It was a strange situation. The Castle, a cosy little pub in my hometown of Belturbet, was wedged with bodies. There were chaps hanging from the rafters craning their necks to get a look at the screen. Though the crowd was an oojus one, you could hear a pin drop. Frustration had set in…

“For Christ sake McGeady. That’s the second time you’ve given it away in the last two minutes hi!”

I sipped at my pint. Ireland were one nil down against the might of Germany in a crucial Euro 2016 qualifier game. There were five minutes to play and our boys hadn’t got within an ass’s roar of their goalmouth. Fingernails had been chewed to the butt at this stage. Shards of bar mat debris littered the floor. Sighs echoed around the room with every speculative long ball our boys launched into the black German sky.

The end of normal time came and went. I checked my phone. There were calves to be fed. Ah flip it, a couple of minutes wouldn’t hurt.

Then it happened.

I’ll always remember where I was when the pope died; stuck to a young one at a junior disco. When Roy Keane walked out on the Irish team, I had just unwrapped my 12th birthday present; a shiny ride-on John Deere complete with front loader. And I was in a small pub in Belturbet, when John O’Shea squeezed his effort past the German ‘keeper and sent a quaint little island on the elbow of Europe into frenzied euphoria.

“Holy moley! RAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

It must’ve sounded like a volcanic eruption from the bottom of the village. Any fittings that weren’t fixed to the floor became instantaneously airborne as the ball rolled across the whitewash. Men, women and children were leaping around like mad eejits, throwing fist pumps to bate the band.

“OLÉ…OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ!”

“HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT ANGELA MERKEL?!? YEEOOOWW!!”

Singing and dancing ensued. Countless pints were spilled, to the dismay of their owners…

“Jesus Christ I payed €4.80 for that!!”

The party continued long after the final whistle. It was the biggest shin-dig Belturbet had seen in decades.

“Stick me on another one there Charlie!”

Milking the bull

As I trudged down the steps methodically I couldn’t stop smiling. I’d only gotten two hours sleep and my head was spinning like a PTO shaft, but BY GOD it had been some party.

I turned to face the 32 black and white milk-machines that had been assembled to my left and began to fit the clusters. Since the tender age of 12 I’d milked for our neighbour. At this stage I could’ve done it blind-folded. It was just as well. After the feed of stout I had the night before, my vision wasn’t exactly tip-top.

I shuffled along the line, staring into the abyss whilst my hands subconsciously worked the clusters.

CRASH!

A cluster had fallen. It happened.

I side-stepped back and scooped it up again, humming away to myself.

“…and the auld triangle…went jingle jangle…”

At around two the previous night a sing-song had started. The craic had been mighty.

“CRASH!”

It had fallen again.

For a second time I reached down to fetch the cluster. As I did so a voice bellowed from the far side of the pit. I jumped with the shock. It was Roman, the polish chap who worked for my neighbour.

“HEY STUPID IRISH! WE NO…MILK…BULL!”

“Christ, I need a coffee hi…”