F May 25th-26th 2002

Dear Diary,

I'm sorry that I haven't opened you in the past two weeks, but I've
been so busy with work. Yes, I know it's happened before. Yes, I know I
said that I'd make more of an effort this time. Yes, I know I pick you
up and then put you down when the fancy takes me, like some old book.
That's because you are an old book, now shut up, I'm writing.

A phone call from an old friend last week: He has tickets for the
Heineken Cup final between Leicester Tigers and Munster on Saturday. I
couldn't get to last year's final in Paris, but I can get to Cardiff,
so it's a lads rugby weekend for me. Unfortunately it is also a lads
and lasses rugby weekend for 40,000 Munster fans from Cork, Limerick,
and all points west, plus another 25,000 from Leicester. Every hotel
and guest house in Cardiff and Newport are full to overflowing, so I
end up in a bed and breakfast in Chepstow, 30 miles away.

On Friday evening I arrive at a house which is a cross between Fawlty
Towers and the Vicarage from "Father Ted". The owner advises me that
the only other guest tonight is the computer repair man, who is fixing
"the daddy's" P.C. While unpacking, I hear "the daddy" calling
downstairs. " Mary, the scanner's on the blink again. And can you bring
up me medicine?" I think I'll take a ride into Cardiff tonight.

Cardiff, 8.00pm. The streets and bars are full of men in the
traditional red shirts of Munster, and the less traditional green nylon
wigs of Ireland. In a pub I make the mistake of admitting that my name
is Eamonn, and that I'm supporting Leicester.

"With a name like Eamonn? Jasus, what's wrong with you? C'mon boys,
we've got some missionary work to do."
"Why bother , there's thousands of us already."
"Ah yes, but there is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner that
repenteth&;#8230;."

And for the next four hours they work on me like Jesuits, applying
moral blackmail and Guinness in equal measure. By midnight I'm ready to
die for Ireland, "Like your fathers did before you." In the end I'm
saved from a martyr's fate by closing time, and the only pain I suffer
for the land of my ancestors is the mother of all hangovers.

On Saturday morning, while waiting for my friends to arrive from
Leicester, I meet more Munster fans. They landed yesterday in Holyhead,
and proceeded to Cardiff via Chester, Wolverhampton, Gloucester, and
the Severn Bridge. This strange piece of navigation is explained by Jim
from Kilkenny: "It's what happens when you put three astronauts and a
monkey in a spaceship, and give the map to the feckin monkey."

The Millenium Stadium Cardiff, 2.30pm. I've met up with the Leicester
lads, and we're walking around the stadium looking for our gate. Rivers
of colour swirl past the eyes; red shirts for Munster, the green, white
and gold of the Irish tricolour, the tiger-painted faces and red-green
chequered flags of Leicester. Now we're through the gates, down a short
corridor, and into the arena. The roof has been closed over the
stadium, and the rivers have been transformed into walls of colour and
sound. Every cheer, every roar is magnified, it can't get any louder.
At ten to three the gladiators enter, and it does.

The match kicks off, and we settle down to watch. For twenty minutes
there is no score, then Munster score two penalties in quick
succession. The singing begins. Only an Irish rugby team could have a
love story set in the great famine as their anthem:

"By a lonely prison wall, I heard a young girl calling,
Michael they have taken you away&;#8230;"

The volume rises as more and more fans pick up the refrain, until, by
the chorus, the sound has become a physical assault:

"Low lie, the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the young free-birds fly.
Our love was on the wing,
We had dreams and songs to sing,
Now it's lonely round the fields of Athenry."

Sunday 4.00pm, and I'm home. Leicester, the team I've supported for
twenty years, won, 15-9, but that really doesn't matter. The colours,
the craic, and the words of a song are inside me. I'm full.