photo credit: aaocarroll

Before

I woke up on Friday morning – nervous, excited, worried, and exhilarated. I had been anxiously waiting for this semi final since it was announced on MNS that we would be facing Bohemians! Wonderful I thought – some revenge for that almighty humiliation of 3-0 in Dalymount a couple of weeks earlier. As the weeks unfolded it became obvious that the FAI Cup was the only chance of Silverware this season. After watching Bohs beat us 3-0 it was blindingly obvious that they were going to win the league. They have depth, strength, guile and most importantly (which stems from the manager) absolute self belief. They have a strategy that works and they do the basics right. There was only going to be one winner of the league this season. However, we still had the FAI cup in our sight. All those rainy cold nights on the Camac would be worth it if we could beat Bohs in the semi final.

Two weeks ago I was convinced we were going to win the semi final. We were out of the league, the UEFA Cup, and the Setenta Cup. We had one Cup in sight. With a bit of mental strength, discipline and focus, the team could pull out a magical performance (as they did against Elsborg) and walk into the Cup final. However, after a 3-0 defeat to Cobh Ramblers and a 2-0 defeat to Galway warning signs were flashing, telling the fans that something was not right. Then, I checked the team availability – no Stephen Paisley, no Jason Gavin, no Dessie Byrne, no Gary O’Neil, a half fit Mark Quigley. It wasn’t looking good. I felt that the team who defends better tonight will be the team that wins. If it was the case that the match would be determined by the best defensive performance then the odds were stacked against us. However, I still felt we could do it. Keith Fahey could knit the team together; creating a wave of passes that would eventually lead to a goal. Let’s be honest he is the heart & soul of that team. I almost wanted the team to win for him; he deserves a cup at Pats. That boy has talent.

The day rolled on, I couldn’t get any work done. I was watching the clock; 1pm, 2pm, 3pm, 4pm. I had arranged to meet a few mates in McDowell’s at 6pm. I was bringing an old friend along to the game. That made matters worse. I started worrying that we would be badly beaten and he would leave Richmond with no intention of coming back. Concentrate on the game I kept telling myself. Concentrate. Eventually I made it into McDowell’s. A pint of blackcurrant for me. I don’t like drinking before a game. It was going to be an electric atmosphere. Alcohol would only diminish the effects of listening to the crowd roar as Fahey scored a hat trick. My mind wandered and wandered. Swamped with dreams and imaginings of ‘what ifs’. I wanted to savour every moment. Another pint of blackcurrant. My mate was talking about making a career change. The recession has hit hard. There is no work for those without third level qualifications. He wants to go back to college. He is a great bloke. His words evolved into murmurings. My mind was in the ground. Will Quigo be fully fit? Will Johnnie Mc have a strategy? He should play five at the back. Play counter attack with all our injuries. Fahey scored another hat trick. I jumped over the fence. We won 5-0. The crowd were ecstatic and invaded the pitch. I shook Keith’s hand. Told him he was a great player. Red Army, Red Army, Red Army. Chief! Are you listening to me my mate asked? Sorry sorry. Let’s go into the game. It’s getting late.

Continues after the jump…

During the First Half

We entered the ground. There was around seven of us. Immediately I felt that something wasn’t right. I don’t know what it was but something was not right. The crowd were edgy. The atmosphere was more aggressive than usual. It’s a cup game I thought. It’s natural. However, there was an edge to the crowd that was different. I don’t know what it was but it was different. Maybe it was because I was a bit late. The kick off was earlier than usual. I like to get a spot early so that I can observe every part of the pitch. I am very meticulous about where I stand. I like to be surrounded by football fans. I like the feeling that those around me inquiry into every pass, analyse every move, document every technique, admire the natural talent of a few, and have a passionate love for football. We were behind the goal. I think I prefer the Camac. I prefer being around the old men who refer to Pats as the ‘Athletic’. You can see the age lines on their face. Some people call them wrinkles. I call them lines of reason. Too many kids here that don’t watch the game. They just run around watching each other rather than the match. I don’t mind though, I was a teenager myself once. It is natural. I could do a sociological study of the diverse teenage groups at Richmond. Back to the game I thought. Stop getting side tracked by the Mullet Brigade I kept telling myself. However, something wasn’t right. I had a bad feeling.

