Ubiquitous Ulster

I was wandering across the dried up shores of Lake Delia, desperately searching for a route to the terrace when a volunteer steward approached me. Now if I did not know better, I would have said it was Youngman. He looked like Youngman, he spoke like Youngman, he smiled like Youngman, he even jingled his money like Youngman. But it could not have been the real Youngman. He told me I was barred!

“You are barred,” he said. “Barred from the barrier, barred from the bar. Barred, full stop.” And with that he folded his arms in a Youngmanish sort of way.

“But I only want to stand on the terrace and support Ireland,” I implored. He shook his head in an Eventsec kind of way. “Yikes,” I thought, “the thought police have brainwashed Youngman!”.

“But I am your friend,” I pleaded.

“Easy on,” whispered the Cap’n…”you’ll be offering him a pink gin next!”

But the Youngman clone was not for moving. Dejectedly, the Cap’n and I trudged off in the direction of the Prom. I was nearly overcome with the waft of expensive cologne. Tip toeing through the remains of the M&S deli range sandwiches and champagne corks, I found myself in uncharted waters. Beautiful girls abounded. Foreign accents fell on upon my uneducated ear. Tall sporty chaps stood in front of me. I could see nathin’.

Then my phone rang. It was the General. “What are you doing over here?” he demanded. “Clear off back to where you belong, you uneducated, flag waving, insult chanting piece of riff-raff!”

Well, shock-a-mullah! I turned to stare up into the heights of the stand. There he stood, silhouetted against the cigar smoke, be-hatted, resplendent in a natty suit and tie, every inch the image of a dodgy, dodgy Mexican Bookmaker! It seemed that EventSec had got to him as well.

“Wouldn’t be surprised he is wearing some of Youngman’s bling,” I thought.

Just then there was a rush for the gate.

“Leaving so soon,” I thought? There was no doubt though; hundreds of shabbily dressed Ulster fans were exiting the Prom at a rate of knots.

“The terrace is open”, the Cap’n remarked. And without further a do I was swept along with the great unwashed as fast as my wee legs would carry me.

“Will there be Bootleg Stout?” he shouted over the mêlée. But one glance into the half tent revealed that it was half manned and I would wait half the match for a half pint. “No,” I shouted half heartedly.

But soon enough we rounded Burger Van Headland and into the last rays of a setting Easter sun. The familiar slopes of the terrace lay invitingly before us. Ascending to our usual spot, the Cap’n produced a variation on a flag theme – the Cross of St Patrick! “The wonders of Ards Market,” I thought. “They may have two belly buttons and six toes in that part of Co Down but they are certainly ecumenically minded.”

On the pitch the Irish were teaching the colonial boys a thing or two about rugby. And in the distance, ‘neath the gloom of the dark side, there arose a roar of approval.

Then I saw Freddie Benson, and next to him, DingDong2U. And then, behold, a beaming vision of Youngman. “How many of you are there?” I enquired. He beamed a Youngman smile, muttered something about 400 volunteers and headed off to stand within camera shot of a TV interview.

The evening wore on, the sun set, Australia wore Ireland down, the clock ticked down, the match was lost, no banners were waved, no songs were sung, either in victory or defeat. The crowd headed for home, the Aquinas breeze harrying the plastic pint glasses at their heels.

“I do love this place,” I thought. “Being an Irish fan may be good, but being an Ulster fan is better still!”

SCOOP