Waiting For The Goldline

“‘Bout ye, lad,” the driver looks me in the eye and winks sideways, as I get on the bus to Dublin outside Jury’s hotel in Belfast. He’s not quite a skinhead, but he’s not far off, and I choose a seat fairly close to the front, since there’s hardly a soul on this cross-border ship of fools and I want the company of familiar accents I haven’t heard for too long. The Belfast driver has a mate from Dublin perched on a seat to his left. He’s called Michael and keeps up a running commentary with Colin for most of the 100 miles it takes to get to the fair city.
“D’ye mind the time,” Colin starts in a piercing whine, “when Norn Iron played in the World Cup Finals?” He starts a long stream of statistics, exhaustively researched, into the football team’s progress in each competition since 1958. Drifting in and out of sleep, I realise he’s talking about a drunken goalkeeper. Not Pat Jennings – he’s already described the size of Pat’s hands for the best part of half an hour – but another goalie. Apparently this mystery man is going out with a model.
“Aye, she’s stick-thin. Never eats a thing – just drinks and smokes … ” (pause for effect) ” … and takes drugs.” Sharp intake of breath from Michael, who is leaning forward, trying to catch every detail of the celeb’s transgressions. He’s older than Colin, and has a mop of bouffant white hair. I can’t see his face from where I’m sitting, but his voice is a soft southern brogue,
“Holy God. Droogs?” he asks,
“Aye, Michael, that’s what keeps her stick-thin. That and not eating. She was in the papers, sure enough, for feeding him drugs. In his tea, for Christ’s sake. Shockin’, aye. There’s a German goalkeeper too – he’s even worse. Bayern Munich has paid every bouncer in the city to watch out for him. If he tries to get into a nightclub, they only have to phone a special number for security guards to come round and take him away, in return for a large cash reward.”
“Mother of God, that’s incredible, altogether.” Michael is almost overwhelmed by this tabloid anecdote.
“Aye, Michael, ye’ll ne’er guess – that guy goes out with a model too.”
“Is she stick-thin?”
“Right first time, Michael, stick-thin. Only drinks water and smokes fags.”
“Droogs ‘n’ all?”
“Oh aye, loads of drugs, Michael. Drugs everywhere. Her handbag’s full of them.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph give us all strength.”
We’re passing Lisburn as the two of them lapse into stunned silence, doubtless ruminating on the vast amounts of drink and drugs consumed by innumerable goalkeepers and stick-thin model girlfriends all over this benighted world. The silence is almost respectful, since the glamour and the extent of the debauchery is beyond description. It’s a moment of religious awe.
Colin turns up the rock golden oldie station we’re listening to. “I Got You Babe” comes on.
“Is that the Rolling Stones?” asks Michael, leaning forward towards Colin.
“No, big lad, tha’s Lulu. She’s singin’ wi’ tha’ guy used to be in Rod Styoort’s bawnd. It’s incredible, he lost his life in a freak accident.”
“Chroist almoighty. Heaven help and spare us all.”
We cruise up Hillsborough main street – that’s right, we’re only twelve miles into the journey – where you can see remnants of the 12th July procession hanging from the lampposts and strung between buildings across the road. There’s tired bunting, and the arch across the main street is decorated with pictures of the Queen and Prince William, lost in a maze of Masonic Lodge symbols. It looks like the powers-that-be in the Lodge have discarded Charles as heir to the throne, and gone straight for the next generation.
Even though he’d probably make a better King than Chas, and no one could face his or Queen Camilla’s head on the back of a coin of the realm, I can’t help thinking that the line will stop when Liz pops her ‘by appointment’ royal clogs. Wills can always end up a celebrity judge on Royals Without Talent.
By now, Sonny and Cher have stopped and, by strange coincidence, ‘Do Ya Think I’m Sexy’ starts up.
“Did you hear about Rod Styooort kickin’ a ball from a concert stage and it lawnds in tha’ weeman’s fayce?” says Colin, “he broke jus’ ’bout every tooth in her head, and fractured her jaw, like.”
Michael is almost crying into his flask of tea.
“You know what Rod did, Michael? He went to the haws-pital himsel’, and brought her a bunch of flaw-yers. That and a hugh-mung-gus cash settlement. Nobody knows how much … well, he may have told Elton, ye know.”
“Elton John, now there’s a terrible man, and no mistake.”
“Whatdye mean there, Michael, yer a wee bit harsh there, lad.”
“Cocaine and rent boys everywhere. I saw a documentary about it – Sodom and Gomorrah all rolled into one.”
By now we’re on the Dundalk bypass, driving through an industrial estate.
“Madonna was at the party, ‘n’all.”
Another awed silence, which lasts until just outside Drogheda. After crossing the Boyne, the lads settle back to talking football, and the glory of the EU-funded glorious new pre-financial crisis Irish roads system brings us into Dublin in record time. A journey which used to take up to a day, including hold-ups, rerouting and bombs on the line (or road) is now completed in a couple of hours. We come to a halt in peak rush hour traffic beside the site of the proposed Samuel Beckett bridge. As Colin and Michael prepare to say goodbye to each other, I’m thinking I’d like to see them as Vladimir and Estragon in a cross-border production of ‘Godot’. Perhaps we could persuade Rod Stewart and the drug-crazed goalkeeper to play Lucky and Pozzo, Beckett himself could be billed as Godot – we know he’s never going to show. Failing that, the General Manager of Ulsterbus Ltd, could substitute for him. As Colin says, when asked by Michael if he’s ever got to meet him,
“Ye’ll die waitin’ for tha’ mawn, Michael.”
The traffic shifts a little, and we slowly roll into Busaras (that’s the ancient Gaelic word for Bus Station). Colin shuts off the engine and as the passengers shuffle out of the front door, Michael says to him,
“Shall we go, then?”
“Aye right, mucker, let’s go.”
They do not move.