Six hundred and four months

Fresh off a hard-fought draw against 9 men Bohs, Pete Mahon takes his knackered charges to the RSC this Friday for an FAI Cup Fourth Round tie against First Division Waterford Utd.  The FAI Cup has been a cunt of a competition for the Saints, bringing nothing but perennial heartbreak and misery. Gluttons for punishment that we are, we never learn. Every year we fancy our chances and every year we have our hearts broken and vow to never hope again.  The next year we fancy our chances and when we have our hearts broken we vow to never hope again. And then the next year we fancy our chances and when we have our hearts broken we vow to never hope again. And then the next year we fancy our chances and when we have our hearts broken we vow to never hope again…But this year I really do think we have a chance.

No journo or pundit can write or speak about the Saints and the Cup without mentioning how long it has been since we last tasted success. This is bollox. It has only been half a century, which, as any two-bit historian will tell you, is nothing. It was in April 1961that the Saints defeated Bertie Ahern’s beloved Drumcondra at Dalymount Park to lift their second and – as yet – last Cup. A mere six hundred and four months ago, which is only 18,383 days or 26,471,520 minutes.

Seems like only yesterday...

In that time only Shamrock Rovers, Shelbourne, Bohemians, Limerick, Cork Hibernians, Finn Harps, Home Farm, Dundalk, Waterford, Limerick Utd, Sligo Rovers, UCD, Derry City, Bray Wanderers, Galway Utd, Cork City, Longford Town, Drogheda Utd, and Sporting Fingal have won the cup. Athlone Town, for example, haven’t won it either in those six hundred and four months or 18,383 days or 26,471,520 minutes. Do the journos and pundits mention it every time Athlone play a cup game? Do they fuck.

Our greatest hope comes from the subtle ties that bind our squad to the year 1961 and the events that occurred 604 months or 18,383 days or 26,471,520 minutes ago.

In January of 1961, for instance, John F Kennedy was sworn in as the 35^th President of the United States of America, everyone’s second favourite country (after England). Kennedy was widely suspected of having had an affair with ride-and-a-half Marilyn Monroe, former wife of playwright Arthur Miller. Monroe appeared in many of her former husband’s works, but perhaps most notably in The Misfits, which is also the title of Ian Daly’s favourite TV show (minus the ‘the’). Ordinarily not a betting man, that alone is enough for me to wager Daly will score the winning goal in this year’s final.

Marylin Munroe, Hollywood stunner but according to Andy Gray “she would struggle on a cold night in Inchicore,” and would be” beaten up by long balls into the box.”

In February of ’61 Oasis-preludes, The Beatles, performed for the very first time in The Cavern Club.  The links between Liverpool’s fourth best band (after Echo & The Bunnymen, The La’s, and The Coral) are almost too numerous to mention. For starters, Back In The USSR is the official soundtrack to St Patrick’s Athletic’s  Europa League campaigns. Saints forward Daryl Kavanagh sings himself to sleep every night to the tune of Happiness Is A Warm Gun, and then there’s Shane McFaul’s hair…

He is the walrus

In April of ’61 the Soviet Union struck a mighty blow in the space race when Yuri Gagarin became the first man to leave the earth’s orbit. Before asking yourself ‘what the fuck has the Soviet Union, the space race, or Yuri fucking Gagarin got to do with Pats and the Cup?’ think. You might be pleasantly surprised.  The left-leaning people of Scottish town Cowdenbeath decided to mark the twentieth anniversary of the socialist cosmonaut’s feat by renaming a street in his honour. According to Google Maps, Cowdenbeath is a mere 20.7 miles from Edinburgh or 39 minutes on the A90 with an estimated fuel cost of £4.15. Chris Bennion is from Edinburgh. Think about it.

