La Lorgnette 1 – 6 FC Irlande 1sts
Just like last week we were subdued for the first twenty minutes, needlessly lofting the ball high when the astro turf made for easy control under foot. And, just like last week, after weathering a mild storm we took the lead through yours truly. I made a run behind the defence, Mark found me with a good pass, I went round the keeper and shot into an empty net from the edge of the box.
Christian got our second with a volleyed finish from Peter’s free kick. Peter had a good game, especially in the first half. They got it back to 2-1 in the second half and it looked, briefly, like there might be some trouble. I was never worried though. These days I don’t ever feel like we’re going to lose.
Their keeper had a nightmare, and handed us three goals, one each to Sean, Pauli and Sigve. Man of the match Enda put in a great ball to Fred, whose header was firm and right into the bottom corner. I don’t know how he does it, but Fred manages to get into an argument with an opposition player (or two or three – or perhaps just the opposition itself) every time he plays. This time he was only on as a sub for twenty minutes or so. Luckily he picked their shortest player, a Frank Ribery look-alike.
So six different scoers. 6-1. Bloody hell. It seemed so easy. Perhaps it was easy. This Saturday is the big one. We’re playing Brussels LTC at home. They’re second in the league, 9 points behind us. If we beat them we’ll be 12 points clear with six games to go.
Here are some more proud stats. This latest win was our 11th in a row, and the 10th in a row by at least three goals.
Great game overall. Enda was our best player, but I have to say it seems strange that a team can win 6-1 and the right back gets man of the match.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Teaching English
I have two fears as an English teacher. One is not having enough activities to fill the time. The other is being asked something I can’t answer. The latter happens quite a bit.
It’s usually ‘what’s the difference between…?’ Like what’s the difference between say and tell? Talk and speak? Much and many? Steps and stairs? Like and love?
That last one’s easy. Depending on the audience I’ll say something like
I love Manchester United, I’ve supported them all my life. I like Newcastle, because I used to live near there and my dad supports them. This is for the young Moroccan boy who likes football. Bless him, he’s sad at the moment. Morocco went out of the ANC in the group stage.
(Has anyone else noticed that the African continental football championships form the same acronym (ANC) as one of the most famous African political parties – South Africa’s ruling party, the African National Congress?)
I like watching films, but I love reading. This is to the sophisticated Austrian civil servant who plays the violin.
I like blonde girls, but I love red heads. This to the young Belgian businessman who wears fancy shirts tight to his chest and who says he never wants to get married.
Think of and think about – what’s the difference? I asked my boss. She asked me, what do you think of when you’re sitting on the toilet? I think about English grammar, I told her, just to be difficult.
People want rules. With much and many, for example, there’s a simple rule. Much is followed by an uncountable noun (for example, time, money, patience), and many is followed by a countable noun (for example friends, Romans, countrymen – I used that with an Italian student).
Sometimes there are no rules, or there are and I don’t know them. In these cases I just peddle them with examples until they get it, or say they get it and ask something else. Sometimes I’m lucky and come up with a joke that masks my insecurity at not knowing the answer.
“What’s the difference between think of and think about?”
“Hmm…” Long pause. “I’m trying to think of a good example. Hahahaha…ha.”
I prefer it when the pressure’s on them. This is mainly with pronunciation. French students are notorious for not being able to pronounce certain sounds. ‘H’ is one, as in ‘how hot happy hippos hit and hint.’ Lots of students beg me to clarify ‘angry’ and ‘hungry’. For us they’re two distinctly different sounds, but for French speakers it’s a real challenge, and they’ll practice over and over without success. At this point I begin to imagine irate French diplomats who can’t understand why they’re being sent to Budapest.
‘Th’ is very difficult. This sound doesn’t exist in French. “My mudder and brudder ‘ate my fadder.” Is inter-family cannibalism on the rise in Belgium? Who knows.
When they’re at their most embarrassed I chime in with my own difficulties in French. “Those ‘r’ sounds are impossible”, I say sympathetically, and I give an example of poor French pronunciation. “Remettre”, I’ll say, like a Spanish cow (note: if you found that analogy strange and unfunny you’re not alone. It’s a French idiom).
It’s usually ‘what’s the difference between…?’ Like what’s the difference between say and tell? Talk and speak? Much and many? Steps and stairs? Like and love?
That last one’s easy. Depending on the audience I’ll say something like
I love Manchester United, I’ve supported them all my life. I like Newcastle, because I used to live near there and my dad supports them. This is for the young Moroccan boy who likes football. Bless him, he’s sad at the moment. Morocco went out of the ANC in the group stage.
(Has anyone else noticed that the African continental football championships form the same acronym (ANC) as one of the most famous African political parties – South Africa’s ruling party, the African National Congress?)
I like watching films, but I love reading. This is to the sophisticated Austrian civil servant who plays the violin.
I like blonde girls, but I love red heads. This to the young Belgian businessman who wears fancy shirts tight to his chest and who says he never wants to get married.
Think of and think about – what’s the difference? I asked my boss. She asked me, what do you think of when you’re sitting on the toilet? I think about English grammar, I told her, just to be difficult.
People want rules. With much and many, for example, there’s a simple rule. Much is followed by an uncountable noun (for example, time, money, patience), and many is followed by a countable noun (for example friends, Romans, countrymen – I used that with an Italian student).
