Hand of Henry

I've been very colour co-ordinated today. Currently, I'm wearing brown cord pants, brown tan shoes and a coffee brown T-shirt. The remarkable thing is that I dress in the dark, so most days I don't know what I've got on until I step out of my bedroom and into the light of the hallway. The fact that I managed to put on clothes of all the same hue today is a remarkable coincidence, and one that I'm not going to question. 

When things go well like that, it's best not to look too carefully into it. 

You could say the same thing about Henry's handball and France's qualification to the World Cup final. Understandably, Ireland are distraught. It was a remarkable bit of cheating. Ireland have even demanded that the match be replayed. France, on the other hand, have a guilty little smirk on their face and are busy trying not to look at the video replay. C'est la vie, and all that. 

The revelation that Henry is a cheat is supposed to pose something of a moral dilemma for Arsenal fans. Can we still love Henry now that we know he's just another dirty foreign cheater who steals World Cup places from hard-working, plucky, salt-of-the-earth teams from the British Isles? After reading a variety of blogs about this issue,  the common consensus seems to be: 

1) Henry's still a legend and one handball doesn't change his status

2) Henry was wrong, and Arsenal fans don't condone cheating

3) Ireland can't complain because all footballers cheat

4) Ireland had chances to finish off the tie, so they can't complain 

5) Isn't Robbie Keane a total cunt?

There's nothing wrong with these points. However, I think the more pertinent question is why do we think Henry should be faultless? Aside from his footballing skills, Henry is a man like any other. He wants to compete in one last World Cup, and is desperate to go to South Africa. So when the opportunity came along, he handballed to win. It's not an attractive quality, but it's a perfectly human quality. 

The thing is that these things happen. Footballers cheat. Referees miss handballs. Wrongdoers can succeed. Unless someone does something sensible about it, like introduce video replays, there's not a lot you can say about it. Footballers are going to handball balls into the net if they think they're going to get away with it. It's unfortunate that Henry did it to Ireland in a very important game, but it's a bit like me pulling out clothes at random and ending up with a colour co-ordinated outfit. 

It was just dumb luck. 

riverrun

"riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs."

- Finnegans Wake, because after a week of bussing, I'm back in Dublin. 

On the bus from Galway, I was wondering whether it was worthwhile coming just for a Guinness tour. It's a heck of a detour. But then I remembered the American guy from Cork, who said it wasn't much different from any other brewery tour, but still.... it's the Guinness factory.

There's something arresting about a pint of Guinness. They pull about 3/4 of the glass, and let it settle. At first the colour's a light brown, but as you watch, little waves of beer start streaming down the sides of the glass and build a solid black layer and gets thicker and thicker as the waves stream down. After a couple of minutes, the pint's all black, and the bartender fills the glass to the rim. 

I never understood why they did that until one day, quite unexpectedly, I did. 

Once a pint is pulled, the nitrogen molecules decompress and float to the surface. But because nitrogen gas is too small to break the surface tension of the liquid beer, the molecules bounce off the surface and get pushed back down to the bottom of the glass. This results in the quite hypnotic reverse cascade effect you see in a resting pint of Guinness.

It's quite a sight. And it's quite scientific. And it's like poetry in motion, or like a Jane Austen novel with zombies in it. Which, according to the Guardian, is coming out in April. It's something I'm going to have to read when it comes out. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a fine book in possession of a good reputation must be in want of a horde of flesh-eating zombies.  

The Cliffs of Moher

"I'm probably stating the obvious, but stay away from the cliff face."

- Billy the tour guide, in the car park at the Cliffs of Moher

They're not that impressive, the Cliffs. They're about 200 metres high and they run about 200 kilometres along the west coast of Ireland. They're black and sheer, of course, and they have a greenish tinge owing to the mould that grows on the cliff face. 

This is Ireland, after all. Everything's tinged by green. 

The terrain around the Cliffs is cold and bare and windswept. It's limestone rock covered by sparse grass. In the visitors' centre, there are photos of bright, sunny days and bright, smiling tourists. I didn't see much of either today. It rained intermittently, and the raindrops were like tiny pins prodding numb skin. The wind was so strong that you could lean on it and still stay upright, and the sky so grey that you couldn't tell where the ocean ended and the clouds began. 

Billy told us about the Hungarian tourist who, in search for the perfect photo, went right to the edge, slipped, and was never seen again. As I walked around the perimeter, I began to see the Hungarian's point of view. The path is a good five metres away from the edge, and there's a heavy slate fence running along the path. On the other side, there's grassy fields and rocky platforms and very tempting vistas. The Perfect Photo is very much the tourist's Holy Grail, and many have succumbed to the lures of the quest.

I probably sound pretty flippant, but I'm not. I understand perfectly. I did something similar in Cappadocia a few months back. When the red mist of tourist photography takes hold, it takes strong willpower NOT to take that extra step. 

We spent the rest of the day hopping on and off the bus trying to take pictures whilst avoiding the rain. Saw a dolmen. And a littler version of the Cliffs of Moher. And a whole heap of castles and a pack of llamas. And we stopped for a couple of minutes to admire four spring lambs nipping each other to stay warm. 

Aww....

As we drove past, I wondered if those Irish lambs know that their brethren down in the antipodes are enduring the worst heat-wave in 50 years. It reached 44 degrees in Melbourne yesterday. One can hardly comprehend it. 

Arsenal vs Everton

"GOAL!!!! EVERTON LEAD!! And it's another Tim Cahill header!! Baines crosses from the left and Cahill leaps high above his marker Clichy to direct his header inside the left-hand post. What a talent."

- eurosport live updates, 61st minute of the Everton - Arsenal match

It's half-time at Goodison Park, and it's 0-0. 