In August of ’61 Barack Obama was born in Alexandria, Egypt’s second city. Obama represented Chicago’s 13th District in the Illinois Senate for several years, during which time he befriended Saints owner Garrett Kelleher who had called at his door asking if he wanted “a bit of carpet”. The two remain close, and Kelleher recently offered to dispatch Dave Mulcahy to Washington to sort out the debt crisis. The offer was politely declined but B O (as Kelleher affectionately calls him) pledged to send unmanned drones to kill innocent woman and children associated with any club who knocks the Saints out of the cup.

An unmanned drone, or 'Plan B'.

Also in August of ’61 construction began on the Berlin Wall. The Spy Who Came in From the Cold, John le Carré’s classic Cold War thriller about East-West defections, double-agents, and ideological angst was set around the time of the Wall’s construction. The former MI6 man’s novel went down a storm when Stephen Bradley recommended it for the St Patrick’s Athletic Player’s Bookclub, which meets on a fortnightly basis in Caffey’s. Derek Doyle was profoundly struck by the “radical juxtaposition of perceived Western mores and the harsher reality of expediency and opportunism to achieve, frankly, questionable ends,” Paul Crowley said it was “a real page turner,” while Danny North described it as a “veritable tour de force”. There was, however, a consensus among the players that Martin Ritt’s 1965 screen adaptation had failed to capture any of the novel’s raw compellingness, despite a characteristically commanding performance from Richard Burton in the role of Alec Leamas. The point being, we’re going to win the Cup.

Reeling In The Years

Taking place at the very height of the Pat-Shels off-field rivalry this match goes down as a classic for event s on the pitch, neither Daily Star columnist Pat Dolan nor Shels owner Oliie Byrne (RIP) stealing the limelight. What went on off the pitch, however, still rankles with most, and for the benefit of younger supporters it’s worth recapping briefly.

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it, George Santayana

It had been an exciting pre-season for Saints fans and support was unanimous for Daily Star columnist Pat Dolan and his proposed merger of St Patrick’s Athletic Football Club and St Francis FC. The new entity – St Patricks Atheltic inc. St Francis Football Club, or Dublin Saints as we affectionately called ourselves – began the season against Galway Utd at Richmond Park, one of our two home grounds. The joy of an emphatic 3-0 victory was tempered somewhat by the realisation that St Patricks Atheltic inc. St Francis Football club could not, in fact, field 22 players. As this had seemed the main advantage of the merger, some supporters began to have doubts as to the long term viability of the project. Although, in true St Patricks Atheltic inc. St Francis Football Club fashion, they kept those doubts to themselves.

Nonetheless, the Dublin Saints continued to impress, even during the Paul Marney Affair which saw us docked 9 points. Although these points were restored upon appeal we were docked a further 15 points when it emerged that Charles Mbabazi Livingstone had also had an affair. Fearing such extra-curricular activities might tarnish the Dublin Saints’ family image and derail our title bid, Daily Star columnist Pat Dolan took the unusual step of doping the players with Chinese herbs to curb their sex drives and put an end to all these affairs. It proved, however, too little too late, and the Paul Marney and Charles Mbabazi Livingstone Affairs remain two of the seediest episodes in League of Ireland history.

Exhibit 'A' in the Paul Marney Affair

The players’ antics had created such a media frenzy that even National Joke Broadcaster, Radio Television Ireland, decided to show the game, going so far as to cancel an episode of highbrow sitcom Upwardly Mobile (which depicted the often-hilarious travails of Northsiders Eddie and Molly Keogh as they adjusted to life on the southside of the river Liffey, where everyone has at least one primary degree and earns a six-figure salary). The National Joke Broadcaster also judged the occasion important enough to assign their marquee commentator, Belfast-born UK passport-holder, George Lewis Christine Hamilton. George had requested former Shamrock Rovers defender Jim Beglin as his straight man, but after much deliberation it was decided best to have at least one person in the commentators’ box who knew the players’ names, and the gig went to Eoin Hand.