Sometimes there are no rules, or there are and I don’t know them. In these cases I just peddle them with examples until they get it, or say they get it and ask something else. Sometimes I’m lucky and come up with a joke that masks my insecurity at not knowing the answer.
“What’s the difference between think of and think about?”
“Hmm…” Long pause. “I’m trying to think of a good example. Hahahaha…ha.”
I prefer it when the pressure’s on them. This is mainly with pronunciation. French students are notorious for not being able to pronounce certain sounds. ‘H’ is one, as in ‘how hot happy hippos hit and hint.’ Lots of students beg me to clarify ‘angry’ and ‘hungry’. For us they’re two distinctly different sounds, but for French speakers it’s a real challenge, and they’ll practice over and over without success. At this point I begin to imagine irate French diplomats who can’t understand why they’re being sent to Budapest.
‘Th’ is very difficult. This sound doesn’t exist in French. “My mudder and brudder ‘ate my fadder.” Is inter-family cannibalism on the rise in Belgium? Who knows.
When they’re at their most embarrassed I chime in with my own difficulties in French. “Those ‘r’ sounds are impossible”, I say sympathetically, and I give an example of poor French pronunciation. “Remettre”, I’ll say, like a Spanish cow (note: if you found that analogy strange and unfunny you’re not alone. It’s a French idiom).
Monday, 28 January 2008
Saturday Night in Brussels
The ceilings were low and the walls were made from red brick. There were candles and loud music. Before I knew what was going on I was in a heated debate with Emer’s housemate.
“The crimes of the United States have been brutal and systematic,” I said.
“Oh my God give me a break. You’re one of these social-anarchist people aren’t you?”
“No I just don’t like the countries that run the world at the moment.”
“But you’re just anti-American, that’s so typical. Look, Iraq, Iraq, they do a lot of good for the world as well.” I went on with my speech. I say speech, it was actually the speech Harold Pinter gave when he won the Noble Prize a couple of years ago, or at least the parts I could remember.
“I refer you to every right wing military dictatorship - ”
“Oh ‘right wing’! Ohhhh,” she said, pretending to be scared.
“Military dictatorship since the end of World War II. Indonesia, Vietnam. Er…” There were others. There were at least half a dozen others, but my mind was blank.
“Well I don’t know much about Indonesia, but I do know that it used to be very poor and now it’s quite wealthy.”
I ploughed on against this ignorance, getting louder and less coherent. I think Emer might have stepped in out of pity, or perhaps because I was being a wanker. I don’t remember. I also don’t remember how we pulled, if anything was said about the fact that we were friends and that this might lead to problems.
When I woke up Sunday morning I didn’t know where I was. She was climbing over me, waking me up.
“Hey, hey, you’ve got to get up. We’re leaving soon. You can’t stay.”
“Where are you going? What time is it?”
“You’ve got a watch on. We’re going to the motor show.”
I paused. I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly.
“The what?”
“The motor show.” She was putting her bra on, strapping it up from the back. It looked immensely complicated. And they do this everyday, I thought. She probably thought I was ogling her and had never seen a girl putting a bra on before. I wasn’t. I was admiring the technique involved, and still trying to decide if she had said motor show.
“The what?” I asked.
“Are you still drunk or something? The MO-TOR show. The motor show. What don’t you get about that?”
“What’s a motor show?”
“Have you never been to one?”
“Is it like a car show?”
“Yeah.”
“So it’s a car show.”
“No, it’s a motor show. Other things have motors as well.”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“You’re still drunk aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” I looked at my watch. The strap was loose. Putting it back proved quite difficult.
“Do you remember trying to get that off? You said it would improve your performance. You were so drunk.”
“It does improve my performance.”
“Well we’ll discuss that later. Right now you’ve got to get up. And you can’t have a shower either. There’s no hot water.”
“I told you we should have showered together.”
Her flatmate and I were all laughs about the debate we’d had last night. Neither of us could really remember what it was about, what we had said.
“Are you still drunk?” She asked after a few minutes.
“Yeah I think so.”
“Do you want some water?”
“Yeah please.” She went to the kitchen.
“So youse are really going to a motor show then?”
“Yeah, we’ve been planning it for ages.”
“Fair enough.”
“You like cars,” she asked.
“Not really.”
“Ha, why does that not surprise me?”
“Cheers,” I said, taking the water.
When I left I kept saying to myself, “the motor show.” The words sounded absurd and hilarious. I was giggling to myself on the tram; drunk and tired as I was giggling was easy. Once home I sent a message to Emer saying thanks for a good night and how was the motor show? The next day she wrote back and said they didn’t even go in the end.
“The crimes of the United States have been brutal and systematic,” I said.
“Oh my God give me a break. You’re one of these social-anarchist people aren’t you?”
“No I just don’t like the countries that run the world at the moment.”
“But you’re just anti-American, that’s so typical. Look, Iraq, Iraq, they do a lot of good for the world as well.” I went on with my speech. I say speech, it was actually the speech Harold Pinter gave when he won the Noble Prize a couple of years ago, or at least the parts I could remember.
“I refer you to every right wing military dictatorship - ”
“Oh ‘right wing’! Ohhhh,” she said, pretending to be scared.
“Military dictatorship since the end of World War II. Indonesia, Vietnam. Er…” There were others. There were at least half a dozen others, but my mind was blank.
“Well I don’t know much about Indonesia, but I do know that it used to be very poor and now it’s quite wealthy.”
