Teaandtoast.ie: Donaghmede Binn

When you’re forced to wait ten years for something, you’ll most likely build it up into some sort of ridiculous expectation which the eventual reality can never hope to match. The obvious example is the first time you have sex. For years, our teenage selves were force fed these glorified, exaggerated images of sex in movies which gave us all an unreal picture of what the event was actually like. Unless you’re a twelve year old Anthony Kiedis and you banged your dad’s 18 year-old girlfriend. Then you’re just a tank.

Last night, ten years of waiting for the Republic of Ireland to grace an international tournament came to an end as they faced Croatia in their opening game of Euro 2012. A twenty-three year gap between European Championship appearances was bridged. I wasn’t born the last time Ireland played in the Euros – though, I was quite possibly conceived during the tournament in ’88 as I slipped gracefully into the world in the March of ’89. As one of the lads said in the pub: “You would’ve just been one rubbed out had Ireland not been it.” It’s hard to disagree with the logic.

Ever since the sack holding the cat was firmly closed in November, I’ve been willing the time to pass. I can still remember the 2002 World Cup and the excitement which surrounded it (I was only 13 and Robbie Keane’s late goal against Germany remains a treasured memory). And as the Euros have approached, the buzz generated has become equally infectious, spreading even to people who have no interest in the game. Buntings and flags fly from most houses. Yesterday everyone was dressed to support Ireland (I was wearing a flag like a cape in work). Spirits were high; optimism was higher.

Nobody seemed to doubt we would get something against Croatia, despite the memory of our last meeting in August 2011 when the 0-0 scoreline flattered us. I felt we needed at least a point from yesterday’s game to have a chance of progression. I had already reconciled myself to defeat against Spain in our second game once we achieved the right results in our first and last games, the latter being against an Italy side whose preparations were thrown into disarray by another match-fixing scandal. And so, I was calm. Like everybody else, I believed we would get a result against Croatia.

Come three o’clock I was running out of work; by four, I had reached the Promised Land – The Donaghmede Inn. I was fully expecting to be cramped in a corner of ‘the Binn’ – as it is affectionately known – by the time I got there, but the lads had shown extreme levels of dedication to the cause in my absence: they were outside the pub before it had even opened in order to get the coveted table right in front of the big screen. At five, we witnessed Spain and Italy play out an entertaining 1-1 draw, a result that suited us perfectly. The countdown was on and the Binn was jumping.

A DJ hooked himself in and played a rake of anthems, old and new, from Put ‘Em Under Pressure to The Rocky Road to Poland. Everybody was kitted out in green and white, chanting along to the songs. The atmosphere was electric and it soon became quite difficult to move. One girl in particular apologised to me repeatedly every time she had to brush past me. “You have two tit-shaped holes in your back now!” one lad behind me eventually roared as he shook my shoulders. I have no idea if her tits were that busty. I hadn’t time to check.

I was getting anxious. I just wanted the talking to stop and the football to start. Chants of “You’ll never beat the Irish!” continued until kick-off. They went on for a minute or two after as well – but they were silenced in the third minute when Mario Mandžukić scored what must be the most bizarre goal of his career. He even slipped before regaining his feet to stoop and loop a half-hunched header past an unsighted Shay Given from at least twelve yards. The silence was momentary but deafening. “What the f**k?” somebody eventually asked.

Now wasn’t the time to panic. “Come on Ireland, only three minutes gone, loadsa time!”  We fought our way back up the pitch but Vedran Corluka was doing his best to impede our advance with his persistent fouling. He’d do well not to turn up in Donaghmede anytime soon. That said, a foul he committed on the right-wing led to our equaliser. The ball was whipped in and Sean St. Ledger, aka Sledge, rose highest to beat Corluka and head home. The Binn exploded.

I just sat there. I’d heard a whistle blow as the ball was whipped in. I was convinced there was a foul or something. I didn’t want to suffer crushing disappointment, so I didn’t accept the goal and just waited for the indignant shouts to begin as the ref pulled it back. But he never did. Everybody was still celebrating and I was missing out over some random whistle I thought I’d heard. “F**KING YEEEEEESSS!” I yelled as I belatedly jumped up, confused and delirious.

“But dare I dream again?” I wondered. I had already been hurt once. And Ireland did their best to make sure I suffered palpitations by being so unbelievably casual in possession at times – if it wasn’t Richard Dunne allowing Nikica Jelavic to rob him of the ball in his own half it was Keano doing stepovers outside his own box. I just wanted to get to half-time at 1-1, and it looked like that would be the case. Until…

Jelavic, the git. He annoyed me at Rangers with his exploits, and now here he was, doubly-offside at a glance, the happy beneficiary of rules regarding player activity during passages of play and – more frustratingly – the banana right foot of Stephan Ward. His finish was tidy but I only admit that in hindsight. And it looks like there was a foul on Ward which caused his sliced clearance. Five officials and not one spotted this?

The interval in the Binn passed by in heated debate. Offside or not? Substitutions or not? The only unanimous conclusion to be reached regarded the merits of Ward’s place in the team. The words weren’t kind. Even more unkind was the goal we conceded three minutes after the restart – Shay Given with a wonderful diving header after Mandzukic had headed onto the post.

Given’s head hit the turf. Mine hit the table. I didn’t rise for three minutes. We were then denied a penalty with fifteen minutes to go when Keano was bundled over from behind. We weren’t playing well, we weren’t getting any favours from the ref – if ever the phrase “It’s just not your night” was more apt, I’d like to know when.

By now the frustrations of those in the Binn was at its peak. Belated changes were made, which pleased the patrons, but they reaped no reward. Keith Andrews had a couple of decent chances, particularly a header that he should have scored. In the end, we lost 3-1. Ten years of waiting ruined in ten minutes. That said, we could still do the unthinkable and beat either Spain or Italy, or even both.

The carnival atmosphere in the Binn was restored within minutes of the final whistle as the DJ played Always Look On The Bright Side of Life and Daydream Believer. People responded because glowering would not change the result. Perhaps we need to find solace in simply just qualifying for the tournament? But it doesn’t feel like enough considering some of the things that went against us last night. All we can do now is psyche ourselves up for Thursday’s clash with Spain and hope we can put them under more pressure than we applied to Croatia last night.


This was published during my brief spell as a writer-in-residence with Teaandtoast.ie, a now seemingly defunct political and culture website (the Facebook page remains but is largely inactive). A good friend of mine who had become editor of the site in May asked me to contribute to the cultural aspect of the website she was developing, so I wrote slightly comedic feature/opinion pieces on various societal ills which occurred in Dublin between May and July of 2012.

To me, Ireland's opening Euro 2012 performance was a societal ill but the atmosphere of my local pub was a saving grace. In the end, Ireland's elimination was as ruthless as their performances were insipid but I take solace from the fact that both tournament finalists came out of our group in the end - it only took me roughly eight months to accept this as being okay.