The whistle blew for kick off. I couldn’t see properly. Too many people running around. It’s like a bloody fashion show here. Some idiot threw a bottle. Oh no I thought, something is not right. Things settled for a few minutes. I looked around the ground. It was packed. It was noisy. The crowd started chanting: ‘ we all live in a red and white ship’. I felt better again. My nerves were beginning to settle. A flare went off. It looked fantastic and reminded me of watching the SERIE A on Channel 4 as a kid. I used to love that programme. That was back in the day when football was a dignified sport not a commercial enterprise. I stared at the pink flare and I suddenly felt warm. My blood was thickening. Apparently it was a cold night but I didn’t feel a thing. I was numb with nerves and excitement. A war of extremes between love & hate, win or lose, us & them. My heart was pumping. The crowd kept chanting. It was fantastic. Then I looked back at the game. Maybe 3 minutes gone and realised that we adopted a ridiculous strategy – a mediocre central defender playing up front against the best team in the league. It’s going to be a long night.

The team selection was doomed to failure. We had no strategic approach to the game. I noticed this lack of strategic planning early in the season. Early in the season we kept getting early goals and luck was going our way. The early goals injected a bit of liquidity and flexibility into the team. It allowed the more talented players in the team play with confidence. However, it was obvious that there was no strategy. Good management requires good planning. Good planning produces clear objectives. Clear objectives determine the basics. Last night we had none of this. I know we were racked with injuries but when you play against a quality team you need a clear strategy. In fact, playing against a better team can often make things easier. We should have played 4-3-2-1 and kept the game at 0-0 until late into the second half. Then, give Fahey a free reign to link up with wide players and Quigo. In the last 15 minutes with the crowd in Richmond playing the twelfth man we could have nicked it. Ten minutes gone and Bohs were all over us. They looked stronger and linked up brilliantly. My heart was pounding. I felt a goal coming. If we could just contain Bohs, settle down, and stop launching the ball aimlessly up to Harris then maybe we had a chance.

The inevitable came after 12 minutes (around this time anyway). Bohs cut through our midfield and then our defence like a hot knife through butter on a summer’s morning. It is all a bit of a haze for me now but all I remember is saying to myself mid way through their move – it’s a goal, and it was. Killian Brennan hammered the first nail to the cross. The crowd were stunned. It was a crucifixion. The cheers from the Bohs fans were like poison running through my veins. I felt like crying. I wanted to remain calm at this game. Show some composure but I couldn’t. I was filled with rage. I couldn’t believe it. We needed to keep it 0-0 for the majority of the game to get something out of it. My phone started to beep. I didn’t check it. The game kicked off again. Ok I was saying to myself. It’s grand. We can come back into this. We have come from behind before. We will win. We will win. We will win I was whispering to myself. Then I noticed that Quigo was almost limping. He wasn’t fit at all. I was about to shout at him for not making a run when Fahey dinked the ball over the top but stopped when I noticed he was practically walking on one leg. All optimism was slowly creeping out of my system. Not only were we looking vulnerable at the back we were playing with 10 men, no leadership and a central defender up front. Then, a thought struck through me – is it possible that we could lose badly. Headlines of 5-0 flashed before my eyes, and they blinded me.

The referee made a howler by not sending off the Bohs player (can’t remember who it was) who stamped on Ryan Guy. It was right in front of me but I missed it due to observing the Pats bench. Who is on the bench I was asking myself. That Fitzpatrick I acclaimed! He is a pretty poor player but why the hell do we have a useless central defender playing up front when we have a useless full forward on the bench. It made no sense to me and I was furious. I began to get irrational at this stage. The power of the crowd was swallowing me up. I was lost to the crowd. All rationality out the window. The irrational kicked in. I was furious with the way we were set up and I felt sorry for Keith Fahey. The Bohs player should have been sent off. I wanted to run on to the pitch and scream at the referee. I was screaming at this stage. I often wonder what my research colleagues would think if they seen me like this. A football match is a different world. It is a Jackle & Hyde scenario. I hate losing, I really hate losing but in a twisted way I am addicted to the adrenalin of losing in the same way I am addicted to the adrenalin of winning. I love to indulge in the feelings that both winning & losing arouse in me. It swallows me up. It makes me poetic. Football is art.