I ploughed on against this ignorance, getting louder and less coherent. I think Emer might have stepped in out of pity, or perhaps because I was being a wanker. I don’t remember. I also don’t remember how we pulled, if anything was said about the fact that we were friends and that this might lead to problems.
When I woke up Sunday morning I didn’t know where I was. She was climbing over me, waking me up.
“Hey, hey, you’ve got to get up. We’re leaving soon. You can’t stay.”
“Where are you going? What time is it?”
“You’ve got a watch on. We’re going to the motor show.”
I paused. I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly.
“The what?”
“The motor show.” She was putting her bra on, strapping it up from the back. It looked immensely complicated. And they do this everyday, I thought. She probably thought I was ogling her and had never seen a girl putting a bra on before. I wasn’t. I was admiring the technique involved, and still trying to decide if she had said motor show.
“The what?” I asked.
“Are you still drunk or something? The MO-TOR show. The motor show. What don’t you get about that?”
“What’s a motor show?”
“Have you never been to one?”
“Is it like a car show?”
“Yeah.”
“So it’s a car show.”
“No, it’s a motor show. Other things have motors as well.”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“You’re still drunk aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” I looked at my watch. The strap was loose. Putting it back proved quite difficult.
“Do you remember trying to get that off? You said it would improve your performance. You were so drunk.”
“It does improve my performance.”
“Well we’ll discuss that later. Right now you’ve got to get up. And you can’t have a shower either. There’s no hot water.”
“I told you we should have showered together.”
Her flatmate and I were all laughs about the debate we’d had last night. Neither of us could really remember what it was about, what we had said.
“Are you still drunk?” She asked after a few minutes.
“Yeah I think so.”
“Do you want some water?”
“Yeah please.” She went to the kitchen.
“So youse are really going to a motor show then?”
“Yeah, we’ve been planning it for ages.”
“Fair enough.”
“You like cars,” she asked.
“Not really.”
“Ha, why does that not surprise me?”
“Cheers,” I said, taking the water.
When I left I kept saying to myself, “the motor show.” The words sounded absurd and hilarious. I was giggling to myself on the tram; drunk and tired as I was giggling was easy. Once home I sent a message to Emer saying thanks for a good night and how was the motor show? The next day she wrote back and said they didn’t even go in the end.
Thursday, 24 January 2008
Brussels Transport - Bin there, done that
More tales from the underground – literally.
There was a terrorist scare here over Christmas. I was away so I missed it. I wouldn’t have any idea that it happened except for one thing: in response to this scare they’ve closed all the bins in the metro.
Brilliant. That’ll stop ‘em.
This adjusts my feelings of safety by 0%, my feelings of annoyance and inconvenience by 100% and my feelings that the people in charge don’t have a fucking clue by 1000%. Really, what are they hoping to accomplish by this? We did it in the UK during the IRA Troubles; it didn’t stop them.
If there’s a group of people determined to blow up part of Brussels then closing the bins is not going to stop them. And in my opinion if they were planning to blow up a bomb somewhere in the metro I’d rather it was in the bin; better that than a moving train that might be deep underground and miles from safety.
A move like this also drags down commuter moral, and those who commute by public transport are the most miserable people in the history of civilization.
Finally, I find it hard to believe that there is a terrorist group out there determined to hit Belgium. What has Belgium ever done to anybody? And the EU? Ha! They just haven’t done anything (this unsubstantiated generalisation brought to you by the Daily Mail).
Moving on…
The last time I wrote about the Brussels metro I forgot to mention the most classy of all its features. During the evening they turn off the pop-music crap and play classical music. I love it. You stumble into the tube a bit tipsy and suddenly you’ve got a violin concerto filling the vast chambers. It’s a policy that is both uplifting and practical.
For one thing it calms down the potentially drunk and excitable night revelers by giving them nothing to sing or dance to. It also helps in any serenading going on between couples on a date by creating mood and a possible intellectual talking point. Finally, it adds a bit of class to what should be a classy city. At night you’ve got high-flying EU types out and about. They shouldn’t have to listen to Rhianna. That’s for suckers like me during rush-hour.
Finally…
Short snapshot of what can happen in the metro at any given moment: I was waiting for the 25 tram in Montgomery. It was about 3 or 4 in the afternoon. A young man looking rather like a slighter and younger 50 cent sauntered past me as I stood on the platform. Without pausing in the conversation he was having on his mobile he went close to the edge and spat onto the tracks. It was a significant amount of spit. He turned and went and sat on a bench, continuing to talk as if nothing had happened, as if it was as ordinary as putting something in the bin (sorry, poor choice of analogy, but you see my point). Dozens of people witnessed this. No one said anything. No one ever says anything.
There was a terrorist scare here over Christmas. I was away so I missed it. I wouldn’t have any idea that it happened except for one thing: in response to this scare they’ve closed all the bins in the metro.
Brilliant. That’ll stop ‘em.
This adjusts my feelings of safety by 0%, my feelings of annoyance and inconvenience by 100% and my feelings that the people in charge don’t have a fucking clue by 1000%. Really, what are they hoping to accomplish by this? We did it in the UK during the IRA Troubles; it didn’t stop them.
If there’s a group of people determined to blow up part of Brussels then closing the bins is not going to stop them. And in my opinion if they were planning to blow up a bomb somewhere in the metro I’d rather it was in the bin; better that than a moving train that might be deep underground and miles from safety.
