Ravenhill Nights – 2 September 2006
“It’s getting late, have you seen my mates, ma tell me when the boys get here. It’s seven o’clock and I wanna rock wanna get a belly full of beer …cause Saturday night’s alright for fightin’.”
Saturday morning dawned in hazy focus, a bumping headache brought on by mixing wine and beer the night before suggested I should have heeded the Confucius type sayings of an Englishwoman we met on holiday a few years ago.
“Beer before wine and you’ll be fine, wine before beer will make you feel queer.”
Slowly through the haze, the sound of drumming rain, clarified by a wee look beyond the curtains and my worst fears were realised, the heavens had opened. Thoughts of standing on Ravenhill Terracing in the pouring rain are as appealing as holidaying in Ballygowan. Memories of the Heiny game against Gloucester, in 2004 came flooding back and the cold trickle of water down the back of the neck was almost a reality. . The sun eventually came out though its watery rays did little to lift the gloom at Windsor Park. Norn Iron on a wave expectancy where supposed to do the business against Iceland as the first instalment of a Belfast Saturday sporting double header!!.
We feared for the fragility of our front row against an expected onslaught from a tough Llanelli front five, so the expectancy bit was missing at Ravenhill.
The sense of atmosphere, that we the Ulster rugby do expect was building, albeit a tad slowly despite the best efforts of Magners offering free alcoholic apple juice and ice. The fragility in my head had cleared by the time I visited the beer tent. Two of the Grousebeaters were feeling a mite sore, but having underwent a costume change between Windsor and Ravenhill where now sporting Ulster shirts, leaving the Norn Iron ones buried under a pile of oul rocks. Humiliation was bandied about, would there be a second one this evening one wondered?.
A quick visit to the URSC stall, the candy striped cloth pagoda, found chairman Kimble impersonating a recruiting sergeant, I departed before I could be press ganged into buying a limited edition polo shirt. Back to the beer tent, there where clear signs that Saturday night kick offs weren’t going to deter yer average Ulster supporter. I found myself in conversation with Mrs Rooster whom I discovered was a dedicated rugby fan, enjoyed the game and watched matches on TV.
“Woman are the best coaches rugby never had,” I told her, as I shuddered at the memory of some of the women who had stood on the touchline when I played the game. These females had a precise knowledge of rugby that cut to the chase and could fell a wannabee prop at fifty metres. One shouted at her son, who had just dropped the ball, “ye’ll not be getting yer tea the night after that!!”
Obviously some female must have given the team talk in the Ulster dressing room at half time because the transformation in Ulster’s game was radical to say the least.
I was standing at the end of the Terrace, nearest the beer tent, probably the most outer limit of the Terrace I’ve ever watched a match from. Did discover it was handy to the beer tent and the toilets though not necessarily in that order.
I had in the first instance attempted to purchase a pint as I retreated from the beer tent towards the Terrace. Standing at the bar in the beer tent was like beholding a mirage. Pints of beer lined the tables, young men behind the taps poured the stuff. But….what use was that if the youngsters decided not to serve it? Hence the mirage effect of seeing beer and not being able to partake it. There was much shaking of heads along the counter as we watched six bar maids admire two guys pouring pints of Guinness. With their backs to the paying customers!!!
I was busy doing my texts to our exiled supporters and trying to watch the game at the same time, not easy and when your trying to drink a beer to boot. Honestly a rugby supporter would need 3 hands these days.
With the game safely in the bag but the final whistle not yet gone, I raced for the 9.30 bus on the Castlereagh road. I was determined not to repeat last Friday’s walk from hell when my usual chauffeur, brother BP, failed to materialise at the game, (sick apparently). Then I missed the 9.30 bus and started to walk in the direction of the bunker in Ballygobackwards. Hoping to hail a taxi, it soon became apparent that the taxis weren’t in hail mood and I ended up giving them the fingers as they shot past in continuous shuttle fashion. Soon I was walking in the pitch black along the road bordering Roselawn Cemetery. I needed to answer the call of nature and looked for a suitable spot, espying a driveway in the darkness. Closer inspection revealed flowers marking the spot of a bereavement and I hurried on into the night in search of another more appropriate place. Finally arriving at Crossnacreevy village I waited patiently for the last bus which promptly drove past the stop. I promptly gave it the fingers whereupon it stopped and I half expected the driver to jump out and punch me. I got on board and he waived payment out of embarrassment for nearly missing a customer.
This Saturday night I got the bus with a few minutes to spare and was home wrapped in bed for ten o’clock. Well not quite I managed to mix wine and beer in a wee celebration but without the disastrous head churning effects of Friday night / Saturday morning.
