“A load o’ shite”
by Sidney
I hear my alarm go off in my sleep. I am awake, but unconscious, the unconscious begging for more sleep and yet begging to be awoken. This sleep is not like any other sleep. It is the sleep of the night before the All-Ireland final.
The alarm, when it sounds, is not like any other alarm. It is an All-Ireland final alarm. It is not harsh, it is gentle, like a lover’s call, if a lover’s call could be repackaged as a mobile phone alarm. It is 5:40 am.
I rise. Everything is prepared. Clothes on the chair. Food in the fridge. I go for a pee. This is not any pee. This is an All-Ireland final pee. It is energetic, yet tired and erratic in its aim, like that of a Mayo forward.
Downstairs is silent. Ham sandwiches, ones I’ve made earlier, are already wrapped in tinfoil. I’m not unwrapping them now. I open the fridge and take out two slices of ham and put them each in bread, not bothering to butter the slices. Two more for the road, except the road is stationary and in my living room. I boil the kettle. It hisses expectantly, rising in temperature all the while, as if to signify it understands the twee, faux mystical, GAA analogy significance of it doing so for the day that’s in it. It knows, it knows. This is not an ordinary boil of a kettle. This is an All-Ireland final boil of a kettle.
Ham sandwiches and tea consumed, I grab my bag and venture out into the dark. It is 6:10am. Everything is silent. The calm before the storm. It is a knowing calm, a, twee, faux-mystical All-Ireland final calm.
I rustle my hand in the pocket of m coat to check did I bring an orange. I have brought an apple. And a clementine. This is no ordinary clementine. This is an All-Ireland final clementine.
As I pass the junction of the Galway ring road and the N59, I hear the beeping of the pedestrian lights. This is no ordinary beeping. This is an All-Ireland final beeping of pedestrian lights.
I reach the bus station with five minutes to spare and take out my ticket. There are two buses, and the representative from the GoBus coach company tells me I should board the one at the top of the concourse, rather than the one positioned at the regular boarding location three spaces down. This is no regular bus parking position, this is an All-ireland final bus parking position.
I board the bus. There are no inside seats left. I sit down beside somebody, not even bothering to check who they are. There are Mayo and Galway jerseys further back the bus. There are no other Dublin colours on board. This is no ordinary coach bus journey, this is an All-Ireland final coach bus journey.
The bus moves off and I try to close my eyes. I am uncomfortable in my seat, but I am at once comfortable. There is a group of mildly attractive but tarted up middle aged women seated to the left and behind me. I simultaneously try to sleep and listen in to their conversation. They are going to Barcelona. They know nothing of me and where I am going, except for my Dublin jersey, which prompts them to start talking about the All-Ireland final and whether they will try to watch it when they get to Barcelona. This is no ordinary All-Ireland final conversation, it is the All-Ireland final conversation of a group of mildly attractive middle aged women who are not interested in Gaelic football, some of whom have already started drinking wine on the bus.
I think of where they’re going - Dublin Airport, and the throngs of people arriving home for the big match. People from Dublin, people from Mayo, people from every far flung boreen on this island, Protestant areas excepted. I think of the juxtaposition between these group of departing, tipsy, middle aged women attempting to live out their Sex and the City dream and the emigrants returning from London, New York, Sydney, the Cook Islands, Antarctica and Mars for the final. I recite that list of geographical locations in my mind in a Marty Morrissey voice. This will be no ordinary airport juxtaposition. This will be an All-Ireland final airport juxtaposition.
The bus moves along at a steady pace. The dawn starts to break. This is no ordinary run of the mill coach journey. This is no ordinary dawn. It is an All-Ireland final run of the mill coach journey. It is an All-Ireland final dawn.
I drift in and out of faux-sleep. This is no ordinary faux-sleep. It is an All-Ireland final faux-sleep.
The bus passes the bit of the motorway where the M4 merges with it. This is no ordinary motorway junction. It is an All-Ireland final motorway junction.
Dublin beckons me home like a mother gently grasping her baby to her bosom. This is no ordinary bosom. This is an All-Ireland final bosom.
This is no ordinary All-Ireland final. It is an All-Ireland final All-Ireland final.
As spoken by an earnest, faux-poetic Joseph O’Connor soundalike
