IT’S NOT EASY being Irish in Britain during an international football tournament. A London pub during an England game is bleached in terrors. St. George’s flags pinned to the walls, the bloated faces diced with red crosses, the slurred chorus of football anthems.
Imagine being a Ewok trapped on the Death Star, sobbing quietly into your green fur while a hammered Darth Vader prepares to explode another planet. That is what it feels like.
A fight or flight response is triggered. In the same way that a cat can smell a storm, the Irish living in the UK could sense the coming of the Euros this year in our bones. That’s why so many of us can be found hiding in trees during the games, mewling and eating mice.
Even your liberal English friends transform for 90 minutes. The sort you normally find sipping oat-milk lattes while whining about how Brexit has spoiled their dream of working as a ski instructor in France. But when the football is on, they iron a jersey and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the same brutes that used to bully them in school, united now in nationalist triumphalism. Something guttural is released from deep within. It’s like seeing their sex face. Corbyn on the streets, Farage between the sheets.
Perhaps English people would experience comparable levels of ick watching Ireland play in a Dublin pub, but our national team is so inept that they needn’t worry. Statistically, an English football fan is more likely to be eaten by a shark in Benidorm than watch Ireland play in the finals of the Euros or the World Cup.
On the rare occasion that we do even qualify, the dormant Irish soccer supporter is activated. Legions of wide-eyed fans emerge from the wilderness and move eastward towards the continent, like the Pauper’s Crusade in 1096 when delirious peasants marched on Jerusalem. The fevered enthusiasm comes not from an expectation of success, but from a blind faith in essential goodness of being Irish. The international press dote on the Irish fans, reporting on their good nature and acts of kindness. There is no aggression because qualifying has been its own reward.
Perhaps French football fans are as-bad or worse than England fans, but France didn’t colonise Ireland so our relationship with its flag is entirely different. If I see a Union Jack hanging behind a bar, generational emotional trauma is involuntarily triggered. But if I see a French tricolour hanging behind a bar, I think: I bet they’ll do a lovely quiche here.
The Euros in 2021 was especially tough on me. We were just emerging from Covid and like everyone else, I was a little emotionally fragile. As the tournament progressed past the group stages, I reassured myself that England would be eliminated soon. Then, as Southgate’s side kept advancing, a cold, wet feeling spread across my body as I realised that England might actually win this thing.
There was only one thing for it – I had to leave the country.
I booked flights home and retreated to my parent’s house on the Curragh. It was only at this safe distance that I felt I could watch the final. My father and I watched the game in silence as rain dashed the living room windows. I knew what was at stake. If England won, I’d probably never be able to return there. Boris Johnson was still Prime Minister, remember. The swell of bombastic jingoism would have been so strong that the streets of London would resemble a British version of The Purge.
When Italy scored the winning penalty, my anxiety gave way to a flood of relief. My father and I jumped to our feet, punched the air and embraced. It was as if Ireland had won, not Italy. I texted my English friends my condolences, but the truth was that I was delighted.
As the Euros approached this year, that familiar sickly feeling in my stomach has returned. My worry is that I’m not sure that I can endure this level of stress if I am to continue living here. It is at low moments like these that I look deep within myself and ask myself a simple question – What Would Terry Wogan Do (WWTWD)?
Like Sir Terry before me, perhaps the time has come to embrace my inner Brit. So this year, with England having made it to the final, I will daub my face in a white and red acrylic, swill a pint of Stella, and tell anyone who will listen about the deep spiritual connection I feel for Diana, the Princess of Wales. If there’s a lit flare nearby, I might even stick it between my buttocks. Behind my rictus smile I will remind myself – this will all be over soon. For another two years at least.
Peter Flanagan is an Irish comedian and writer. You can find him on Twitter @peterflanagan and Instagram @peterflanagancomedy.
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