I never particularly liked the criticism of Ireland fans.
Sure, some of them play up to the fame now. You see lads showing up in different countries with this brash assuredness that they’ll not only be the life and soul of the town for a night, but they’ll take home whoever they please because… the leprechaun suit.
There are also a lot of them who don’t see the point in being good craic if no-one is there to record it but that FOSETMO Syndrome (fear of showing everyone they’re missing out) is a modern day culture and extends far beyond Ireland fans on tour.
For the most part, the Irish are a bubble of blissful joy and, genuinely, locals seem to rise to the excitable occasion in anticipation of ‘the world’s greatest fans’ showing up for a party on their doorstep.
Euro 2016, France… hell football needed the Irish fans and, by God, they delivered, @ConanDoherty was in Parishttps://t.co/cuHfcgw1h9
— SportsJOE (@SportsJOEdotie) June 14, 2016
They drink and they roar and they sing the same songs over and over and then they go and do the next stupid thing they can think of just in the hope that someone might laugh but as much as the statement might be worn or scoffed at, they really are just having the craic. If they’re playing up to the stereotype, what’s wrong with that? They’re playing up to being good craic and nice and harmless and lovable – you couldn’t dream of travelling tourists playing up to a better stereotype.
Some people might get exhausted at the thought of their relentless in-your-face energy now and they might get sick, like every good thing, of seeing it too much but it’s not dissimilar to being the sober one at a party where the wine is flowing and the beer is thrown. You might not be the common denominator in the Irish support’s case but you don’t have to come in and turn the music off at their party either.
Of course, the problem with any party is that the harder and crazier it gets and the longer it goes on, you leave the doors ajar as an open invitation for anyone to walk in off the street and join in.
On the flight over, one guy joked with me about hoping Denmark would win because the pubs might stay open a bit later. Innocent enough, like.
Somewhere along the way, it escalated.
I don’t know if he had figured out I was ‘cool’ or not but conversation just naturally drifted to him offering me “a line”.
When his mates had asked me earlier if he was snoring, I realised now that I had left a ‘t’ out of that verb.
– “Ah, I’m alright, thanks.” (for some reason I was trying to put him at ease with how okay I was with it all. I was just a sentence shy of going full David Brent and explaining that “I’m mad enough without the shit anyway”).
– “Never refuse drugs, mate. They’re very expensive.”
What do you say to that?
– “Do you have a coin?” he asks and, of course, I start searching for one.
– “Hang on,” where did I put my wallet, I can definitely help him out here.
– “Too f**king late now!”
It’s already on his index finger and without reserve or shame, he takes the sort of snort I never thought a human being would have to. What I didn’t realise is that the sniffing and throat-clearing as if he was trying to recall phlegm would continue for another 20 odd minutes.
“I don’t even like football!” he looks at me and laughs. I believe him.
He was actually sound enough and he blames his mates anyway because he had been planning on sleeping on the plane until they came and woke him up and what else are really you going to do on a morning flight with still the guts of half an hour to go?
That’s not a depiction of Irish football fans – he says it himself, he doesn’t like football.
You might find them rowdy, you might find someone snorting coke from time to time but every population sample in every walk of life has deviants. With Irish fans, your faith is never too far from being restored when you talk to a man who’s in Denmark with his two sons with no ticket and he’s just going out all day Saturday in the hope that something, anything drops for him.
He doesn’t care if he gets sorted, he wants his boys to get to the World Cup playoff game and he’ll travel to Scandinavia in the off-chance that it might happen even against the odds.
He’s hoping for better luck than what they had in Wales when they went to Cardiff without so much as a train transfer booked. Nothing came through in the end but, rather than going home the next day via London, it worked out 30 quid dearer to go through Paris before returning to Dublin. So they went and they got their game, France v Belarus.
On a cold Saturday in November, they go again. In truth, their chances are almost impossible because they’re not alone. It’s carnage in Copenhagen with most Irish fans you talk to saying that they’re not sorted for tickets to Parken Stadium.
The FAI secured 2,305 tickets for travelling support but the rumours around the streets of the Danish capital are that only 700 of those are in Irish hands. Those are the sort of exaggerations that get thrown around in times of crisis.
But, still, here they are. Thousands of Irish fans trawling unknown lands phoning unknown people and hunting out unknown contingency plans all the while. They’re here in hope more than anything, but more than that, they’re here to have a good time and to do that together.
They’re going to enjoy themselves whatever will be. Whether they like football or not.
