”Rugby is a good occasion for keeping thirty bullies far from the centre of the city.” – Oscar Wilde
It’s that time of year again when wannabe toffs and aspirational bourgeoises crawl out from under their black rocks to profess their undying love for Private school United, more commonly known as the Irish rugby team. For the yearly tournament spanning two months of excruciating snobbery, the Premier League fans of the town are generally known for their hospitality in facilitating their egg-chasing brethren. I hit the streets of Arklow to investigate if this detente does indeed transpire.
Approaching my regular watering hole, the omens did not appear promising for a self-respecting Manchester United fan such as myself, as over the door a glossy Guinness sponsored bannered proudly proclaimed “This is Rugby Country!” interchangeable with “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.”
Upon entry, I was deafened by the reverential silence marking the on-screen jolly green giant’s penalty kick preparation routine. “Had I entered a church by mistake?” I mused to myself as the raucous howls generally typifying a Saturday afternoon in an Irish pub were now conspicuously absent.
A cursory glance around my sober environs displayed a sea of tourists I thankfully had not seen since the previous year’s Shit Nations. Amongst this heaving throng of middle-class stuffiness, the red of a Manchester United Jersy emerged like an oasis in a shrivelled desert of pretentiousness. The colour of the dashing, debonair, sophisticated, Adonis-esque and bespectacled owner of such a sacred shirt was matched only by the auburn shades of his Viking beard.
He quipped that he drank here regularly but now could not see his favourite team in action as it clashed with the seemingly quasi-religious service which constituted an Ireland rugby match: “Out of the dozen odd TV’s here, not one can be sacrificed for the beautiful game,” he lamented. “I’m old enough to remember when nobody gave a shit about this fuckin bullshit!”
Just out of earshot, a rotund, pringle jumper and slacks wearing, elder statesman could be heard decrying the rise of the “Shinners” in the polls and what their potential ascent to power could mean for the sizeable rental income accumulating from his four properties. Briefly Analysing him, he no doubt ‘worked hard all his life’ at a spirit-crushing-permanent-pensionable-‘career’ of monotony he despised (perhaps in the ESB? Why not?) living with a wife he couldn’t divorce until it was too late and spawning four blood-sucking spoilt brats that narrowly preceded the availability of contraception. He proudly explained, for all and sundry, that he will continue to vote for the current government axis of evil to ensure subsequent generations suffer the same self-inflicted, lifelong pain and misery he has endured.
Upon hearing there was a heretic in his midst, he soon turned his drunken ire towards our intrepid Man. Utd protagonist: “Sure they are our country for fuck sake, man! You should be following them instead of a soccer team in another country!”
“Tell me this, Ireland has a national cricket team, do you bleed for them as passionately, if at all?” the fiesty Red Devil swiftly retorted. “And what are your thoughts on Irish rugby’s appalling human rights history in the hosting of apartheid-era South Africa teams?
How could I possibly relate to an elitist team that purports to represent me when it has always been dominated by private school alumni plucked from our finest private schools?”
“Poppycock! I didn’t have to come from that background or go to any of those schools to play here in Arklow,” bellowed the establishment rugger bugger.
“I stood shoulder to shoulder with the sons of solicitors, accountants, doctors and bankers, real salt of the earth people that accepted me like I was one of their own!”
This amusing intergenerational class warfare was dissapopintedly punctuated by a muttering from the other patrons of respectful voice raising at a referee’s decision in the match, which some might even call uncontrolled excitement amongst this aristocratic realm.
Unfortunately, the relatively recent success of the national team has witnessed a mushrooming of such Victorian-era public repression of emotion. Even the local riff-raff have seemingly contracted this terrible affliction. “Get that bloody ball out you blasted nincompoop,” gasped an emaciated and sallow-skinned Oranges Thompson.
He informed me that he had just completed an eight-year stretch in Mountjoy for armed robbery but that the one thing he missed inside was the rugby.
“Ah the boyz inside wouldn’t be bothered with it, all Pats, Bohs, Liverpool and Man. United. When I was watchin’ dat Id keep me Arkla accent to fit in like but now I’m back out I can pretend im posh amongst this lot. You could call me a social chameleon in dat respect, like. Half de time I dunno what’s going on in the game but sure nobody notices cos they don’t either.”
With so much posing going on from all social strata, I beeline towards the exit leading to the turd-infested waters of the Avoca River, where at least there I would swallow less shite than here.
As the soccer fan also attempted to leave, the property-hoarding parasitic pensioner cheekily asked him to remedy a problem he was having with his new smartphone.
“It’s bad enough you continue to vote against my meagre future hopes, but, to add insult to injury, you want me to serve as your free I.T. consultant too? My socialism ceases at the bar stool, I’m afraid. All property is theft, my friend!”
“Every anarchist is a socialist but not every socialist is necessarily an anarchist.” – Adolph Fischer
