a SatNav. The rest I don’t wish to discuss. Antrim lost despite being the better side.

How the sun played havoc with my vision of Anto.

I won’t give up on my heroes in their moment of need but this week I’m weighing in behind McCartan’s red and black army as they take on a group of country men who live on water. It’ll be different. Saffrons Abu.

Final Antrim Training

That was quite possibly the most enjoyable night of my life. I include the time I met JLS in the toilets in Birmingham Arena. Tonight, typifying the titanic journey these saffron heroes have been enduring, The Baker pulled a rabbit from his cloak of many colours and completely threw the assembled throngs of media into palpitations. It was a shrewd move. I spotted a bevy of Monaghan officials, incognito, worming their way around the top-level of the Casement Stadium. Their costumes were a bit unprofessional, dressed as Subway promotional women. The heavy Monaghan accent, hairy back and bendy legs were a bit of a farce to be honest.

Monaghan officials didn’t make an effort

It was all in vain anyway. Unbeknownst to all but the Saffron men of steel, he had decided to have a fancy dress day in order to create a magical and unbreakable bond between the squad and management staff. It was a wondrous sight when they ran on to the field at the start. With the hundreds of photographers primed to see O’Boyle, Murray and Cunningham run through the last few tactical directions from Bamber Bradley and his team, they got the shock of their lives when Paddy led them out dressed as Rapunzel. His flowing blonde locks and red sequined number oddly suited the Lamh Dhearg Legend. He also carried it off with a certain gravitas, like Kate Moss or Dana or something.

Cunningham, bottom right, poses with the attacking unit.

The run-out continued in that vein. Bam Neeson was a brilliant Hulk, Sweeney a very convincing ET, Anto Healy was Gollum and Kare the keeper was Banana Man. It was a brilliant sight and was glad to have my camera with me. I was slightly concerned with Tomas’s outfit. He came dressed as Baker himself which didn’t go down well. He kept shouting ‘he’s a great player so he is’ or ‘great pass so it was’. I could see Bradley getting a bit irate on the sideline. I hope he’s not dropped.

Kerr facing a 45

Aodhan Gallagher stole the show though. His entrance was what everyone was waiting for. This was the man who held it all together over the last few weeks with his aged appearance but Scholes-like experience. His choice of attire will live long in the memory.

Gallagher went full hog.

We’ll win. I’m totally convinced after seeing that.

Antrim On The Brink

It’s hard to believe that the time is almost upon us. When I left the balmy shores of Durham I never envisaged the sheer excitement I’d be feeling on a Monday night in mid-May. It’s highly unlikely I’ll experience sleep until the team is announced later in the week. No one can guess what is going on in Bradley’s head apart from the motivational tactics I recently heard of, but more of that later.

I order to settle my nerves and acquaint myself with the whole championship etiquette, I took myself off to Breffni Park yesterday to soak in the occasion. Donegal, the current champions of the Ulster competition, were taking on Cavan. I did a bit of research here and Cavan seem to be a bit like Liverpool. They used to be the kingpins of the country but in recent years have been a bit horrible to say the least. I had a pint in one of the pubs in Cavan town beforehand and asked a couple of the locals why this was. They told me to go home to my own country first of all. After I assured them I was a friend, they asked if I was working for the “brew” because if i was I wouldn’t get out alive. Feeling rather uneasy I finished up my pint in seconds and made my way to the stadium.

The pub in Breffni scared me.

And I wasn’t underwhelmed. I was met with 55-60’000 spectators roaring ferociously at what looked like a warm-up competition between midgets or dwarves from both side. Flares and fireworks were raging through the crowds. I’d never seen the like of this. The Donegal dwarves seemed to win handily enough. I asked a Cavan fan beside me if this was a bad sign. He told me, again, to leave the country before he kicked ‘the hole off me’. It was at this stage that I realised it was their means of small talk. I told him I’d shoot him in the neck if he kept up that talk and he slapped me in the back and said I was a great fellow altogether. I felt I belonged.

Donegal first took to the field, bursting through a paper banner advertising a creamery in Dungloe, like the American footballers. I was amazed at their athleticism as they leapt over the heads of the dwarf team on their way to sit on a bench for a bit of a rest. Cavan, on the other hand, sauntered onto the field looking for loose change on the grass. I did a quick head count just before throw in and reckoned 80’000 filled Breffni. The songs were deafening such as ‘Will Ye Come To The Bower’  and ‘All Kinds of Everything’. It was almost poisonous.

Cavan’s fanatical support.

