Michael Lyster had a steady hand at the tiller way about him. I donât know is this the same thing as âa nice, easy wayâ.
Des laughs at himself, he makes fun of himself. He doesnât panic, he pretends to panic.
Des is in his absolute pomp on a long winter Sunday afternoon after it gets dark, and heâs interviewing some lesser spotted GAA figures, like the Powers of Kilkenny, and the interview goes on, and on, and on, and on. And you want it to go on. Itâs luxurious. You can smell the Sunday roast in the oven and you can feel the warmth from the fire. Even if youâre having pasta for dinner and you have no fireplace.
An integral part of the experience of watching the Irish soccer team over the years was Bill OâHerlihy presenting. Crucial to it was Bill OâHerlihyâs background as a âseriousâ journalist and his ability to bring gravitas. But he also had this quality of being able to channel the feelings of an entire nation and make the whole thing relatable to people in the smallest village. It didnât matter whether you were in the Bayside Inn or Jobstown or Kielys of Donnybrook or Graiguenamanagh or Patrickswell or Ballycroy, he had this gift of making every person in Ireland feel they were going on the same journey together. We may win (unlikely), we may win through drawing 1-1 with an equaliser in the last 20 minutes after going 1-0 down after 8 minutes (much more likely), we may lose, but whatever was about to happen, we were all going on the same journey and we would all see it through to the end, together. These were hallowed nights with hallowed air. The air was heavy yet light. The houses, the concrete roads with the tar lines, the grass verges, the trees, the traffic lights, they all looked splendid, as if their inaninmate selves knew something was about to happen and they wanted in on it too.
The bit where Bill introduced the coverage of Ireland v Italy 1990 and went over to âChristyâ (he didnât have or need a surname) with Joxer was peak communal Irish culture. Inside the studio where Christy sat on that stool, despite there being no windows, there was a beautiful summer evening sky overhead, there were gentle summer waves lapping on a stony Irish beach which had turned sandy for the evening. Christy was speaking to an entire nation. People were looking each other in the eyes and giving them âthat lookâ (Š Gerry Thornley). We â as in all the people of Ireland - were an army going out to fight that night, not to win, but to fight as best we could and to scream and to laugh and to cry, because we knew we were going to lose. We knew we were going to lose like the people in 1916 knew they were going to lose.
The thing about television and radio at its best was it created a sort of communal culture that bound people together in a way that was good for society, whereas the internet has utterly obliterated communal culture or it has obliterated the idea of the charismatic, totemic figure who was essentially a force for good. In recent years, only Jurgen Klopp has fulfilled this role. Maybe Jim McGuinness. The remnants of communal culture we are left with are now based almost entirely around utterly toxic and hate filled demagogues. Positive communal culture has all but disappeared.
Even now, if Ireland reached a World Cup and we won a knockout tie, there would be no repeat of the OâConnell Street or Cherry Tree scenes. People would be too busy fucking with their mobile phones to âcaptureâ the moment, and ruining the flow of the moment entirely. The specialness of 1990 was that everybody experienced the same thing, as long as they were here. As Con Houlihan said, âI missed the World Cup. I was in Italy.â
