Years ago, when I used to live in Dublin, I went to a match at Blackrock. In those days, Limerick guys living locally would turn out in support of any Limerick club coming to play a Dublin side and petty rivalries were set aside for the duration, while the Limerick crowd beat the shite out of the D4 mob. For all I know, it’s still the same.
Anyway, one year we all trooped out to Blackrock in support of Shannon, and it was a pissing wet day. The pitch was like the Somme, which suited Shannon who went on to win the game and therefore the League for that year.
At the final whistle, everyone immediately crashed into the club-house to sing The Isle and enjoy the discomfiture of the ‘Rock old-boys. Everyone, that is, except one of the girls, Mary-Jane we’ll call her, who fell into conversation with a chap in a sheepskin coat.
Dammit, said Sheepskin, wasn’t that dreadful?
What? says Mary-Jane. Sure I’m delighted after coming all the way from Limerick.
Sheepskin stood back, aghast.
Limerick? he whispered, looking Mary-Jane up and down.
My God, I thought you were far too well-dressed for that.