Donegal won the game 4-19 to 2-22 and deservedly so. McFadden, a brother of the Westlife rebel, scored all of Donegal’s 4-19 in a show of sheer greed and luck. Cavan fought long and hard but were undone by a riot which broke out behind the away goals when someone dropped a fiver, it was reported.

All in all it was a joyous experience and only served to increase my excitement for the fare at Clones next weekend. I’m a lot happier in the knowledge that Antrim will leave no stone unturned. I happened to bump into the Antrim Team Psychologist and he was able to provide me with insider info to pass back to my readership back in Consett. Budley Bradley has ordered him to create a CD of songs to be played on the bus on the way down, one for each player. I didn’t write them all down but these are those I can remember:

1. T. Scullion – Barbie Girl by Aqua

2. Crozier – German National Anthem by the Ex-Nazi Brass Band

3. O’Boyle – How Great Thou Art by Clonard Choir

4. Murray – Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson

5. Loughry – Theme tune from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire

6. McBride – Walking In The Air by Aled Jones

7. Neeson – Rocky Album (all of them)

8. Armstrong – Tubthumping by Chumbawamba

9. A Gallagher – Beethoven 9th Symphony (brass)

10. Kerr – Making Your Mind Up – Buck’s Fizz

11. McCann Bros – 500 Miles by The Proclaimers

Talk about a coach that’ll be packed with raw nerve, energy and melodical fanaticism. I’ll be attending Thursday’s training and hope to report from there. Live.

Antrim Open Night

It was the day I’d been dreaming about since the idea was announced: meet and greet the players day at Casement Park. The chance to get up and close with the elite physical specimens in the entire country was too alluring to turn down. I already had an invitation to attend the opening of a brothel at Tate’s Avenue but it was relegated to second place when I heard of this venture.

I was slightly disappointed when I arrived. I estimated 45’000 were queued up outside the ground, stretching the whole way towards Glengormley. It was a little soul-destroying to join the end of the line and that feeling worsened when sporadic fighting broke out over the next five hours for various reasons. There were knifings, gun shots and at one point the PSNI had deployed four helicopters to oversee the violence. The man in front of me was done with the stun gun for urinating in the garden of a house in Broadway.

The husbands of McCann’s female Angolan following also wait their turn to see him.

Finally, the time arrived when I danced through the gates of Casement Park. Unfortunately, the lads were physically and mentally exhausted by the time I’d arrived and a little irritable I thought. I went over to Magill to get my thigh signed by him and he told me to ‘get the freaking hell out of my face’ which initially shocked me but I soon mellowed as how could you be angry at a face like that. In the goalmouth, Kerr was doing free face-painting for U5s. In the knowledge that he was sitting on a plastic chair for hours on end in the increasing cold night, the Casement bar staff had been supplying him with bottles of stout to ease the pain.

It turns out that this was a bad idea. Kerr was rightly inebriated after the second hour and had veered from the agreed face painting choices. Children were seen screaming in terror when he held the mirror up to show them the fruits of his labour. A young girl who’d asked him for Rapunzel got some horrific angry devil attempt, complete with blood dripping from her rotted fangs. It not only terrified the child but the parents refused to take the child home, leaving the young girl in a crumbled heap on the 45. On other occasions he simply painted the children black and said ‘there ye go, Theo Walcott’. It was a nightmare scenario for the parents. Their children wanted their faces painted and to meet the legendary Kerr, but they knew the outcome could see them return as Freddy Krueger or ET.

This young boy asked for Batman.

At the other end of the field there was great commotion. Tomas McCann’s line was swamped with barely clothed women of all nationalities. Bitch-fights were breaking out every second minute as throngs of men left their bar stools in Biddy’s or the Whitefort to watch the scraps unfold in front of an oblivious McCann from the stand. Tomas was asked to leave his signature on every imaginable body part which he did with great composure. It was a who’s who of young women. Holly Sweeney, Nadine Coyle, Christine Bleakley and Eoghan Quigg were all chomping at the bit to meet the little Adonis. In contrast to that, Aodhan Gallagher’s line saw the likes of Pamela Ballentine, Wendy Austin, Sue Ramsey, Dana and Alex Attwood wait patiently for his company. He attracts a different beast.

Gallagher’s line had a fusty smell.

All-in-all, I got want I wanted. Bam Neeson give me a round-kick when I asked him for a kiss and that made my day. I feel we’re one big family now. I didn’t see Baker Bradley but rumour was he was queuing up in Tomas’ line too dressed as some slag from Strabane. Weird one that.