Have a look in the mirror lads, before togging out

IT must be getting on for 20 years since my friend, the late journalist George Byrne, delivered one of his most memorable put-downs. Though I wasn’t in his company at the time, I can remember the details as if it was yesterday.

He was having a quiet pint in his local one Saturday afternoon while waiting for his beloved Chelsea to appear to the telly. Or, to be strictly accurate, he was trying to have a quiet pint.

The problem was, however, that this was on the eve of some big match in Croke Park and hordes of visiting fans had descended on the pub after arriving in Dublin for the weekend. It might be helpful at this point to explain that George wasn’t overly keen on the GAA or, for that matter, its followers. I’m fairly certain it was him who renamed the national games as ‘bog ball’ and ‘stick fighting’, respectively.

Nor, as the day went on, were matters helped by the fact that the noisy mob had zero interest in the proceedings at Stamford Bridge and were spoiling George’s enjoyment of same. Things came to a head as he tried to weave his way through the unruly mass of county colours as he returned from the loo.

One well-oiled female, speaking with a distinctive rural accent, pointed at the team crest on George’s shirt and mockingly inquired as to which county it represented. The silly girl didn’t realise she was dealing with one of the capital’s sharpest and most acerbic wits. Quick as a flash, the classic reply was delivered in a curmudgeonly Liberties growl: ‘County f****** Chelsea.’

I love that story for many reasons, not least for the fact that it was the perfect rejoinder to a stupid, unfunny observation. But I am still at a loss as to why so many grown adults – and for reasons of fairness, yes, I’ll have to include George in this as well – seem to think that wearing sports gear in public is a good look. Had that woman asked what a man in his thirties was doing in a Chelsea FC jersey when he clearly wasn’t a member of the squad, she would have had a point.

Except she couldn’t do that, of course, because she was wearing her own team’s colours as well. And so was practically everyone else in the pub.

The only reason I mention any of this is because we’re likely to have a bumper weekend of it coming up. Next Sunday is, of course, the All-Ireland football final between Dublin and Kerry. The previous day, the Irish team has its opening game in the 2015 Rugby World Cup in Cardiff.

Now it is a matter of supreme indifference to me as to who wins those two games. Hand on heart, I genuinely couldn’t care less either way. But I do know that the pubs will be jam-packed on both days with far too many middle-aged fans wearing replica jerseys.

I’D be tempted to wonder aloud as to why wives and girlfriends let their menfolk go out looking like that, but as the incident quoted above illustrates, this is very much a his ’n’ hers phenomenon. Quite why anyone older than, say, 11 years of age would want to dress in such a manner is beyond me.

If they really want to declare their allegiance for all to see, then what’s wrong with a discreet lapel badge or a striped scarf?

Besides, most team shirts are hideous even on the players. The muted green of the international rugby side is inoffensive enough, I suppose, but the vast majority of GAA county colours are so garish that even looking at them could bring on a migraine. Whatever else about George’s Chelsea jersey, at least it didn’t resemble a hi-viz vest.

I would also be interested to know what exactly the men who’ll pull on those colours next weekend see when they gaze at their reflection each morning. Though I can’t speak for them, I can share my own experience.

What I see every morning is a rapidly ageing individual with greying hair and more chins than the Beijing telephone directory. I can’t imagine anyone mistaking me for an accomplished sportsman, unless they had me down as a reasonably handy darts player.

Maybe that’s just me, though. Perhaps these other chaps view their reflection and see a finely tuned athlete staring back. Best of luck to them if that’s the case.

Which brings me, as it happens, to an entirely different pub story that seems quite apt in the circumstances.

Many years ago, I used to socialise with a group that included a woman who clearly thought she was an awful lot better-looking than she actually was.

None of us remarked on this, however, until her name cropped up in conversation one night when she was absent from the company. ‘Sometimes,’ mused a long-time female friend of the lady in question, ‘I wish I had a loan of her mirror.’