A Corker In Croker

I went to the Meath Dublin game on Sunday in Croke Park and witnessed a thrilling display of football by both teams and a fascinating display of muck savagery by the supporters. It had been a while since I’d watched Meath play in Croker and I’d forgotten how many experts there are amongst GAA supporters and all seemed oblivious of just how hypocritical and contradictory they were. At one stage Geraghty was leaning back into the Dublin defender and the guy behind me kept shouting “ref for fucks sake he’s riding Geraghty” and then in the same breath, once the ref had blown for a foul on Geraghty, he turned to his friend and said “sure that’s not a foul at all Geraghty was lying into him”. The same man criticised Coyle the Meath manager for not telling someone to just stay inside the 14 yard line and then when Geraghty took on that roll they criticised him for not getting further out the field. These are the same kind of muck savages who would finish the dinner and say “jaysus missus I didn’t think much of the chicken but damn blast the hen was lovely”. The match finished in a draw and I was reminded of the marathon matches in 91, Meath can play a bit once again and it felt good having a decent team to shout for after years of poor performances.

When the game ended we retired to Kavanaghs on Dorset Street for the post match analysis and a feed of bad pints. On forcing our way through the door we were greeted by the smell of stale alcohol, damp and body odour. Ah the memories, a veritable assault on the senses. Having had our fill of below par beer we headed for McGowans. A regular watering hole for nurses and guards and not one of my favourite places it has to be said. As it happened we were refused entry based entirely on the fact that we were smiling when we approached the door. It’s a miserable fuck of a place and you have to look like a miserable fuck to gain entry. Not to be deterred by the cunt of shit on the door we left and headed for Flannery’s on Camden Street, again not my decision. After more bad beer and some fine whisky we lost one of our number, the last we saw of him he was buried to the shoulders in some young one with a head on her like BB Baskin.

When Flannery’s shut we made our way to The Gigs Place, a late night diner, for more bloody drink. I’ve been in the place once or twice before and I’m starting to think it doesn’t really exist on this plane of reality at all. I reckon it only appears out of a shimmering mist when I’ve had more than enough to drink. It looks an awful kip from the outside and not much better when you get in. But they serve food and wine until 6:00am so it’s a palace of a place in my estimations. Two bottles of wine and some burgers later we staggered out of it and some how managed to get home, minus my jacket it has to be said. I regained consciousness yesterday afternoon with the mother and father of a pair of headaches. I didn’t know if I wanted to shite or have a stroke. I went back to try and retrieve my jacket but the place was all locked up like it hadn’t been open in years. Alas I’m now thinking that the only way I’ll get my jacket back is to go out and do it all again, but not for a while you understand, I’m not sure my system can take it. The replay is in a fortnight I might be better by then.