London Eye..
20th January 2010
A different perspective on the London Irish v Leinster pool match inthe Heineken Cup on 23rd January 2010.
Article by the other Patrick Lennon,a correspondent of The Daily Star newspaper.
As the Champions of Europe take to arms in defence of their crown once more this weekend, there seems to the London Irish faithful not only a probability about the result given our failure in Parc y Scarlets on Sunday, but a depressing inevitability about the stick we’re going to take from the Leinster masses pouring in.
Are you smiling to our face and laughing behind our backs?
The champions and their fans are so, so welcome; we’ve never looked forward to a game like this one, the gem in our fixture list, and all despite our best efforts to render it meaningless in terms of the pool and points on the field.
Ireland are the current rugby royalty, with the Six Nations and European Cup plumping up the Leinster trophy cabinets - the crown jewels.
Despite such glaring, shiny and very tangible facts, and you can take it as gospel from this proverbial mongrel accustomed to carving his tricky path through the choppy waters between these storied nations, that the English snotters don’t like it up ‘em.
To some of the more crusty, spouting sorts apt to sing up the virtues of wobbly chariots, Saturdays encounter will certainly feel like the Visigoths coming over the seventh hill.
Make no mistake about it, that’s something to be celebrated together.
Headquarters infested with the heathen? Unimaginable in the heady days of Sir Clive and his Johnno, when only Munster, Toulouse or Stade offered resistance to the irresistible and immovable Tigers lying on top of the ball all the way to final after final.
Sure, idle talk in easy metaphors of green tides and black pints might cause your average Leinster fan to recoil in horror holding court in Baggot Street or Blackrock, but please remember, we are the mongrels of the Guinness Premiership too.
From a personal standpoint growing up here in the UK, I was always the Irishman, the mick, the chip off the aul' sod, faithfully doting on dad and supporting the greens cause in the face of horrified schoolmates. The sense of history, of another dimension to me they did not possess remains something to savour to this day. More common in East London now, I can tell you.
When a college career back 'home' became a reality, I was flush with eager anticipation of the prodigal welcome, to be unceremoniously revived from my cliched reverie and told emphatically I was a "f*ckin Brit" by a chap on the 16 bus down form the airport through sunny Santry.
The realisation that such a base category was the sum of my lot to more than a few of the folk I encountered early on was a sound lesson, no doubt. It grew me a thick skin quickly, and forced me to tackle the borderline racism head on, and to work harder to see the gems and take a good rib on the chin. London Irish are not popular amongst the English fans. Largely, they resent our shared identity, and our success. We are perceived to be the Trojan Horse which wheedled its cunning and unethical way to the heart of proceedings in the past few years once the game went pro, culminating in last years Premiership final at HQ.
Too close for comfort, thought some. Naiive we thought. We got Leicestered, but we had every right to be there fighting them.
If you see people wearing the leprechaun pint hats at Twickenham next Saturday evening, don’t take the mick, or vomit while summoning up your best half-remembered mutterings from the Scoil Naisunta. Imagine what the whole place will look like with the flags. Just ours, imagine!
Some of us habitually don the Yank tourist garb to wind up the opposition. Think self-effacing rather than Plastic Paddy. Our sense of fun in the wardrobe is aped only by those following Saracens, and honestly there's nothing funnier in rugby than the disdainful look on the faces of grown men and women looking at us in our finery waving pints, while they are sporting a fez.
We are the best fans in the English league; ironic perhaps in itself and certainly an indictement on the rest, but our numerous attendance records speak for themselves. We offer the warmest reception off the field, and our passion for the team burns hotter on the terraces than the best old Albion can produce.
Our Premiership semi-final against Harlequins last year was the case in point. Remarkably, they segregated us just like they did to the Leinster fans for the bloodgate debacle, and the nil-conceived policy got them a humping on the pitch and in the stands.
Irish represent the most successful franchise in the league. Few clubs have adapted their business models to the pro-game with the speed and efficiency of the old Sunbury club – now exiled to Readings tidy Madejski stadium in Berkshire. Come and see us if you haven’t already.
Ulster did, and their lot took the p*ss. On the back of a solid beating, mind you, so all good.
I made the decision to support Ireland following a particularly humiliating afternoon at Twickers when a solitary penalty put us 3-0 up after a heartbeat. What followed was a monumental, seventy-nine minute coronary infarction based on and around the Irish line, courtesy of chief tormentor Chris Oti who rampaged through the brittle green defence four times in a 40-point drubbing. OK we'd lost, and badly - at best a decent education and rite of passage for any prospective long suffering Exile thought my dad, as we trudged amongst the lashed, buoyant English fans on the ten minute walk to the car. If he mistook my silence for childish petulance or stifling an effeminate urge to cry - as a man of ten, tears were so two years ago, and I thought permanently in the past - it was a mistake. Something far more profound was taking place.
The soundtrack to our disappointed but dignified silence changed my life forever.
We were in amongst them, surrounded by half-cut, boorish, English fans. These men were speaking in my voice, my familiar tones, but it was wrong. It was clumsy, aggressive, and got louder when my green scarf shuffled alongside. Like using a scythe to trim the verge perhaps, all I could hear was "Paddy" this; "useless" that. "Not fit to play here" was one particular pearl of wisdom. "Bloody micks, bloody disgrace, Empire strikes back. Swing Low..." You've heard the rest.
Every fibre of my being was in revolt, what I now know to be utter revulsion. I vowed at that moment, that although I was born of this sceptered isle, one of its sons, that I would never allow myself to be associated with such undignified, arrogant, graceless bile as a rugby or indeed sports fan. I couldn't be like them, I mean, I sound like them already, not a great start, so I can never say those things.
Many, many times over the years, and particularly in TW17, I've had reason to re-iterate my decision and thank my infantile self for making it.
London Irish is the fulcrum around which I define my sporting ethics. Dedication, respect, versatility. Roll with the punches lads because no-one likes us, not England, they won't pick our players, not Ireland, they won't pick our players, not even South Africa. We're true to ourselves, whatever anyone else may think.
Leinster, and Ireland by extension, rule the roost. Munster aren't too far off either to be fair. A forty point humping for Irish on Saturday isn't out of the question, but neither is a thrilling victory replete with the four tries we need - ask Northampton Saints what happened in the Powergen final not long ago.
I'm bringing my eleven year old to the match, she knows Dublin well - she was born there but is as diehard London Irish as you could ever wish to meet at her age. I'd like to introduce her to the real Leinster on the walk back to the car, whatever the result.
See you Saturday.
Issued on behalf of by Patrick Lennon Associates, TW17 0QD
For further information please contact Paddy Lennon
Tel: 01932 580866 Mob: 07711 609820 Email: mail@patricklennon.com