A move like this also drags down commuter moral, and those who commute by public transport are the most miserable people in the history of civilization.
Finally, I find it hard to believe that there is a terrorist group out there determined to hit Belgium. What has Belgium ever done to anybody? And the EU? Ha! They just haven’t done anything (this unsubstantiated generalisation brought to you by the Daily Mail).
Moving on…
The last time I wrote about the Brussels metro I forgot to mention the most classy of all its features. During the evening they turn off the pop-music crap and play classical music. I love it. You stumble into the tube a bit tipsy and suddenly you’ve got a violin concerto filling the vast chambers. It’s a policy that is both uplifting and practical.
For one thing it calms down the potentially drunk and excitable night revelers by giving them nothing to sing or dance to. It also helps in any serenading going on between couples on a date by creating mood and a possible intellectual talking point. Finally, it adds a bit of class to what should be a classy city. At night you’ve got high-flying EU types out and about. They shouldn’t have to listen to Rhianna. That’s for suckers like me during rush-hour.
Finally…
Short snapshot of what can happen in the metro at any given moment: I was waiting for the 25 tram in Montgomery. It was about 3 or 4 in the afternoon. A young man looking rather like a slighter and younger 50 cent sauntered past me as I stood on the platform. Without pausing in the conversation he was having on his mobile he went close to the edge and spat onto the tracks. It was a significant amount of spit. He turned and went and sat on a bench, continuing to talk as if nothing had happened, as if it was as ordinary as putting something in the bin (sorry, poor choice of analogy, but you see my point). Dozens of people witnessed this. No one said anything. No one ever says anything.
Monday, 21 January 2008
FC Irlande - Matchday 17
New Inn 1 – 4 FC Irlande 1sts
When our fourth goal went in shortly before the end of the first half I could feel the fight drain out of every single member of New Inn FC. They were a beaten team. The match was won within 35 minutes.
Few people would have predicted this after the opening exchanges. Earlier in the season they had held us to a 1-1 draw at home, despite playing the last ten minutes or so with 9 men. They had big, strong defenders and a little bloke in midfield who reminded me a bit of Juri Djorkaeff. Now seventh in the table their start to the match was, unlike the weather, very bright indeed.
Yes it was a miserable day to lose a football match, and, conversely, a beautiful day to win one. Nothing’s finer than the feeling of a victory caked in mud, lashed by wind and rain amidst bleak surroundings and uninspiring prospects. The wind and rain flew in sheets horizontally. From box to box the middle third of the pitch was mostly mud. Playable, but mud nonetheless. There was a large puddle in one of the penalty boxes.
Although they started brightly with good passes and high energy, they didn’t really create many chances. I’ve mentioned their big defenders, but ours are as big as they come. Enda on the right, Alec on the left, and the Danish man-mountain that is Christian in the centre. All over six foot. They let nothing through, and after about ten minutes we took control. Sigve, playing just off the frontline pairing of myself and Kieron, played a good ball down the left wing. I ran onto it and was faced with their large, loud-mouth centre back. He took their set-pieces, made all the decisions and even scored their consolation goal late on in the match. I cut the ball inside, darting between him and his centre back partner, and put it past the keeper to his right.
Scoring is a great feeling, but it’s especially good when it’s the opening goal of an important game, when you get the best of their best player, when your team-mates all say great goal mate and when you’re helping to maintain your team’s title run.
1-0 became 2-0 when Peter poked home from seven yards after their defender hesitated in dealing with a cross. Peter was player of the year last season. He lives in Rotterdam and drives here on Saturdays for the matches, which is a big effort to make. From his cross Sigve headed in the third with about twenty minutes gone. Sigve is great in the air. He attacks the ball like a Norwegian whaler attacking a sperm whale.
Then we had one of those goals that generates some funny discussion among the lads. Peter whipped in another great ball from the right. Kieron attacked it and knocked it onto the defender. The deflection fooled the keeper and it rolled towards an empty goal. I was right there and had an instant to decide whether to let it roll in or take the goal myself. I maintain that the ball probably would have gone wide, and in any case was going too slowly to leave untouched. From a yard out I got my second. 4-0.
They were utterly shell-shocked. Four real chances, four goals. That’s when the trouble started. The first bit involved Mark. Mark’s a Scottish terrier in midfield; short, stocky and no-nonsense. He was tussling with one of their blokes and, amidst all the ruckus, threw an elbow. He was lucky to only get a yellow. It riled them quite a bit. Towards the end of the half their striker left in a boot on Alec’s foot as he was shielding the ball out and Alec got a yellow from the ensuing argument.
In the second half, with them dispirited and us in great form we were all thinking, how many are we going to get? Sadly we couldn’t answer that. After ten minutes or so Mark was called up for a foul throw. It was one of those where the bloke you’re throwing it to is about three yards away, so it’s hard to do it properly. Mark reacted and waved his finger ‘no’. The ref didn’t like him and gave him his second yellow. He was a short, aged and otherwise decent ref, but he got this one wrong.
Despite this we were still the better team. I missed a one-on-one, and misplaced a couple of final balls. At the back Christian was pissing them off no end. It wasn’t just because he was big and difficult to get past. On two occasions he was being chased down and hit the ball out of play. With most people this wouldn’t have been a problem, but Christian has a foot like a traction engine. He deliberately hit it as hard as he could. On both occasions it sailed out of the ground, across the road, and into a field across the street. That pissed them off. He also did it once from the other side. If he wasn’t built like a brick shit house they probably would have tried to injure him for it.