Then the unexpected came; a second goal. A litany of errors at the back: 2-0 and we were not even half way through the second half. I was stunned, I felt robbed. Gary Deegan got the second. The second nail in the cross. I could hear the thump. I could feel the pain. I hung my head in shame. He was now on my most disliked players list. Through no fault of his own but simply because he humiliated my team. The irrational goes deep. This is not how it was meant to be. We were going to win 5-0 and I was going to jump over the fence and tell Keith Fahey that he is a quality player. The crowd were furious. Then, out of nowhere a series of fireworks went off. They were coming from the crowd behind me on the right of where I was standing. It got even more electric as the fireworks landed on the pitch. It woke me from my self indulgence. My stupor was rattled. For a brief second I thought to myself – excellent, maybe they will call off the match. Then the rational overcame me and I was furious. We are going to get fined. It’s not like we can afford it. Then I remembered that it was live on RTE 2. I was struck by two feelings. Firstly I was annoyed that the league is going to get an unnecessary bad reputation. The tabloid media would run rampant on Richmond Park. Secondly, and more importantly I was reminded that our humiliation was live to the nation. My heart crumbled. The match paused for a few minutes but I was still recovering from the second nail to the cross to care. It was a stupid act carried out by kids who know nothing about football. Let’s hope the fine is not too big. The security looked as disorganised as we did on the pitch. What’s the point of standing at the bottom of the stand? Makes as little sense as playing a central defender up front. It was going to be a long night.

At 2-0 I reminded myself of the comeback in Sweden. It was possible. In football, nothing is inevitable and everything is possible. It is this thought that motivates fans to keep going. To follow their team through the hard times. Sometimes as the hard rain falls like it did last night one loses belief. They lose all hope for their team. I was on the brink of this. I lay in bed last night stunned. I just lay there staring at the ceiling. My mind was on over drive. It was a nightmare I kept telling myself. I will wake up in a few minutes. I imagined myself taking the reins at Pats and making the decisions. Who would I sell? Who would I keep? Who would I make captain? What type of training would I do? Most importantly how would I create the mental discipline that is required of any winning team? I just lay there. Every time my girlfriend put her hand on my chest I lifted it away. I was gutted, and I was on the brink of despair.

The night got worse when Owen Heary made it 3-0 before half time. The third nail in the cross. The silence of the Pats fans echoed through my head. The cheers of the Bohs fans sent electrocutions through my body. I hung my head in shame. The pain. I fought away the tears. I roared out in anger. I looked at the pitch. It was like looking into the abyss. I felt empty. The Johnny Cash song ‘Hurt’ ran through my mind:

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that’s real

The needle tears a hole

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything

What have I become

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know goes away

In the end

And you could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns

Upon my liar’s chair

Full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time

The feelings disappear

You are someone else

I am still right here

The team was broken. I felt sorry for Keith Fahey. I also felt sorry for Ryan Guy. He works his socks off. Either one of those should be captain. At 2-0 you need a leader on the pitch. A leader that has respect from his peers. A leader that can coordinate, plan, battle and fight. To grab the game by the scruff of the neck and pull it out of a hole. We lack managerial leadership: a key lever of success. The half time whistle blew. The crowd booed. They were furious. Even the most diehard fans, all the lads that roar, play the drums and carry the badge of the club remained mute. It was the first time I heard that group mute. It was a sign of the times. They deserve better I thought. My mind wandered again. I felt some joy when I seen all the under 12’s and 16’s come on to the pitch. The future I thought. At least the club is building up its youth section. You wouldn’t have guessed that strategic planning by watching the match. My mind was myopia at this stage. A few deep breaths and I was coming back to life. Those chips look good. Give us a bite of your burger someone shouted. I laughed. There was a little kid in front of me: wild but highly entertaining. He kept me amused at half time.

During the Second Half

The second half kicked off. Johnnie Mc finally did the wise thing (albeit for only 15 minutes) and put Harris at the back. We still looked vulnerable. Bialeck came on for the injured Ryan Guy. Not much of a replacement. Someone told me that Bialeck sent a video of himself to the club and that’s how we signed him. Jaysus I thought, sure I could video my best moves and make myself look good. Ridiculous. He may as well not have been on the pitch. Maybe he will come good but he needs to toughen up a bit before anything. It looked as though Fahey was up front and given a free reign. He is a class act. He got a minor reward with a well taken goal after 55 minutes or so. 3-1. It injected a bit of hope into the crowd. They got going again. My imagination ran wild. I had visions of a comeback akin to the Liverpool – AC Milan Champions league final. 3-3- is possible. Everything is possible I kept telling myself. It is this thought that makes success real. Potential becomes actual with self belief. Even if we get it back to 3-2 the team could walk away with a bit of dignity.

