Comfort thy neighbour

Brian McLoughlin

‘What does it mean to be Irish? Means you’re not f...ing English.’ – Tommy Tiernan.

There is a malaise, dare I call it a virus, which manifested on Wednesday night in a hotel bar when Argentina scored two late goals to break the hearts of the English team – manifested itself as roars of delight! And I, a humble Christian lad, brought up on the mantra love thy neighbour as thyself found all this guffawing and triumphalism at England’s demise to be distinctly… unpalatable.

I was watching the match with two gentlemen – the word gentleman is used ironically here – both cheerleaders of this unpalatable response, confidently predicting that Argentina would come back and win, completely unfazed by open goal missed, a post hit, a Pickford save, as the clock passed 84 minutes with England leading 1-0.

‘You can do it,’ I exclaimed, ‘you can do it, Football’s coming home!’ But alas, they couldn’t… Football is not coming home.

But hey, look on the bright side, England; you’re not coming home just yet – beat the French on Saturday and you’ll be third in the World. And that is good. It is better than Brazil, Italy, Netherlands, Portugal and… Germany.

‘Surely you weren’t hoping for England to win,’ one of the gentlemen said. ‘I’m a neighbourly chap,’ says I, ‘and I want to see a tunnel built between Dublin and Liverpool for the greater good of Ireland and surely the way to that includes being nice to the neighbour.

Anyway, here’s poetry:

In one single moment, my life turned around

I stand there staring straight into the ground

I look to the left and then look back down

All I see is the same forever frown

Oh please sweet providence, change it for us

I’ll do whatever I must to adjust

I’ll pray most high, even forego the lust

Don’t bring me ashes, don’t bring me dust.

Dry your eyes up and smile through the pain

Soon we’ll have wind and soon we’ll have rain

There are so many reasons to go pure insane

Not least the anonymous display by Harry Kane

For your golden crown, I held such an itch

My tears streaming down all over the pitch

Expecting Jude like a knife through butter

To slice through the Argies with hardly a stutter

And put us all in a great good mood

As we’d forever sing: Hey Jude.

But alas, he didn’t puff out his chesty

For he was waylaid by Messi

Nearly 40, barely able to run

He shouldn’t be allowed to have such fun

And haven’t we seen it again and again?

We score first, gain a lead to defend

Followed by disaster, including the ref

To the bargies of the Argies, he was tone deaf.

Oh please sweet providence, be my best mate.

You failed me through the reign of Southgate.

And now with Thomas of features gaunt

You deprived me again of reason to flaunt

Don’t say it is destiny; don’t say it is fate

That another 60 years, I’ll have to wait.

Football’s coming home you said all along

But you didn’t say when so I got it wrong

I don’t want to be beat; I want to be strong

Football’s coming home is a rotten song.

So what does it mean to be Irish? It means we comfort the neighbour...when they’re down!

Brian McLoughlin is a member of Inklings Creative Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook Hotel. Visitors are welcome.