George Lewis Christine Hamilton's passport

Belfast-born UK passport-holder George Lewis Christine Hamilton declared Shels to be favourites because their jerseys were supplied by Umbro. ”Almost like a real football club,” he said, making use of his extensive knowledge of world football to remind us that FC United of Manchester had won the 1999 Champions League wearing Umbro shirts. Eoin, for his part, tipped Pats for victory, pointing out that the Shels players might be feeling a little jet lagged after flying to Inchichore from Drumcondra in a chartered plane. They were, however, in agreement that Owen Heary was “a bit of a cunt”.

"A bit of a cunt"

The players took to the field to rapturous applause from a packed crowd of around 7,000. Also in attendance were the joint Guests Of Honour, AC Milan owner Silvio Berlusconi and Real Madrid president Florentino Perez. They, along with scouts from a host of other top clubs, were running the rule over Dublin Saints winger Robbie Griffin who after a number of eye-catching performances had been widely tipped to become the League of Ireland’s first Ballon d’Or winner.

AC Milan owner Silvio Berlusconi on his way to Benburb Street

There were no surprises in either starting XI. Daily Star columnist Pat Dolan resisted the temptation of starting a 12-year-old Kevin Doyle, instead pairing fast-but-shit striker Ger McCarthy with Liam Kelly in attack. Paul Osam, who had been doubtful, passed a late fitness test and took his place in the Dublin Saints pioneering 4-3-2 formation, with Martin Russell only entering the field of play for free kicks and corners.

Shels made the most of their Umbro shirts and took the lead in the third minute when Stephen Geoghegan, who had once been called up to the Republic of Ireland squad for the laugh, punished a Dublin Saints error. Davy Byrne added to Geoghegan’s strike in the fifteenth minute, and it seemed like Shels would be flying back to Drumcondra with the league title in the bag.

Paul McKeown, however, had a fiver on the game as part of a 3-draws accumulator at 33-1, and after an innocuous enough challenge on the edge of the area he awarded the Dublin Saints a free kick. Martin Russell was duly wheeled on to the pitch and with his first touch sent the ball into the top-right corner of Steve Williams’ goal. Not for the last time that night the question on everybody’s lips was, ‘Who let the dogs out? Who? Who? Who?’

With the clock winding down it seemed as if both sides would be happy to go in at half time with things as they stood. Paul Marney had other ideas. The versatile Englishman picked up a loose ball in the Shels half and unleashed one of his trademark long-range drives. This one wasn’t shit though, and it squirmed under the body of Williams to the delight of both the Dublin Saints faithful and McKeown, who blew for half time shortly afterwards.

The second forty-five was less of a spectacle. Shels looked content to take the draw, while the Dublin Saints couldn’t match the intensity of the first half. Eoin Hand put this down to the part-time status of the players but Belfast-born UK passport-holder George Lewis Christine Hamilton blamed O’Neills. The bigwigs at National Joke Broadcaster, Radio Television Ireland, had ordered that Upwardly Mobile return to the screens post-haste, and Burlesconi and Perez were just about to leave their luxury corporate box when Charles Mbabazi Livingstone spun on a veritable sixpence in the Shels area to send the ball past a hapless Williams. Burlesconi turned to Perez and asked, ‘Who let the dogs the out?’ ‘Who? Who? Who?’ replied Perez, and the Dublin Saints went on to claim the 2001/2002 title.

History Will Absolve Me

 “A spectre is haunting Europe …” began flame-haired Marxist and PFAI Commander-in-Chief, Stephen McGuinness.  The  former centre-half and one-time Paul Scholes impersonator was addressing a packed room of flag-waving St. Patrick’s Athletic Footballers who had been alienated from the produce of their labour by billionaire property developer and lifelong-Pats-supporter-with-absolutely-no-hidden-agenda-whatsoever, Gareth Kelleher. “The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living,” McGuinness continued.

