You didn’t even need to possess a drop of Dingle or Kiltoom blood to have been left stretched by that All-Ireland club final. It was only on Saturday evening that you’d have been thinking no set of supporters over the weekend, no matter the sporting code, would have been through as many mills as the Munster faithful.
Munster try. “From crumbs they create a cake!”
Munster try. “Forever the drama kings!”
Castres try. “Is this where the Munster dream dies?”
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Castres try. “Munster’s hopes go up in smoke!”
Munster try. “WHO WRITES THIS STUFF?!”
And that was Ryle Nugent monitoring Munster’s fluctuating fortunes in just a 30-minute second half spell at Thomond Park, Simon Zebo, sitting beside him, hyperventilating his way through all the seesawing.
In the end, the crowd falling silent like they’d been muted by a remote control, it wasn’t to be, Munster’s Champions Cup journey this season done and dusted.
But compared with what the Dingle and St Brigid’s contingents endured at Croke Park, the Munster crew had a stress-free time of it.
Seconds left on the clock, Dingle two points up, and Ruaidhrí Fallon waves his wand – ie the outside of his right foot – to score a two-pointer for St Brigid’s. What’s it they say these days? Hang it in the Louvre. It was a thing of exquisite loveliness. Unless you’re from Dingle.
This couch, to its eternal shame, is the possessor of no more than a cúpla focal, but even it could understand when Micheál Ó Domhnaill said “Níl aon fhocal” for Fallon’s score. No words, indeed, agreed his panel: “Go hálainn.”
Extra time. Four minutes to go. St Brigid’s two points up. And then Dingle levelled. And then scored the winner. And celebrated like mad fellas. And Brian Tyers nearly mislaid his voice. But then Dingle were called back for a free and they put it wide. The screen appeared to say it was a draw, so either penalties, a replay or ‘rock, paper, scissors’ would be needed to find a winner. But then Dingle were given the cup, so it was all very confusing.
But look, the upshot was that we saw a masterpiece of a final, although it’ll take Mark O’Connor a while to explain to his Geelong team-mates, who had travelled all the way from Australia for the game, why Dingle celebrated by jigging and reeling to the strains of a tune about a mad goat.
That confusion, incidentally, about the final score was probably down to these varifocals continuing to play havoc. They even had you seeing United playing like Brazil circa 1970 in the Manchester derby on Saturday morning. And City playing like United circa 2013-2025. And Patrick Dorgu looking like the new Rivellino.
“Do you feel invigorated by what’s happened over the last few days,” David Jones asked our Roy ahead of the game about the appointment of Michael Carrick and his staff.
“No.”
Having already been quite rude about Carrick’s interim predecessor Darren Fletcher (“He rings Ferguson to ask him what socks he’s going to wear in the morning”), Carrick’s wife (“She’s got a bit of a big mouth sometimes, she’s probably doing the team talk”) and Carrick himself (“Meh”), he turned his guns on Jonny Evans, now a member of the coaching staff.
“Jonny gets a phone call from Man United. Do you want to come back? I bet Jonny’s thinking, ‘What, as the kit manager?’. It seems like a bit of a circus act.”
Daniel Sturridge and Micah Richards were far too polite to point out that Roy’s been a bit of a score-settling circus act himself through all of this. Mind you, possibly not as clownish as the Rio Ferdinand lad who thinks Mikel Arteta would leave Arsenal for the United job. And if United aren’t impressed with his CV, there’s always “Antonio Conte or Roberto De Zerbi”. “I fink we now need to go down the lunatic road, innit,” said Rio, doffing his cap to the pair.
Sometimes there are níl aon fhocal for the standard of punditry this weather, but sure look, it all adds to the gaiety of football-following. Where would we be without some score-settling clownery? Don’t be mad, it’s go hálainn.
