I stopped at the Bookie’s at the top of the Lane and put a bet on North Down to win at generous odds of 4-6 on and there were hundreds of people flocking in the same direction. I just assumed the Point-to-Point races were on the same day and joined the flow although some of the ejits were carrying banners and bugles and whistles and horns and six packs and music boxes. Imagine my horror when they all filed through “the green green gates of home” and into my beloved Green!
I could barely see Scrabo Tower in the distance as there were so many people in the ground and the new turnstiles were rocking as fivers and tenners passed like confetti. The music was deafening and I marvelled at the size of the crowd with barely a space free and everyone was sitting, shouting, singing and slagging at the same time. The match had started, although my first impression was that Duffy’s Circus was in town as all the players were in coloured kits, some similar and some the worse for wear, but definitely all coloured. The umpires were dapper with their squeaky clean blue shirts and boater hats and all in all it looked like one great big party scene. I ventured up to the clubhouse, which was manic with hundreds of beer drinking football supporters watching Man United inside and having a look at the cricket every time they went to the loo. Drinks were served on the pitch every 10 overs and I could swear the trays included glasses of beer and cans of Red Bull. The waitresses who served them were something else too, because they were dressed in French maid outfits with fishnet stockings and legs that went up to their armpits. Wow, if this is the modern game then I peaked too early!
The game itself seemed great fun not least because Mickey Mouse could hit the orange ball and after a few drinks breaks most of the fielders didn’t want to chase the ball anyway. Of course, it was pointed out to me that the big white circle around the square was to keep the fielders away from the boundary so that the batters could hit the ball over them and score plenty of runs. Spectators want to see sixes and fours not wickets. “Power Plays” they said, and I marvelled at the ingenuity in the modern game. I grabbed a few pints (Happy Hour lasted six hours) and I peaked into the tearoom where the WAGs were preparing for the mid innings break. The tables were laden with South African and Australian wines (sponsors products had to be used I was told) and when the players returned to the pavilion, scantily clad cheerleaders danced around the Green and there was singing and dancing all around the boundary. The break lasted an hour and when play re-started there were still some revellers dancing over at the old green hut, but the play went on regardless. I can’t say I recognized any of the players with their floppy hats and pyjamas, but the big electronic screen kept everyone posted and you could send birthday greetings and messages to your friends of you knew the guy working the levers. I loved the message from Big Ray in the top corner for the barmaid-“two pints of Tennents, a pint of Bass and three pints of Guinness for us and bring some crisps!”
The match was a circus, but everybody was having a ball and when it was over (I’m not sure who won but nobody seemed to care) there was a short little ceremony outside the clubhouse where the Man-of-the-Match was given a brown envelope and everyone retired to the bar where there was plenty of space as the Man United fans had left because they lost and they were going downtown to drown their sorrows. Me too, I thought, as I headed for the gates, but I was rescued by the alarm clock.
Time to get up and shake myself.
Does anyone else get these horrible nightmares?
Clarence Hiles
Editor
