It's a Dad's Life: Over the last few years we have had many cross-sections of society roam down our street on the approach to Croke Park.
We've stepped over the bodies of collapsed Robbie Williams revellers, endured nearly a week of E-le-va-tion!, barely noticed the Billy Joel aficionados and of course mingled freely with the summer GAA crowds. This year will be busier, and different.
Last weekend the sheepskin coats and hip flasks landed like Martians in Ballybough.
A ticket was too much to hope for, so instead I settled for soaking up the pre-match vibes in the local pubs. I had heard about the usual rugby boozers, miffed at the migration of their annual golden goose, laying on transport to and from Croker so their punters wouldn't have to sully their bibs. One presumes the windows were also heavily tinted and that nobody went blind cutting up Summerhill. I can only hope our Dublin 3 publicans laid waste, Caesar style, to the invading Mercedes coaches and left the attendees stranded, nervously approaching the bar in Cusack's for a hot one.
I did a check on Ebay for tickets, on the off chance, and won't bore you with the results. We can all play Top Trumps with the prices we've heard. What became obvious was that everyone was making a buck but me. How to remedy this? The elder has recently been attending drama and dance classes, so I decided to make use of her skills. The plan was to grub up her and the younger's faces and put them on the street as the well-heeled hordes descended, discreetly checking their wallets every five steps. The elder would then belt out tunes from Annie and Chicago as the younger stumbled around, cute as you like, with cloth cap in hand. In the face of such obvious urban decay, hearts would melt and notes of large denomination be proferred.
Fagin-like, I would empty the cap at regular intervals and maintain their energy levels with Lucozade in old Bacardi Breezer bottles, all the better to present the 19th-century image. I even hoped to teach her a few songs about Monto, but that may have been a tad ambitious.
It never happened. Why? Because the elder has a far greater social whirl than I; she couldn't be expected to hang around on a weekend afternoon performing theatrics when she had people to see. The younger has yet to extend her circle of friends but, at two, I couldn't see her pulling off the lyrics, dance moves and the cap by herself. I would have had to get physically involved and that would have just been degrading.
The extent of the elder's social requirements became apparent when we stopped in a local diner for a lunchtime treat last Friday. Inside, she is greeted by a friend from senior infants. As they settle in at the counter, separate, of course, to their fathers who are getting acquainted at adjoining tables, another buddy from the street (a year older, all of six) strolls in with her Mum. Mum sits down with us as the elder introduces school and street friend.
They perch themselves at the window, devouring chips and barbecue chicken, and make plans for the weekend. We three adults sit, gently feeling each other out and wearing the social strain of decades of practice, while being ordered up for more ketchup, napkins and dessert when required.
Eventually one of us has to go and do something of practical importance, so we break up the junior coven. Before departure we are told of arrangements for the next few days, nod accommodatingly and leave.
I may not have witnessed live the historic first rugby international in Croke Park, nor made any bobs from the proceedings, but I was made acutely aware of my own personal standing in the pecking order.
I get the feeling the next time I attend an international will be when one of my daughters buys me a ticket.