Neil Harney heeded, Derek Pender pondered, and Anto Murphy mused, while Danny North tweeted ‘union meeting then home for call of duty & ruby murray #thegoodlife’

McGuinness’s speech had a good 20 minutes to run but having noticed a hint of boredom creeping onto Dave Mulcahy’s face he decided to wrap up early. “Our demands are most modest,” he said, raising a clenched fist, “we only want the earth.” The players rose to their feet and spontaneously launched into The Internationale.  As always they gave 110% but, truth be told, some of them didn’t know all the words and could do nothing but move their lips and try to look as impassioned as those around them.

Stephen McGuinnes is beacon of light in a world of darkness, Nelson Mandela

It had been a trying week for all concerned.  Monies were owed and bellies were grumbling.  Emaciated and malnourished, Shane McFaul barely had the strength to get through more than a couple of hours on FIFA 11; Connor Kenna was offering guided tours around Richmond Park for a fiver a piece, and Shane Guthrie had resorted to getting a third job going house to house changing the battery in people’s smoke detectors.

But now here they all were in the lounge of the Black Lion, eagerly awaiting the arrival of billionaire property developer and lifelong-Pats-supporter-with-absolutely-no-hidden-agenda-whatsoever, Gareth Kelleher, in the hopes of thrashing out an agreement. The billionaire property developer and lifelong-Pats-supporter-with-absolutely-no-hidden-agenda-whatsoever was confident of emerging victorious. Thanks to his Chicago connections and considerable largesse he was able to fight his corner with the help of a crack team of celebrity lawyers led by Michael Clayton, Ally McBeal, and Matlock.

The players' demands are simply outrageous in the current economic climate, Michael Clayton

The PFAI were not short of powerful allies either. Earlier that week McGuinness had taken to the streets of Inchicore in order to canvass the people and had managed to arrange a meeting with representatives of the Residents Association. In a packed Oblates hall McGuinness delivered a speech so passionate and sincere in its sentiment that those in attendance will never forget it.

“We declare the right of the players of St. Patrick’s Athletic Football Club to performance-related bonuses, and to the unfettered control of St. Patrick’s Athletic Football Club’s destinies, to be sovereign and indefeasible, “ he began. “ The long usurpation of that right by an absentee board of directors has not extinguished the right, nor can it ever be extinguished except by the destruction of the St. Patrick’s Athletic players. In every generation the St. Patrick’s Athletic players have asserted their right to performance-related bonuses and compensation for loss of earnings: six times during the past ten days Daryl Kavanagh alone has asserted it in arms. Standing on that fundamental right and again asserting it in arms in the face of UEFA, we hereby proclaim St. Patrick’s Athletic Football Club as the property of the PFAI, and we pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades-in-arms to the cause of performance-related bonuses, compensation for loss of earnings, and its exaltation among the clubs of the UEFA Europa League.”

McGuinness’s words brought the house down and he left the stage to a chorus of applause before being embraced by Tommy Gavin – former New York firefighter and current Chairperson of the Inchicore Residents Association.

“Well,” Stephen asked, “can we count on the support of the Inchicore Residents Association?”

“The IRA are fully behind you,” Tommy assured.

Tommy Gavin, Chair of the Inchicore Residents Association

And so the scene was set for confrontation.

Kelleher, the billionaire property developer and lifelong-Pats-supporter-with-absolutely-no-hidden-agenda-whatsoever, entered the Black Lion with his legal team in tow. Dave Mulcahy, presumably operating under instruction, immediately floored Matlock with a two-footed lunge. The hot dog-loving lawyer made a right of meal of it, clutching his face and rolling around in feigned agony until Anthony Buttimer gave Muller his marching orders, at which point Matlock made a miraculous recovery.

Before proceedings could get under way in earnest Buttimer had something of a bone to pick with the attire of McGuinness and Kellher, the billionaire property developer and lifelong-Pats-supporter-with-absolutely-no-hidden-agenda-whatsoever. It seemed the billionaire property developer and lifelong-Pats-supporter-with-absolutely-no-hidden-agenda-whatsoever’s Blueshirt clashed with the pink one of McGuinness, and after much deliberation and the possibility of postponing talks indefinitely, Buttimer ordered McGuinness to turn his shirt inside out.

