Have yourself a very Therapy? Christmas!

Folks, I'd like to share a piece of writing that has recently been published. A few weeks ago, as a member of the Therapy? fan-club, I was approached to contribute to a book that was being put together to celebrate the band's 20th anniversary.

Only too happy to write stories (although you wouldn't think it if you were a frequent visitor to this website) and being a huge fan of the band, I sat down and attempted to write again. It felt good to be chasing the cursor across the screen once more.

So, in its entirety, please find below my contribution to the book "We're Here To The End Too", a book written by Therapy? fans and available from the following website:

http://www.blurb.com/books/1660152

I hope you enjoy my trip down memory lane, even if the photos are a little grainy....

Have yourselves a very Therapy? Christmas!

My first exposure to Therapy? was back in 1992.

I was 20 at the time and in my second year at Coleraine University. One of my class-mates, Joe, who hailed from Dublin came into class one day wearing a black T-Shirt, with the word “Therapy?” emblazoned across it with a rather strange looking grinning face below it.

I remember looking at it as he walked into class wondering what the hell it was all about. Was he making a statement? Was he asking a question? I surmised it had something to do with a band but seeing as the guy was a lot more ‘emo’ than myself, as I was someone who just liked his music loud and heavy, it was all a wee bit strange and I didn’t want to embarrass myself by showing my ignorance on the matter, so I let it slide.

Strangely enough my next experience of Therapy? came from my uncle JB just a few weeks later. My father and I went to pick him up from the airport just before Christmas of 1992 and on the drive back to our home town of Ballyclare, in county Antrim, Northern Ireland, he asked me had I heard any of the music “that the young Cairns fella from Ballyclare and his band-mates from Larne” were playing. Not for the first, nor the last time, uncle JB had displayed a far superior knowledge of the goings on in our home town than we were ever privy to – in spite of the fact that he spent the last third of his life living in London. As it turned out, uncle JB was close friends with Andy’s parents and he had found out about the band from them.

I guess Ballyclare’s that kind of town....

My interest was piqued - what with the band’s lead singer hailing from my home town making inroads into the music scene. Like most of us as kids growing up, I’d spent many a private moment singing and playing air-guitar in front of the bedroom mirror but here was someone from Ballyclare, of all places, actually living the dream. I knew who Andy Cairns was – he was only a few years older than me and Ballyclare is not that big a place. I had memories of him and his mates hanging out in the river park at the foot of the town. As we played football, they sat nearby consuming their alcohol carry-outs. It’s strange to think of now, but by the time I was old enough to indulge in that particular recreational past-time myself, Andy and the rest of the band were well on their way to becoming the Therapy? that we all know and love today.

That day, I headed down to Bert McCormick’s Record Store in Ballyclare Main Street and purchased the album “Nurse” on cassette (remember those?) and rushed home to give it a play. Not having a clue what kind of music I was letting myself in for, I was actually a little surprised to find out that it was something I really enjoyed. The noise was different to anything I had in my collection - the unique style of drumming, heavy bass, the scorching lead guitar all accompanying the dark lyrics, the album had a very industrial sound with “Teethgrinder” being a stand-out track for me. My love of all things Therapy? had been born.

A few evenings later, I ended up doing a pub quiz in the Square Bar in Ballyclare with my father and uncle JB. The other members of our team? None other than Andy Cairn’s mother and father. They told me that Andy was back in town and in the Ballyboe - another pub in our home town - if I wanted to pop in and say hello but I declined not knowing what I would have said to the guy without sounding too much of an eejit. Ballyclare’s that kind of a town as well.

Along the journey with Therapy? I am proud to say that I bought every album, a few EPs and several T-Shirts. I loved listening to their music and it was with great excitement that I greeted the release of a new Therapy? album. Some albums were of course better than others and line-ups changed, fall-outs with record labels ensued, but deep down, you knew that these guys were in it for the long-haul. I was also very proud of the fact that they were “local lads made good.” After graduating, my career and life took me away from Northern Ireland but I have always been proud to hail from our wee misunderstood corner of the world and would get great enjoyment from people back home being successful and telling anyone who cared to listen – or didn’t for that matter – about the fact that Therapy? and I were from the same neck of the woods. Even if Michael and Fyfe were “harbour rats” from up the road in Larne(!)

With Therapy?, I had a band whose music I loved and I could proudly say that they were from my home country. A country that for far too long stared into the abyss, could perhaps rise again and with the likes of Therapy? and later, Ash, we had bands that were spreading some joy from our war-torn country throughout the world. I’m not making any grand political statement here – I’m just saying as a native of Northern Ireland, it was great to have a band that played great balls to the wall music delivered with an infectious enthusiasm that has never waned - even after 20 years in the most hard-nosed of businesses.

In the early years, I saw Therapy? a couple of times in Belfast but after graduating, I ended up leaving Northern Ireland to live and work in Belgium. It wasn’t planned – it just kind of happened. I got the occasional trip home and it was during a trip from Northern Ireland back to Belgium that I bumped into Therapy? whilst waiting at the gate for a flight from Heathrow to Brussels.

Travelling with a female colleague at the time, I excitedly pointed out the band to her but she had no idea who I was talking about. I explained to her but she seemed a little non-plussed about it all. She suggested that we went over to say hello but, well, we’re not really like that back home are we? So I decided to leave it (we were after all, on the same flight – where could they go?) and if there was an opportunity to say hello to the band in the arrivals hall while we were all waiting on our luggage, then I would do so.

