Ronan O’Reilly

The joy of Six? I’m just happy it’s all over

THANK God it is all over for another year. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I’d just like to stress that the Six Nations Championship is by some distance my least favourite fixture in the annual sporting calendar.

Regular readers will be aware that I don’t have much interest in sport of any description. But I reserve a particular dislike for international rugby, largely due to the fact that I live, work and play within a stone’s throw of The Stadium Formerly Known As Lansdowne Road.

Granted, I’m being entirely selfish here. The plain truth of the matter is that I am a creature of habit and, even if it is only for a couple of weekends each year, the Six Nations means that my well-established social schedule is disrupted on a grand scale.

Take the weekend just gone as an example. Thanks to bitter experience, I was well aware that the pub I frequent most Saturday afternoons would be mobbed with rugby supporters heading off to the match.

Given that the game wasn’t due to start until 5pm or thereabouts, though, I figured that things wouldn’t get too busy until a couple of hours beforehand. My carefully plotted strategy was to get there a bit earlier than usual and at least have enough time to read the papers over a couple of quiet pints.

Needless to say, it didn’t quite work out like that. Even though I arrived several hours before the kick-off, staff had already removed all the stools and tables to make more space.

So the only way to have a drink was by standing at the bar like a grizzled old cowboy in some Wild West saloon. Meanwhile, the place started filling up with serious numbers of punters within about 20 minutes of my arrival.

Silly me. When I was working out my tactics, I’d forgotten to factor in that the English rugger boys are possibly even thirstier than our lot are. Their motto clearly is: drink early, drink often. Throw in the fact that there was still a certain level of St Patrick’s Day jollity in the air and, from my perspective at least, it was a perfect storm.

My first instinct was to lash back the remainder of my pint and head for the door. But I decided instead to linger for a while and observe these folk at close quarters.

Much as I’d like to be able to tell you otherwise, I can’t say I reached any conclusions of great sociological significance. But I was struck by the large proportion of mature fans – Irish and English alike – who were wearing ill-fitting jerseys in their national colours.

Why on Earth would anyone think this was a good look on a fully grown man? It might be fine for a nineyear-old boy, say, but decidedly less so if you’re of an age when your weekends are usually spent mowing the lawn or washing the car.

Though I am open to correction, I doubt there is any easier way to make a middle-aged paunch look even worse than by squeezing yourself into a rugby shirt that’s a size and a half too small. (And, trust me, I speak as a man with some knowledge of the middle-aged paunch).

Do these men not have wives or girlfriends to tell them how ridiculous they look? Then again, I suppose you only have to think of all the women who let their menfolk go out wearing ludicrous-looking wigs or comb-overs. Besides, there was no shortage of female fans also wearing jerseys last Saturday.

I can’t for the life of me fathom it. Same goes for GAA and soccer fans. Of course, I fully understand that people like to assert their allegiance on occasions such as this, but what’s wrong with sticking on a scarf or a woolly hat in the relevant colours?

Nor, of course, does the patriotism factor explain why there will also have been people wearing Ireland or England jerseys while watching the match at home on their own.

Look, the only sport in which I have even a passing interest is golf. But when I sit down to watch The Open or the Masters, I don’t feel obliged to get into the mood by slipping on a diamond-patterned V-neck and a pair of strides that look like they were borrowed from Rupert the Bear.

Frankly, I’d rather go out dressed in a tutu. Unfortunately, though, they don’t seem to do these in my size.