Without further ado both parties locked horns. Michael Clayton opened his brief case and took out the club’s copy of player contracts. McGuinness did the same.

“Tell me, Red, what do you want?” Clayton asked.

 “You know exactly what I want.”

“I do: too much.”

“Respect has no cost.”

 “I think you’ll find it does. We’ve already made a generous offer.”

“What you’ve offered is small potatoes in comparison to the increased gate receipts and prize money.”

small potatoes

Things carried on in this vein for the best part of an hour, neither side prepared to budge an inch, before Daryl Kavanagh – who had been threatening to form a more militant breakaway faction since day one – leapt from his chair. “Freedom comes from the barrel of a gun,” he declared.

Clayton took umberage at  this. “I'm not the guy you kill,” he said. ”I'm the guy you buy! Are you so fucking blind that you don't even see what I am? I sold out Arthur for 80 grand. I'm your easiest problem and you're gonna kill me?”

Buttimer brandished his second red and third reds of the evening, sending both Clayton and Kavanagh for early baths.

“This is way beyond my pay scale,” he said. “I’m calling these talks off.”

Kelleher, the billionaire property developer and lifelong-Pats-supporter-with-absolutely-no-hidden-agenda-whatsoever, and his legal team made for the exit. He cast a glance back at McGuinness, lifting a line straight from the Coen brothers’ Big Lebowski: “Your revolution is over, Mr. McGuinness. Condolences. The bums lost. My advice is to do what your parents did; get a job, sir. The bums will always lose. Do you hear me, Mr. McGuinness? The bums will always lose. The bums will always lose.”

“History will absolve me,” McGuinness retorted. “History will absolve me.”

To be continued…

O Bigode

Historically, the 18^th of September is a date of no significance. It witnessed no tragedies and it bore no great feats to make the world stop and take notice.  If it were struck from the calendar and we glibly passed from the 17^th to the 19^th, few would give the slightest shit. But I’m not one to wantonly belittle a date (I am many things – a dog lover, a problem drinker, and a compulsive masturbator to name but a few – but I am categorically not one to wantonly belittle a date), so  credit where it’s due:  the 18^th of September  is the birthdate of both Ronaldo (the buck toothed, big boned one) and Kevin Doyle, football’s most highly-rated four-goal-a-season striker; it’s also the date on which Jimmy Hendrix met his gruesome death in 1970, while Sean O’Casey, the last Irish writer to acknowledge the existence of something called the working class, passed away on this date four years previously. But apart from those four events nothing has ever happened on the 18^th of September throughout the history of mankind. Nothing. Except in 2009.

On Friday the 18^th of September 2009 the people of Inchicore, Ballyfermot, Bluebell, Drimnagh, and surrounds breathed a collective sigh of relief, reportedly causing a 0.2° rise in the earth’s temperature, landslides in the Appalachian mountains and a tsunami in the South Pacific. Jeff Kenna, the man who could have any woman in Palmerstown, had tendered his long-overdue resignation as manager of St. Patrick’s Athletic Football Club. Between them, the landslides and tsunami claimed no lives but brought thousands of euro worth of damage and untold suffering to those in affected areas. Next to the signings of Gareth O’Connor and Mark Leech, this has to be one of the worst things Jeff Kenna has ever inflicted on the human race.

I could have any woman in Palmerstown

Jeff’s tenure had been a short one. Appointed by Richard Sadlier -  the once-capped, two-time winner of the World’s Most Boring Voice Award - in January of 2009, Jeff signaled his intent to make Shamrock Rovers the dominant force in domestic football with a narrow 3-0 home defeat against Galway Utd (his former club) in March. 6 months (and many lost hours in the departure lounge of Birmingham International Airport) later the Saints came up against First Division Waterford Utd in an FAI Cup quarter final replay. Another narrow defeat (this time by only 2 goals) put paid to his brief reign of terror. That game, which took place on Tuesday 15^th of September, was the last I attended.