We also have another big lad, Fred. He’s Flemish. When Fred feels there is a really bad foul he yells out. He did this once and they spent the rest of the game mocking him. “Heyyy! Heeeeeeyyyyy! Hey, hey, HEY!!” And so on. Immature stuff, but who could blame them? In the first half we’d crushed them easily. In the second we just kept them at arm’s length, like a NBA star holding off a midget. 4-1.
When our fourth goal went in shortly before the end of the first half I could feel the fight drain out of every single member of New Inn FC. They were a beaten team. The match was won within 35 minutes.
Few people would have predicted this after the opening exchanges. Earlier in the season they had held us to a 1-1 draw at home, despite playing the last ten minutes or so with 9 men. They had big, strong defenders and a little bloke in midfield who reminded me a bit of Juri Djorkaeff. Now seventh in the table their start to the match was, unlike the weather, very bright indeed.
Yes it was a miserable day to lose a football match, and, conversely, a beautiful day to win one. Nothing’s finer than the feeling of a victory caked in mud, lashed by wind and rain amidst bleak surroundings and uninspiring prospects. The wind and rain flew in sheets horizontally. From box to box the middle third of the pitch was mostly mud. Playable, but mud nonetheless. There was a large puddle in one of the penalty boxes.
Although they started brightly with good passes and high energy, they didn’t really create many chances. I’ve mentioned their big defenders, but ours are as big as they come. Enda on the right, Alec on the left, and the Danish man-mountain that is Christian in the centre. All over six foot. They let nothing through, and after about ten minutes we took control. Sigve, playing just off the frontline pairing of myself and Kieron, played a good ball down the left wing. I ran onto it and was faced with their large, loud-mouth centre back. He took their set-pieces, made all the decisions and even scored their consolation goal late on in the match. I cut the ball inside, darting between him and his centre back partner, and put it past the keeper to his right.
Scoring is a great feeling, but it’s especially good when it’s the opening goal of an important game, when you get the best of their best player, when your team-mates all say great goal mate and when you’re helping to maintain your team’s title run.
1-0 became 2-0 when Peter poked home from seven yards after their defender hesitated in dealing with a cross. Peter was player of the year last season. He lives in Rotterdam and drives here on Saturdays for the matches, which is a big effort to make. From his cross Sigve headed in the third with about twenty minutes gone. Sigve is great in the air. He attacks the ball like a Norwegian whaler attacking a sperm whale.
Then we had one of those goals that generates some funny discussion among the lads. Peter whipped in another great ball from the right. Kieron attacked it and knocked it onto the defender. The deflection fooled the keeper and it rolled towards an empty goal. I was right there and had an instant to decide whether to let it roll in or take the goal myself. I maintain that the ball probably would have gone wide, and in any case was going too slowly to leave untouched. From a yard out I got my second. 4-0.
They were utterly shell-shocked. Four real chances, four goals. That’s when the trouble started. The first bit involved Mark. Mark’s a Scottish terrier in midfield; short, stocky and no-nonsense. He was tussling with one of their blokes and, amidst all the ruckus, threw an elbow. He was lucky to only get a yellow. It riled them quite a bit. Towards the end of the half their striker left in a boot on Alec’s foot as he was shielding the ball out and Alec got a yellow from the ensuing argument.
In the second half, with them dispirited and us in great form we were all thinking, how many are we going to get? Sadly we couldn’t answer that. After ten minutes or so Mark was called up for a foul throw. It was one of those where the bloke you’re throwing it to is about three yards away, so it’s hard to do it properly. Mark reacted and waved his finger ‘no’. The ref didn’t like him and gave him his second yellow. He was a short, aged and otherwise decent ref, but he got this one wrong.
Despite this we were still the better team. I missed a one-on-one, and misplaced a couple of final balls. At the back Christian was pissing them off no end. It wasn’t just because he was big and difficult to get past. On two occasions he was being chased down and hit the ball out of play. With most people this wouldn’t have been a problem, but Christian has a foot like a traction engine. He deliberately hit it as hard as he could. On both occasions it sailed out of the ground, across the road, and into a field across the street. That pissed them off. He also did it once from the other side. If he wasn’t built like a brick shit house they probably would have tried to injure him for it.
We also have another big lad, Fred. He’s Flemish. When Fred feels there is a really bad foul he yells out. He did this once and they spent the rest of the game mocking him. “Heyyy! Heeeeeeyyyyy! Hey, hey, HEY!!” And so on. Immature stuff, but who could blame them? In the first half we’d crushed them easily. In the second we just kept them at arm’s length, like a NBA star holding off a midget. 4-1.
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
FC Irlande - Matchday 16
Last Saturday was a pretty typical day at FC Irlande. Normally all five teams (first team, second team, third team, fourth team and veterans) play home and away the same weekend, but that hasn’t happened much this season. We blame ABSSA. We always blame ABSSA.
Last Saturday, though, we were all at home just like old times. It was a good day. Match days at FC Irlande usually happen like this: You show up an hour before kick off with four essential items: black shorts, black socks, five euros and your ID. Of these items the ID is the most important. If your name is on the team sheet it doesn’t matter how many forms of valid ID you have, if you don’t have your ABSSA ID card you don’t play.
