In light of all the talk of Ireland heading to another major Soccer tournament I was reminded of this piece that I wrote almost five years ago….
I took Saipan very hard. Harder than was necessary,
according to Him; I wasn’t one of the team or the fans, I hadn’t saved all year to follow the squad to the Far East. In fact, not only had I never been to an Ireland match, but I couldn’t even name the team members.
I’m not going to go into it, there is no argument for or against that I haven’t been part of.
I can quote the original Tom Humphries interview, Roy’s book, Mick’s book, Niallo’s book and even the bloody Genesis report, but it was my view that Roy Keane spoiled Ireland’s World Cup. Not since the Black and Tans had a bigger conflict swept the country. It set team-mate against team-mate, brother against brother, father against son and, ahem, wife against Husband.
However, time passed, and I took some solace from jokes doing the rounds: ‘Did you hear about Roy’s latest injury? He forgot to remove Dunphy’s head from his arse before sitting down…’
Hell has no fury like a woman who feels her summer was ruined by an egotistical maniac and not even the black-and white photo of him cradling his youngest child against his naked, toned, muscular chest could soften my heart.
To His horror, my favourite party game was to stir up the Roy Keane row and watch gleefully from the sidelines as the room descended into a modern bar-room blitz, often just stopping short of bloodshed. Eventually I wasn’t allowed play that game any more and the merest hint of it would draw down warning looks from Him Who Must Be – if not Agreed With – Obeyed.
They say that revenge is a dish best served cold and I could wait. Wait I did until his acrimonious exit from Manchester United.
Boy did I gloat then – “IT’S EFFIN SAIPAN ALL OVER AGAIN,” I screamed from the rooftops like a woman possessed.
“SEE? IS FERGUSON A MUPPET TOO?”
Living with me was, once again, unbearable. Me happy and obsessed is only marginally more endurable than me
disappointed and obsessed – but I felt that at last I had won and became content with merely smiling smugly to myself whenever his name was mentioned.
He says the metamorphosis began when we received confirmation that there was to be an addition to the family. I threw myself into pregnancy with all the gusto of a ‘proper’ team heading to the World Cup. “Failure to plan is planning for failure,” I said sagely, packing my hospital bag with six months to go. With all the knowledge and experience of a first-timer, I pooh-poohed the notion of an epidural – Sure don’t they have babies in China and then go back to the paddyfields – ignoring the looks of pity on the faces of real mothers, and their hints that I might feel differently on the day.
There were many such looks when I described my planned routines, disciplines and other such ‘notions’. But I was on a roll. My television itinerary expanded to include Super Nanny, Nanny 911 and Families in Trouble – until eventually the softy softly approach got to me and He had to restrain me from shouting: “JUST HIT THE LITTLE SHAGGER A CLIP ROUND THE EAR”…. That was when He started to call my rages ‘The Red Mist’ and when I secretly started to face up to the fact that maybe I finally understood…
And so we continued, until one day He came home looking nervous, well, more nervous than usual.
He had news: “Roy has been touted as the new manager of Sunderland, hand-picked by Niall Quinn,” He said quickly, bracing himself for a backlash.
“Oh,” I said.
“It might be okay,” He said.
“Mmm,” I said
“Look love, I think if Big Niallo can bring himself to let it go, to forgive and forget, don’t you think you…”
“Don’t push it,” I said.
And so, confused, He gingerly changed the subject.
Then two days later, Roy joined Sunderland. I watched his press conference. He skirted the Saipan issue cagily and even admitted that he had left United under a bit of a cloud. But some of his answers were funny, almost self-deprecating and I found myself smiling – it was the strangest feeling I’d had in seven months. It was as if we had a connection, as if he knew I was out there…
“They’re all waiting for me to slip up,” he said.
“Me too,” I said.
“It’s time for me to put my money where my mouth is,” he continued.
“I know the feeling,” I said.
“Order the epidural anyway – you know – failure to plan…” he said.
“I hear you,” I said.
He was in the headlines again lately, giving out about the ‘that’ll do’ attitude of the Irish soccer team but you see, me and Roy are okay now. We are going through our respective teething problems, but at the end of the day, it’s looking like we might escape relegation for at least another season…
[Nov 2005]
Footnote
At time of going to press, both myself and Roy Keane would like to state that we are doing our best and would like you know-it-all bastards to go and find something better to do than watching our every move….