It never happened. Bohs dominated the second half and Glen Crowe should have made it 4-1. We were lucky to escape with 3-1. The final whistle blew. Everyone wanted to leave. The humiliation of listening to the Bohs fans was too much. My voice was gone from screaming. I wanted to give the players and Johnny Mc abuse. Purely irrational but that’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to go up to Johnny Mc and tell him he was tactically out manoeuvred. I wanted to tell him that he has to take responsibility for setting the team up like that. I wanted to tell him that he should strip Harris of the Captains arm band and give it to a natural leader. I watched Harris after we conceded every goal. He said NOTHING to his team mates. A captain embodies the role of the manager on the pitch. He should become the ‘on the pitch manager’ taking his lead from the bench. Unfortunately we don’t have quality management or leadership on or off the field. What was our strategy? Give the ball to Scouser and tell him to whoof it up to Jamie Harris. Bohemians were deserved winners. It makes me sick to say it but they were.

After

As we left the ground the security made a mess of arrangements. We were kept in the ground as they didn’t realise there were Pats fans behind the goal. The disorganisation summed up the previous 90 minutes. They kept us at the gate listening to the Bohs fans celebrate. It was torture. Then, they let us all out at the same time. I mean, get the basics right lads. I felt arrogant at this stage and imagined that we had a democratic club whereby I could put myself forward as the Director. I imagined all the decisions I would make; all the dead wood I would get rid of at the club, how I would bring down the wages to a sustainable level, how I ensure high levels of professionalism amongst players and staff.

Eventually we left the ground. We hung around afterwards chatting. Then, all of a sudden the players started coming out of the ground. I was struck by two thoughts: firstly, what sort of manager allows the players to leave as they wish after being beaten 3-1 in a cup semi final. He should have kept the team together for at least one hour after the game to ensure that they were mentally focused to leave. I wanted to give out to the players. Irrational but that’s what I wanted to do. But in hindsight I should have said to the players, particularly young Mark Quigley: keep your head up son. Think to the future. Put today behind you. Be strong, be prepared and be valiant. If we are serious about being a professional club then we have to start becoming professional. This starts at the top. Behaviour has to change and subsequently attitudes will. My second thought was – were is Keith Fahey? I will tell him that he is a quality player now. Unfortunately he was nowhere to be seen. Let’s be honest he deserves to be playing at a higher level, and even though I would love to see him stay at Pats and bring the club success it is inevitable he will go to a bigger club. He has to realise his potential. I just hope he gets recognised by Trappatoni and co, and takes his deserved place amongst the Irish starting eleven.

I followed the lads to the pub, stared into my blackcurrant and left. I couldn’t bear it. I needed to be alone. I felt sorry for myself. No silverware this season. The curse of Billy Hurly remains. Let’s hope some changes occur over the break and we start the new season with a stronger mentality, stronger self belief and a combative/ competitive edge that is required to bring success. There are four games remaining. I sense the numbers will be diminished. However, I will be there for them all. I love the club and I love the league of Ireland. I just wish the fans could have more of a democratic say in the running of the club. Football is a collective enterprise and the fans should have more of an input into strategic decision making.

I am now sitting down to breakfast. Drinking a cup of tea staring out at the miserable weather. It’s like looking into an emotional mirror. However, the sun is breaking out and it always will. We have to put that semi final defeat behind us and plan for the future. Johnnie Mc has to keep these players going to the end. Never give up and never say die. United we stand and united we fall. THERE IS NO STRENGTH WITHOUT UNITY:

Bring on Cork City!

The film is in effect, the autobiography of the director and his coming to age under Thatcher’s regime in the early 80’s. The entire film is based on his own experiences with the UK skinhead movement of the early eighties. The opening scenes immediately depict a riot between workers and police during the Miner’s strike and gradually photograph the depravation within white working class communities in the early 80’s. There are quotes from Thatcher preaching about the need to wage war in the Falklands and brings home the all too familiar war rhetoric used by Blair during the invasion of Iraq. Apparently, Shane Meadows has never been one to shy away from drawing on his own history for his films, rooting all of his work thus far in the white working class English midlands that are his own roots.