When you arrive you give your money and ID to the deleguee. He’s the bloke who volunteers to do all the paperwork and other busy-body jobs that ABSSA have created for matchdays. It’s quite a thankless task, but someone has to do it.
Until the kit arrives we stand around, in the bar or outside, chatting about this and that. It’s a lot like the routine with other teams I’ve played for, except for one thing. At FC Irlande when you arrive you shake everybody’s hand and say hello. At first I thought it was a bit odd – I’ve met these blokes already, and saw them only on Wednesday at training. Why the hand-shaking? I couldn’t understand it. Now that I’m used to it I can’t imagine a Matchday without it. I think in a very small way it builds team spirit. You shake everyone’s hand, say everyone’s name and you think, right, these are the blokes I’m playing with.
There’s always good banter in the dressing room. We have some funny blokes on the team. We also have a bloke called Kieran. Here’s a snippet of conversation you might here that is typical of Kieran.
“Dude that’s disgusting.”
Kieran: “Is it shite, they fucking love it.”
“What’s going on?”
“Kieran was just talking about eating his girlfriend’s ass.”
“Mate that’s fucking rank.”
Another bit of conversation with Kieran that I remember well was this.
“I’ve only ever slept with one virgin in my life, and it was the first girl I slept with, so neither of us had any idea what we were doing.”
Kieran: “Dude I’ve slept with three virgins in my life.”
“Three? Fucking hell.”
“Yeah. Girls seem to trust me for some reason.”
Anyway, as you can imagine things can get pretty graphic in the dressing room. It settles down once the captain reads out the team. In the firsts we play three at the back with two midfielders in front and three others forming a triangle. We love our triangle. We worship that thing.
“Is this an isosceles or what?”
“Mate with your fitness that thing’ll become a fucking rhombus inside two minutes.”
“Watch out for Christian coming from the back.”
“So are square passes allowed within the triangle or is it all angles?”
“Can we get some angles going? Right? Obtuse?”
“What’s obtuse?”
“Fucking hell.”
“Hey, maybe we could sell this idea to other teams, you know, some kind of pyramid selling?”
Silence. Pause.
“Mate get out.”
I’ve played at a lot of different levels, including trials for Premier league clubs, and I think this is the best team I’ve played for. It’s also the highest standard. Despite our pitch both teams played decent football on Saturday, though I do not include our opening goal in that. From the kick off David, cultured Spanish midfield maestro that he is, pinged it into the left corner, Emmett, short, stocky, no-nonsense ran onto it and hit a cross that was caught on the wind and flew in. Ten seconds. 1-0.
From there we had the better of the game without dominating. On the sidelines myself, Fred and Christian spent most of the time winding up Christophe, the deleguee. He was injured so had volunteered to do it.
“Can you get me some water mate. And open it for me, my hands are cold.”
“Hey Deleguee, I’m stepping outside the technical area. Come and kick my ass.”
And so on. He was also wearing a Gestapo-style long, black coat with a white-arm band to show that he was the deleguee.
“So you’re a Jewish Gestapo deleguee? Is that allowed?”
I had been at work until 12, when the match kicked off, so I was only able to make it for the last half of the first half. I came on at halftime with the score at 2-0 and did my usual thing: run around like a dog chasing its tail. At this level it’s an affective strategy; defenders aren’t always capable of playing it out of the back. Sometimes the pitch catches them out and it spoons off their foot. Sometimes they’re just too slow.
We ended up winning 4-0. Kieran got a header from a corner, which was followed by a bit of third person commentary.
“Did you notice the biggest bloke was marking him?”
“Well, he was near you. He wasn’t marking you.”
A bit later Emmett got his second with a looping header after a great cross from Sigve, our Norwegian front man (we also have a Finnish front man, and a Danish centre back). Emmett is a shouter and a motivator, but with his thick Irish accent it’s not always easy to understand him, even for the native English speakers. From a goal kick for example…
“Mate are you saying You gotta be Colin Farrell?”
“What?”
“Colin Farrell?”
“CALLING-FOR-IT – Calinfarit!”
It did sound a bit like Colin Farrell. We won 4-0.
Last Saturday, though, we were all at home just like old times. It was a good day. Match days at FC Irlande usually happen like this: You show up an hour before kick off with four essential items: black shorts, black socks, five euros and your ID. Of these items the ID is the most important. If your name is on the team sheet it doesn’t matter how many forms of valid ID you have, if you don’t have your ABSSA ID card you don’t play.
When you arrive you give your money and ID to the deleguee. He’s the bloke who volunteers to do all the paperwork and other busy-body jobs that ABSSA have created for matchdays. It’s quite a thankless task, but someone has to do it.
Until the kit arrives we stand around, in the bar or outside, chatting about this and that. It’s a lot like the routine with other teams I’ve played for, except for one thing. At FC Irlande when you arrive you shake everybody’s hand and say hello. At first I thought it was a bit odd – I’ve met these blokes already, and saw them only on Wednesday at training. Why the hand-shaking? I couldn’t understand it. Now that I’m used to it I can’t imagine a Matchday without it. I think in a very small way it builds team spirit. You shake everyone’s hand, say everyone’s name and you think, right, these are the blokes I’m playing with.
There’s always good banter in the dressing room. We have some funny blokes on the team. We also have a bloke called Kieran. Here’s a snippet of conversation you might here that is typical of Kieran.
“Dude that’s disgusting.”
Kieran: “Is it shite, they fucking love it.”
“What’s going on?”
