Munster's inevitable defeat

Well, it was, wasn't it?
Too depressed I was to write about it for the last 3 days or more. I do think that I am a hex on games that I really want to be won. Any time I went to a Waterford hurling match in my increasingly distant youth, my presence seemed to ensure that defeat was inevitable. And so it was with Munster last Saturday. I can't explain exactly how, but the tickets were acquired and into my car I leapt with joy in my heart and a Munster beanie on my head and off with me like the wind and me listening to Manu Chao on the CD player as my German-engineered automobile instinctively sniffed its way along the road like a super-fast sleek metal bloodhound all the way to Thomond Park.

It's difficult to get up in the morning sometimes, even though you know you should; even though, in fact, you know that you must or the consequences will be very very difficult to live with. And yet, that head of yours won't get up off the pillow. Why? you ask yourself as you lie there waiting for your elusively fluid notional batteries to recharge. And then you realise that they're not going to recharge, as the minutes seem to tick away a little bit faster and you realise that you must be a slow thinker because that last fleeting thought took a whole 10 minutes more off the time that waits for no man (along with tide). It was ten minutes that you couldn't afford and then , and then.. you get up because you have to, even though the body - the ruler of your life in more ways than one - has expressly forbid you not to. You get up because you have to. You have to get up but you're not ready because the motivation, the spark, the passion ... they're all absent this morning. So you get up and you'll do your best today, but it won't be enough to be brilliant so you'd better hope that life doesn't throw too many challenges today because you won't be able to deal with them when they come.

Munster last Saturday were that man from the last paragraph. They were going into a match that they didn't need to win against a very strong team that really did need to win to survive. And yet, they had to turn up for work on Saturday and defend their accursed record. Home advantage is not really an advantage any more. It would mean travelling to Dublin anyway, or somewhere (actually I'm not sure, because Landsdowne is closed too), where they've lost many games before. And yet, despite all that, they almost did it. It seemed inevitable that they were going to cross the line in those dying minutes, but it never happened. It was a shame to lose the record to those starved, cheating English cunts of all people. It would have been more of an honour to lose to, say, Toulouse. But, there's another point; Munster didn't need to prove that they could beat Leicester any more = they've done that ever since the fuckers had to cheat to win the 2001 final. And now Munster are European champions themselves.

I did experience the stinging sensation of having to go down to local pub and watch it all on a British satellite company that had hijacked the match rights and was beaming pictures of my province playing within my province to me while I was also in my province. So, I didn't actually make to Thomond after all, but a friend of mine did so I amalgamated myself with his character for the earlier chapter for dramatic effect. The Brit commentating (with his Ulster crony who was getting a horn eulogising about Ian Humphries) was a particularly cruel touch to the defeat. I have no more words to give other than those already given about my feelings on that point.

I'll leave it there. In any case, if those Leicester girls manage to beat Stade Francais, they'll have to face us again (hopefully), and this time they'll be playing a team with adrenaline coming out of the very pores in their skin.