Work commitments have prevented me returning home as often as I’d like, and any trip I have managed to make has coincided with no game, home or away. And so it was that I watched last year’s Setanta Cup final in solitude on a 12 inch screen in the back room of an Irish-themed bar; the same bar in which I celebrated Paddy Kavanagh’s exquisitely converted header in the last year’s Cup semi-final; the same bar in which I cursed Paul Crowley (and everyone who has ever known him) after his tame, last-minute penalty against an injured Bohemians ‘keeper.

With a flight penciled in for the week after next, I had hoped to take in the home game against Drogheda on August 19^th, but it seems some other shit has been going on lately, and I could be left with the unenviable choice of breaking a picket or missing my beloved Saints yet again. To make matters worse, Pete Mahon – the best thing to happen to the club since the sale of Robbie Griffin to UCD – could very well walk.

Can I be the first to start the Bring Back Jeff Campaign?

For all intents and purposes Jeff has ceased to exist. In fact a Google search of his name reads thus:  Showing results for Jeff Kober. Search instead for Jeff Kenna. Before going off on a tangent and asking ‘who is this Jeff Kober? Does he have his coaching badges?’, let’s stick with the Palmerstown Prowler (as nobody ever calls him). It might come as something of a surprise, but Jeff is the holder of an English Premier League winners medal. That’s right: an English Premier League Medal. As Jeff has never been one to blow his own trumpet, very few people know this. Such is his modesty he only wears the medal on strictly formal occasions, such as Mondays and Tuesdays.  This alone is a guarantee of success at the second time of asking.

As impressive as that is in its own right (only 396 people have won EPL medals since Rupert Murdoch created football in 1992, meaning Jeff has won 0.25% of all EPL medals - this percentage increases significantly if you only consider winners from Dublin 22), Jeff’s main selling point is the regard in which he is held amongst Europe’s elite. Inter’s Maicon and Madrid’s Sergio Ramos, to name just two, have cited him as a major influence on their playing careers, while after the recent Champions League final between FC Barcelona and FC United of Manchester, a teary-eyed Dani Alves went so far as to dedicate victory to the Palmerstown man.  Live on Catalan TV the Brazilian fullback pulled a ‘93/’94 Southampton shirt over his head and turned to reveal the name KENNA proudly emblazoned above the number 2. An emotional Alves then began a barely intelligible monologue in a mixture of Portuguese, Catalan, and Spanish. With the help of Google translate this is a much shortened version of his bizarre outburst.

“Growing up in Juazeiro there were two options – drugs or football. I chose the latter, but had I been a year older or younger I might have gone down the wrong path, but thankfully I had some inspirational figures to look up to at my most impressionable time. When I was a small boy Brazil won the World Cup and it was a big deal for everyone in my village, but not for me and my family. We didn’t follow Brazil, we followed Southampton. It’s true Brazil had some great players – Taffarel, Cafu, Leonardo, Dunga, Romario, Bebeto – these were great players. But Southampton also had some ok players – Dave Beasant, Jason Dodd, Francis Benali, Neil Madison, Ian Dowie – these were very ok players. But for me the best was Jeff Kenna, O Bigode (The Moustache). He was and is my true inspiration.”

Then there is the oft-overlooked fact that the Tiki-taka brand of football played by his Galway Utd side in 2008 has been shamelessly stolen by both Pep Guardiola and Vincente Del Bosque, meaning Jeff has indirectly won La Liga (3 times), the Copa del Rey, the Champions League (twice), the Spanish Super Cup, the World Club Championship, the European Championship, and the World Cup.

Pete Mahon may have brought a peerless integrity to the post of manager, instilled an unprecedented work ethic in a squad of players which he himself assembled on a budget of Butter Vouchers and St. Vincent de Paul handouts,  and united the fans behind his management in a manner not seen since Brian Kerr’s heyday, but doesn’t Jeff deserve one last crack of the whip? He has an English Premier League winners medal, don’t forget.