The
Wreck of the Beer Tent
I was late….it was 19:45
and Ulster were leading Connacht 10 to nil. But that was in Galway and
I was outside Raving Hill hoping to watch what was left of the A game
against the touring Aussie Convicts. Mount Merrion was as deserted as
Ballymena on a flag day but the back gate was ajar, patrolled by a burly
fellah in a yellow flak jacket. Having paid my £8 for a small pink
raffle ticket, and battling across the desolate car park, I was struck
by something odd – the silence! The lights were on but no one was
in! And the Guinness Tent had undergone a remarkable transformation. It
had been chopped in half and the clock end was now listing alarmingly
to starboard – it seemed that the whole canvas edifice was about
to slip beneath the waters of Lake Delia for ever. At least there would
be plenty of Guinness in Davy Jones’ Locker for a while.
Bending low and striding into the teeth of an unrelenting Aquinas Gale
I rounded Half Tent Headland and spied a truly wondrous sight. For there,
high on the wind swept heights of the Terrace stood a small band of men,
huddled together as if protecting something truly precious from the elements,
while above their heads their banners whipped in the wind. As I approached
I saw them leap in joy and, gathering their flags, they proceeded to perform
what I assumed to be the Ulster version of an ancient Tibetan Prayer Flag
Dance. Noticing the inactivity on the pitch far below them only confounded
my confusion further.
“Hello Kimble”, bellowed Mid Ulster Maestro. At least
that is what I assume he said, for his words were borne away on the wind.
“You’re late!” mouthed the Cap’n, somewhat
unnecessarily. “Seventeen nil!” shouted Ballpark
in sign language, before turning back to the small transistor radio lashed
to the fourth barrier. “I see you have brought more flags,”
read a hastily scribbled note from the redoubtable Freddie Benson.
And so it came to pass that the five of us, huddled together on the northern
slopes of Raving Hill, heard tell of most wondrous events unfolding on
the far away western fringes of Ireland! Ulster were winning and, most
astonishingly, Kevin Maggs, Ulster’s answer to Tractor Pulling,
had declined the crash tackle and had put Bryn in for a try in the corner!
Twenty-four nil! Cue another episode of the Tibetan Prayer Flag Dance,
no doubt much to the consternation of those in the stand, let alone the
players on the pitch who were standing patiently while the medics attended
to an injured colleague.
“But where is Holywood Mike?”, I enquired. “Oh,
he is over on the Prom side; why look, there his flag flies yet,”
said the Cap’n.
“And Cables? What of he?” I replied.
“Last seen near the wreck of the half tent,” intoned
Ballpark.
And then, right on cue, a great seabird swept low over the stadium, circling
between the floodlights. Back and forth it flew.
“Yes,” I thought to myself, “the Ancient
Mariner is out there somewhere……taking aim.”
This has been a Stop
Gap production for Scoop
SCOOP
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