“Kieran was just talking about eating his girlfriend’s ass.”
“Mate that’s fucking rank.”
Another bit of conversation with Kieran that I remember well was this.
“I’ve only ever slept with one virgin in my life, and it was the first girl I slept with, so neither of us had any idea what we were doing.”
Kieran: “Dude I’ve slept with three virgins in my life.”
“Three? Fucking hell.”
“Yeah. Girls seem to trust me for some reason.”
Anyway, as you can imagine things can get pretty graphic in the dressing room. It settles down once the captain reads out the team. In the firsts we play three at the back with two midfielders in front and three others forming a triangle. We love our triangle. We worship that thing.
“Is this an isosceles or what?”
“Mate with your fitness that thing’ll become a fucking rhombus inside two minutes.”
“Watch out for Christian coming from the back.”
“So are square passes allowed within the triangle or is it all angles?”
“Can we get some angles going? Right? Obtuse?”
“What’s obtuse?”
“Fucking hell.”
“Hey, maybe we could sell this idea to other teams, you know, some kind of pyramid selling?”
Silence. Pause.
“Mate get out.”
I’ve played at a lot of different levels, including trials for Premier league clubs, and I think this is the best team I’ve played for. It’s also the highest standard. Despite our pitch both teams played decent football on Saturday, though I do not include our opening goal in that. From the kick off David, cultured Spanish midfield maestro that he is, pinged it into the left corner, Emmett, short, stocky, no-nonsense ran onto it and hit a cross that was caught on the wind and flew in. Ten seconds. 1-0.
From there we had the better of the game without dominating. On the sidelines myself, Fred and Christian spent most of the time winding up Christophe, the deleguee. He was injured so had volunteered to do it.
“Can you get me some water mate. And open it for me, my hands are cold.”
“Hey Deleguee, I’m stepping outside the technical area. Come and kick my ass.”
And so on. He was also wearing a Gestapo-style long, black coat with a white-arm band to show that he was the deleguee.
“So you’re a Jewish Gestapo deleguee? Is that allowed?”
I had been at work until 12, when the match kicked off, so I was only able to make it for the last half of the first half. I came on at halftime with the score at 2-0 and did my usual thing: run around like a dog chasing its tail. At this level it’s an affective strategy; defenders aren’t always capable of playing it out of the back. Sometimes the pitch catches them out and it spoons off their foot. Sometimes they’re just too slow.
We ended up winning 4-0. Kieran got a header from a corner, which was followed by a bit of third person commentary.
“Did you notice the biggest bloke was marking him?”
“Well, he was near you. He wasn’t marking you.”
A bit later Emmett got his second with a looping header after a great cross from Sigve, our Norwegian front man (we also have a Finnish front man, and a Danish centre back). Emmett is a shouter and a motivator, but with his thick Irish accent it’s not always easy to understand him, even for the native English speakers. From a goal kick for example…
“Mate are you saying You gotta be Colin Farrell?”
“What?”
“Colin Farrell?”
“CALLING-FOR-IT – Calinfarit!”
It did sound a bit like Colin Farrell. We won 4-0.
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
FC Irlande - Intro
Moving to a foreign country is a big deal. There are lots of things you need to think about. Will I fit in? Will I adapt to the culture? Will I have a good job? Before I moved I asked my friend and future flatmate the one question that would determine if Brussels was the place for me: Is there a football team I can play for? Yeah, he said, my old team, FC Irlande.
FC Irlande’s home pitch is just on the outskirts of Brussels, a nightmare to get to with public transport. If Belgium splits I’ll end living in one country and playing football in another – Flanders. I showed up for my first training session knackered and out of breath, having run fifteen minutes up-hill from the Viaduct bus station.
When I got there I found about 40 lads running furiously and being yelled out by a short bloke with a heavy Irish accent. It was classic training ground berating, “Lift ure knees, cam aaan, put it drew to da end!” I sauntered over and introduced myself.
“Are you the gaffa?”
“Nah I’m the trainer. Are you a new fella?”
“Yeah, I’m a mate of Andy’s. He plays for the thirds.”
“Da turds, eh? All right, join in there yeah. No worries,” he said. He looked at the England shirt I was wearing. “Ya know dis is FC Irlande not FC England don’tcha?” I laughed.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Ah we’ll letcha in anyway. Ya better be good.”
That was my first meeting with Dave, our trainer. He’s a Gaelic football player from Cork who gets a small fee for running us into the ground on Monday and Wednesday nights. I took a shine to him straight away and went to join in the punishment. This was September.
Now, four months later, FC Irlande firsts are top of the league by four points and yours truly is top of the goal charts with eleven. So far it’s been a great season.
FC Irlande, as the name suggests, was formed 20 years ago as a team of Irish ex-pats. It’s comprised of four teams plus a team of veterans (defined by the league administrators as someone over the age of 38). I don’t have the exact figures, but there must be close to 100 players in active service for FC Irlande in any given season.
From its modest Irish roots FC Irlande has flourished in both numbers and character. In the firsts alone we have English, Scottish, Irish, Belgian, Australian, Finnish, Norwegian, Danish, Spanish, Dutch, French and American. I’m probably forgetting some, though to be fair in Brussels nearly everyone is half-this, half-that, so there’s a good chance I’ve got it all covered.