I haven't watched the Arsenal since the 'boro match in mid December. I remember having to scramble from the outskirts of Rome back to the Capitoline to watch that match. I only got back in time for the second half, and it was 45 minutes of such unmitigated hideousness that I wished I'd missed a subway connection or two. 

Back then, Arsenal were in a state of flux. Gallas had been sacked, Cesc was the newly appointed captain, and the team were at the start of a shaky unbeaten run. We were playing badly, but not losing. There was the January transfer window to look forward to, and it looked like things were starting to get better. 

About a month later, we're still on that unbeaten run. But the optimism has long since dissipated. We've lost Cesc to injury, and our board's shown an alarming lack of ambition in the transfer market. We've all got the feeling that the Arsenal are on the slide, and are going to be on the slide for a very long time. 

And against Everton tonight, we're playing hideously. 

I remember something Myles Palmer said a few blogs ago, about how the current Arsenal side lack partnerships. I think he was right. Technically, our players are good - they pass well and can control the ball - but there's not a lot of invention going on. The players aren't moving to receive lay-offs, or to create third man runs. The full-backs aren't making over-lapping runs, our passing is often sideways and ineffective, and it's all a bit jerky. I contrast that with the smooth-flowing moves of Barca and Valencia, and my gooner heart weeps big salty tears. 

What's worse is that, for some inexplicable reason, all the pubs in Galway are showing Hull vs West Ham. No one knows why. Saw this drunk guy sit down on a bench between two bronze statues and start up a conversation. He probably knows as much about it as the rest of us. So I'm stuck with an internet connection which is so fecking crap that the stream doesn't even load half the time. 

And Cahill just scored for Everton. 

Off a header. 

I'm going to go take a shower. I suddenly feel very, very dirty. 

****

I couldn't walk away. It's like a bad car wreck, I suppose. 1-1 draw, van Persie levelling at the death. At least this means we've still a buffer between us and Everton. We're 5th, and we're fighting for 5th for the rest of the season. 

That's fucking depressing. 

Baked beans and pork sausages

"I think children in sweatshops are a good idea. Small hands are good for stitching fine details."

- me, to the Concern Ireland guy campaigning against sweatshops in India

I'm not sure why I said that. Shit-stirring, I suppose. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I ran into the guy on the street, in the rain, and he had such a nice, big umbrella. Wanted to keep him talking a bit while it rained. Also, I remember Ali G doing something similar on his TV show, and you know, monkey see, monkey do. 

It got a laugh out of him, anyway. 

In Cork at the moment. Grey, industrial city in the south, on either side of the River Lee. Apparently has a rapidly escalating heroin problem, and has been likened to Edinburgh in the "Trainspotting" days. It sure feels like Edinburgh when it rains. 

First day here, I was walking to Subway when I saw a guy abusing a couple of other guys about his car. A few minutes later, I saw an ambulance speeding to where the confrontation was. When I came back, the guys, the ambulance and the car were all gone. You do get a few characters around here, I suppose. 

Second day here, I went to Blarney Castle. I climbed the tower and got grappled by an old Irish guy who dropped me down the parapet to kiss a fecking stone. Now, I'm eloquent and full of the Irish blarney. Also full of baked beans and pork sausage, which is pretty much all I can afford here in Cork.

I'm wondering if I should spend a third day here, or whether to head up to Galway. The days are slipping away, and I've only a week in Ireland before the visa runs out. There's not a lot to see here, and I'm sure there's enough rain and Guinness and craic and blarney and other quintessentially Irish charms on the west coast. 

Every Fecking Irish Pub

Foolishly I followed you to Dublin

Like a ghost I walked the streets of Temple Bar

And all the bright young things were throwing up their Guinness in the gutter

And once I thought I saw you from afar

- Every Fucking City, Paul Kelly

There's a huge window in the lobby of the hostel, and it overlooks Parnell St. I'm sitting in front of it now, and there's not a lot happening. It's one of those gloomy, prematurely darkened Sunday afternoons, the kind that makes you long for a warm bed and a good book. I'm not entirely sure I want to step out this evening, but I'll probably have to. 

I'm only in Dublin for another evening, and I should make it count. 

It took me about half a day to realise that cars here drives on the left side of the road. It took me a whole day to realise that I didn't have to look down at the pavement every couple of seconds to check for dog poo. But it only took me twenty minutes of walking down O'Connell St to realise that every fecking pub in Dublin is going to be an Irish bar. 

There's something disconcerting about Irish bars on the continent. There's the appropriation of British culture, for one, which means that they're the ones you automatically turn to for a screening of the Arsenal. There's the kitchiness for another. And then, there's the irritating thing that they're almost never run by, owned or patronised by, Irish people. 

Temple Bar is the spiritual home of all those far-flung Irish bars. And I took a stroll through it on Saturday night out of curiosity. It's a depressing place when you're sober. The pubs are packed and the bright young things are lining up in front of clubs. There's puke on the pavements and drunken kids stagger from one bar to another. There's a huge queue in front of the ATM (it is very expensive in Dublin). 

Everything's dressed up to be sold now, ain't it? 

But on the other hand, they do have these plaques on the pavement for places mentioned in Ulysess. Which is kind of nice, I felt. Always wanted to read Ulysess, but never got past the first chapter, and the last monologue by Mary Bloom. Some people say that if you read the first and last pages of a book, it counts as reading the whole thing, but I've always had my doubts about that idea. You miss out on a lot if you just go from A to Z, and you never find out why the Zebra did it. 

 

Dublin's been alright. Guinness is expensive (I spent more for a pint than I did for lunch, today) but surprisingly good. The weather's cold and miserable at times. But people are willing to stop for a chat, there's always something interesting in the streets, and most of the museums and galleries are free, which helps on the cold afternoons. 

Most days, everything's grand.