Waltzing Matilda

I think the Australians get a raw deal. You get the feeling that the resentment many hold towards that great nation is the result of two things. Firstly, the fact that they have a Union Jack on their flag gets a few goats up as you know flags are deemed important in this part of the globe. Secondly, they live the lifestyle we all aspire to. They play something close to what we do in terms of a national sport, but do so in fine weather all year round. They’re better looking and are naturally stronger and fitter. We may harp on about the hardiness of a bog man or the stamina of a lad who dungs out the yard but these lads from Down Under are born like that before lifting a shovel. Let’s face it – we’re fairly jealous of our cousins from the southern hemisphere even though many of them were rogue ancestors of our own, sent down on a boat for being a bit of an eejit.

I speak with authority here on this subject. It’s not a period of my life that I’m overly proud of but it’s worth the telling if it makes the average yokel change their views on the Aussie nation. Back in 1959 the convict boats were still in use even though it wasn’t common knowledge. The Irish Government turned a blind eye to the Guards turfing a few lads onto a prison ship and pointing it in the direction of Circular Quay. I had been playing a bit of Rugby in Blackrock at the time and living the life of a handsome bachelor. Unfortunately I feel in with a middlin crew and began to ape their mannerisms, turning my back on the hard-working Presbyterian ethos instilled in me by the Northern way.

Missing Mass soon turned into bad language. I togged out for Drumcondra GAC one Sunday morning as a ringer in the Dublin Championship and was torturing the Glasnevin full back with a torrent of verbal abuse in a strong northern twang. I’d never seen a man as intimidated. I was also probably one of the strongest men in Ireland at that time, having spent weeks honing my muscles outside the pubs of Dublin. My job was to lift inebriated women home up to four miles away. I was feared throughout the county and beyond. Unfortunately that sense of infallibility got to me completely and I embarked on a period of complete disregard for anyone I encountered in authority.

It all came to a head when I was lifted by the guards for stealing a bag of Greek spuds and apple tart from a small vendor outside Quinn’s, five minutes after the act. It was 8pm when I was taken. By midnight I was sailing.

I’d rather not go into the details of the journey apart from the fact that everyone on the boat had heard of by feats on the field and I won the bare knuckle competition as I had no willing opponents. By the time the ship docked in Australia , the locals had been well clued in about my arrival and before I had time to draw breath, two contracts were set before me by the now defunct Sydney Swallows and Perth Packers. That apple tart seemed to have awarded me with a ticket to fulfil the dreams of most red-blooded Irishman, getting paid abroad for playing a bit of ball.

The Swallows were my choice and I arrived bright and early next morning for the first training session of the season. The squad seemed a bit stand-offish at the start, perhaps afraid of my fearsome appearance and reputation. I was also quite confident having been the King Dick of Dublin County football for the previous season. To me, the Aussie game seemed a little easier what with points for wides and taking a breather for a few seconds every time I fielded the ball. I thought I would lord it.

In an unprecedented fall from grace, that notion of rugged Irish toughness outperforming beach-toned Australian muscle was shattered when the first ball came my way. I was unceremoniously flattened on the Australian grass with a gentle shoulder by the Swallows’ captain Brett Dinkum. For the next hour the hard man from Ireland was made fun of, humiliated and tortured by every member of his new club. Even the female physio cracked me a swift left-hander when I complained of double vision. I screamed a woman’s scream.

In order to save face and return some pride to the country and association I was representing, I decided to do a bit of slagging off the ball. My ‘your blade’s a glipe’ was met with blank stares. The level of sledging back then wasn’t what it is now. Those were more innocent days.

I never returned to the club and signed up to doing toilet duties at the Grand Opera House for the next three years. Mickey Harte has often lambasted our relationship with their game. He’s right. They’ll only expose us for the white-skinned, freckle-faced, jelly-legged sports men we are. Those fellas are serious. They haven’t wasted years toning useless muscles stooling in the mosses across Ireland . At the age of five they’re in the gym. All we can do is complain of their brutality whilst secretly harbouring a serious resentment that they have it all. Compare Kylie Minogue to Foster and Allen. Barbequed chicken to a plate of beans. Jason Akermanis to Colm Parkinson. I thought I was the GAA’s High King in 1959. Over there I was just a Joker.