We play our home games in the Woluwe St Etienne region of Brussels. The ground – two pitches, equipment shed, six changing rooms and bar – belongs to a club called KV Woluwe. It’s a standard set-up for this level of football. We’ve got everything we need. Actually, that’s not quite true, especially this time of year. In winter, after a few months of relentless training and matches, and after the rain and darkness have set in, our two pitches become mud baths or frozen tundras, or both.
You get used to crap pitches and cold showers. The most important thing at this level of football is the ambience within the club on match days and training sessions. FC Irlande must be top of this league as well. We’re lucky in that we have a few lads on the team who own Irish bars in Brussels. After away matches we head to a pub called De Valeres on Place Flagey for some free food and a few beers. It’s owned by an Irish bloke called Alan. We had our Christmas dinner there.
For home matches we usually have all five teams playing together. As such there are big crowds, plenty of banter and atmosphere. Our pub goes into the black on Saturdays. It’s run by a Flemish bloke called Lois who’s been there as long as anyone can remember. He runs the bar and maintains all the facilities. Top man, Lois. We all love him. Before training he cleans out all the changing rooms from the previous team’s session. At ten thirty, when our training’s finished, he comes out and blows his whistle, then goes to the bar and waits for us to come in and start drinking. If you want you could stay there all night and Lois wouldn’t care.
I think the following sums us up quite well: The second team had a match in December at home against a team of Armenians. It got really ugly and ended in a win for the seconds and, because of that, something of a brawl. The Armenians weren’t too happy, apparently. I wasn’t there so I can’t give all the details, but a few weeks later, at the Christmas dinner, the second team captain, Gregor, talked about it. Gregor’s a soft-spoken lad, not prone to hyperbole. He said that they’d won the match and shown great character. We hadn’t started the fight, he said. He said he was proud to be an FC Irlande player that day.
FC Irlande’s home pitch is just on the outskirts of Brussels, a nightmare to get to with public transport. If Belgium splits I’ll end living in one country and playing football in another – Flanders. I showed up for my first training session knackered and out of breath, having run fifteen minutes up-hill from the Viaduct bus station.
When I got there I found about 40 lads running furiously and being yelled out by a short bloke with a heavy Irish accent. It was classic training ground berating, “Lift ure knees, cam aaan, put it drew to da end!” I sauntered over and introduced myself.
“Are you the gaffa?”
“Nah I’m the trainer. Are you a new fella?”
“Yeah, I’m a mate of Andy’s. He plays for the thirds.”
“Da turds, eh? All right, join in there yeah. No worries,” he said. He looked at the England shirt I was wearing. “Ya know dis is FC Irlande not FC England don’tcha?” I laughed.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Ah we’ll letcha in anyway. Ya better be good.”
That was my first meeting with Dave, our trainer. He’s a Gaelic football player from Cork who gets a small fee for running us into the ground on Monday and Wednesday nights. I took a shine to him straight away and went to join in the punishment. This was September.
Now, four months later, FC Irlande firsts are top of the league by four points and yours truly is top of the goal charts with eleven. So far it’s been a great season.
FC Irlande, as the name suggests, was formed 20 years ago as a team of Irish ex-pats. It’s comprised of four teams plus a team of veterans (defined by the league administrators as someone over the age of 38). I don’t have the exact figures, but there must be close to 100 players in active service for FC Irlande in any given season.
From its modest Irish roots FC Irlande has flourished in both numbers and character. In the firsts alone we have English, Scottish, Irish, Belgian, Australian, Finnish, Norwegian, Danish, Spanish, Dutch, French and American. I’m probably forgetting some, though to be fair in Brussels nearly everyone is half-this, half-that, so there’s a good chance I’ve got it all covered.
We play our home games in the Woluwe St Etienne region of Brussels. The ground – two pitches, equipment shed, six changing rooms and bar – belongs to a club called KV Woluwe. It’s a standard set-up for this level of football. We’ve got everything we need. Actually, that’s not quite true, especially this time of year. In winter, after a few months of relentless training and matches, and after the rain and darkness have set in, our two pitches become mud baths or frozen tundras, or both.
You get used to crap pitches and cold showers. The most important thing at this level of football is the ambience within the club on match days and training sessions. FC Irlande must be top of this league as well. We’re lucky in that we have a few lads on the team who own Irish bars in Brussels. After away matches we head to a pub called De Valeres on Place Flagey for some free food and a few beers. It’s owned by an Irish bloke called Alan. We had our Christmas dinner there.
For home matches we usually have all five teams playing together. As such there are big crowds, plenty of banter and atmosphere. Our pub goes into the black on Saturdays. It’s run by a Flemish bloke called Lois who’s been there as long as anyone can remember. He runs the bar and maintains all the facilities. Top man, Lois. We all love him. Before training he cleans out all the changing rooms from the previous team’s session. At ten thirty, when our training’s finished, he comes out and blows his whistle, then goes to the bar and waits for us to come in and start drinking. If you want you could stay there all night and Lois wouldn’t care.
I think the following sums us up quite well: The second team had a match in December at home against a team of Armenians. It got really ugly and ended in a win for the seconds and, because of that, something of a brawl. The Armenians weren’t too happy, apparently. I wasn’t there so I can’t give all the details, but a few weeks later, at the Christmas dinner, the second team captain, Gregor, talked about it. Gregor’s a soft-spoken lad, not prone to hyperbole. He said that they’d won the match and shown great character. We hadn’t started the fight, he said. He said he was proud to be an FC Irlande player that day.
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