Young Thomas Turgoose stars as Shaun – a twelve year old boy raised by his single mother. His father is mysteriously absent and sorely missed. We later realise that his father died during the Falklands war. An awkward child Shaun is teased and bullied by other children over the usual things – the out of style clothing that is all his mother can afford and his absent father, the latter of which provokes him to violence. Shaun lives a solitary life until he is essentially adopted by Woody, an older teen skinhead, and his small group of friends. Though all signs are that Woody has some sort of darker past this particular group are a happy lot, interracial, and mostly just looking to have a good time while providing the loyalty and support that is otherwise entirely lacking from their lives.
The first half an hour is hilarious and contains everything that is great about being young and not giving a fuck. There are side splitting scenes for any working class bloke that can identify with the confused raw aggression of smashing windows and running riot. No malicious intent and too young to realise the right and wrong of the situation. Gadget is the fat whipping boy who feels well pissed over this young lad moving up the hierarchy ahead of him. Each bloke has his place, each level of hierarchy is respected and the leader Woody maintains order and respect amongst the lads. Shaun is coming of age and finds his own identity within this small close knit group of Skins. He shaves his head, buys the doc martins and proudly wears his spotless Ben Sherman in every scene. The mother does not seem too bothered and is happy that her lonely son has found a brother like figure in Woody.

Everything is working well for Shaun until the arrival of Combo; an old friend of Woody’s who has just spent three years in jail. The mood of the film immediately changes with the arrival of this older more politically aggressive skinhead. And if Woody represents the happier face of the skinhead movement, more interested in two tone Ska and having a laugh than anything else, then Combo is the grim underbelly, representing all of the negatives that come to mind with the skinhead label. Combo is militantly political and his presence immediately divides the group into those who, like Woody, are simply looking for a bit of craic and comradeship and those who are drawn to the racist element of the movement.

If this were a Hollywood film Shaun would follow Woody and that would be the end of it, but this is based on real life which is seldom so simple. If Woody was a surrogate brother for Shaun then Combo quickly becomes established as a father figure. Shaun simply idolises the man, drawn by his strength and passion and the strength that he offers. Blind to the dark consequences of Combo’s beliefs it isn’t long before Shaun is mimicking his every move spray painting racist slogans, attending political rallies and issuing threats to Pakistani shop keepers. It all leads to a cruel awakening … This Is England is a coming of age movie like no other. Beyond simply dealing with his own adolescence Shaun must come to terms with aggression, racism, hatred and violence with absolutely no one to guide him through the process. It is above all else, a depiction of the rise of right wing nationalism amongst the white working class under Thatcher.

Combo, although aggressive and full of hate is also a likeable character. He offers unconditional support to his ‘troops’. He guarantees them security and becomes a replacement for all that is lost in their poverty stricken lives. In a remarkable scene he rallies against the economic policies of Thatcher and the poverty it has created for working class people, only to make the all too familiar conclusion that it is the immigrants who must take the blame. He hates Thatcher and the poverty around him and needs someone to blame. Thus, the film depicts the truth behind most racist mentality and uncompromisingly states the truth behind the support for right wing ideology.

Combo has obvious emotional problems. He almost cries when discussions on family life take place. He is lonely, desiring love and one discerns that he too is a victim of an authoritarian father and poverty. He was bullied by his father and bullies everyone else around him. This is a theme that runs throughout the film. The whipping boy in all the groups finds someone else to become the whipping boy. Thus, there is a Freudian connection between the authoritarian paternalistic instinct and its political results: ring wing nationalism. He wants to father Shaun and Shaun wants a father. The conclusion is obvious, an unhealthy but loving relationship. Combo is the sort of character that would be deathly easy to reduce to a cartoon, the simply minded violently racist thug. And he is those things but he is much more as well and combo easily takes on the complicated psychology of this man. He is a menacing physical presence, a man desperate to be proven strong; fiercely loyal to his friends, as truly protective and caring for Shaun as he can be, and at point’s appalled at his own capacity for violence.

Meadows is to be commended for his treatment of this very difficult material. He tackles the rise of nationalism through an uncompromisingly honest depiction of life in white working class England during the eighties. It also offers a more honest role to the individual personality and the psychological baggage that comes with loss and fear than any structural and theoretical account of fascism. He is also one who remembers that the racist element of the skin movement is actually only a relatively small subset of the group and while he certainly does not gloss over the negatives of that element he gives equal time to other aspects of the movement as well: the camaraderie and sense of family that drove it in its high points not to mention the simple fact that outside of the racist subset it was actually an inter-racial movement.

This is England is a masterful film: vibrant, uncompromising, complex, full of life, remarkably unsentimental and an unflinchingly honest account of how the rise of ring wing nationalism occurred in white working class communities under Thatcher.

This review was first published on Indymedia.ie by Chief.