In Brussels Arrivals, I saw the band waiting at the luggage carousel, so I took my opportunity to say hello to the band. Somewhat surprised to hear my accent in Brussels airport, Andy asked “where the fuck is that accent from?” and when I told him I was from a certain part of Ballyclare, he replied with “Seriously?! I used to deliver newspapers round that way. So what are you doing here in Belgium?” So, we got chatting and passed a few minutes as we waited on the arrival of our luggage.

During the conversation it transpired that the band were playing in a small town about 40 minutes from where I was living and he invited us along to the gig. Andy then called the tour manager, Rog, asking that my colleague and I be put on the VIP guest list, saying that we could also meet them after the gig and have a few “Lucozades” back stage. The Lucozades turned out to be bottles of Grolsch in a tin bath full of ice. Rock and Roll decadence or what?!

I have to say we had a great time at the gig and the Belgian crowd loved Therapy? (something that I was to witness a few more times during my stay in Belgium over those years). My colleague was a convert and she had an absolute ball of a night, including her rather less than subtle attempts to woo Michael. (I hope he’s gotten over that one!) My memories of the night are a little hazy, but I do recall trying to convince Andy to invest a little bit of money into our local football team, Ballyclare Comrades, much to the derision of Michael. With him being from nearby Larne and therefore a ‘Harbour Rat’, he was more than ready to take the piss out of Andy and I for being “Sheep Shaggers”.

As the rock and roll lifestyle was coming to an end for my colleague and me, I mentioned to Andy that I was planning to take my wee brother, Darren, himself a recent addition to the Therapy? fan club to their Christmas gig at the Ulster Hall in Belfast in a few months time. Once again Andy got Rog to ensure that we would get on the VIP list and also back stage for their Christmas Party. As Rog was typing up “Jonny Black plus guest” on his laptop under Ulster Hall, Belfast, Dec 27^th Andy said goodbye to us, adding “If you enjoyed yourself tonight, Jonny, you’ll have great craic back in Belfast at Christmas time!”

I couldn’t wait.

Having told all and sundry about my exploits with the lads from Therapy?, I was finding it difficult to keep it a secret from my wee brother that he had it all to look forward to in a couple of months time. Only 14, he was finding his way in the world of music and with two older brothers, some of our musical tastes was starting to rub off on the youngest with Therapy? being one of his favourites. To say he envied the “Hanging out with Rock Stars, Therapy?” story would be understating it. Perhaps even going as far as to think his IT geek brother was a little bit cool after all...

Somehow, I managed to keep the secret until Christmas Day itself. Opening his present, which was a rather fine looking Therapy? T-Shirt I explained to him that he would need it in a couple of day’s time because he too would get to hang out back stage with Therapy? The look of unbridled joy on his face is something that I will remember forever.

Two days later and we headed off to the Ulster Hall early, with my wee brother beside himself with excitement. It was a cold, wet and windy evening and there were plenty of people already standing outside the venue huddling against the elements waiting for the doors to open.

Not such a wait for us, of course, because we were on the guest list.

So, grinning like Wayne and Garth out of Wayne’s World, we walked past the crowd to the front door of the Ulster Hall, where, when told by security to join the back of the queue, I proudly informed them that we were, in fact, down in the VIP guest list. Checking his clip board of names, we soon discovered that we weren’t, in fact, on the guest list at all.

My brother’s face crumpled in despair and anguish whilst a few at the front of the queue who had heard what had just happened, started to snigger. “Looks like you’re going to have to queue just like the rest of us” somebody wisecracked behind us.

I was dying.

“There must be some mistake – I was hanging out with the band back stage in Belgium a couple of months ago and Andy Cairns invited us to the gig tonight. I even saw their tour manager, Rog typing it into his laptop!” I pleaded with security. I knew I was name-dropping but I had to get my brother into the gig at all costs.

“Come on through to the lobby and we’ll see if we can get Rog to come out and verify this”

I’m not sure if it was festive spirit, my pleading, or my brother’s face of despair that swung it, but at least we were in out of the cold, all be it not knowing what was going to happen next.

Soon after, the rest of the punters started filing into the gig, with a few of the ones at the front taking great enjoyment in the two “VIPs” that were standing there looking like a couple of guys who have had the air deflated out of them. After what seemed like an eternity, I suddenly noticed Andy’s parents walking into the venue. Nothing ventured, nothing gained I thought, so I shamelessly approached them and explained the situation to them. Andy’s father, sympathising with our predicament, promised to go and find Rog to see if he could sort it all out for us. And off he went into the venue along with the streams of people going to the sold-out Christmas gig. With local acts Joyrider and Ash also set to play, this was going to be a big show, and after having been waiting here for over an hour, it was looking increasingly likely that the best present I had ever given my brother was being cruelly taken away from him by events out of my control.

As I was contemplating this, a rather flustered Rog came out into the lobby with Andy’s father in tow. Much to our delight, he recognised me and apologising profusely, he explained that his laptop had crashed and that he had lost a lot of information on it as a result. Of course we were allowed into the gig and of course we were welcome to party back stage with the band. The party with Therapy? was back on and I got a relieved hug from my brother.

The concert itself was a cracker. Joyrider opened the proceedings well and Ash – who were already starting to make inroads into the music world themselves – started firing up the crowd in time for the main act to take centre stage.

Obviously enjoying performing in front of their home crowd, the lads from Therapy? performed a great show that night with everyone in the audience adding to the atmosphere. There was even an impromptu performance from Skin (of Skunk Anansie fame) who appeared on stage for one song and then stage dived into the crowd afterwards.

Merry Christmas Northern Ireland!

Afterwards, we went back stage where there was a great atmosphere with all the performers mingling with friends, family and fans alike and when Andy noticed me, he was nice enough to come up to ask me how Belgium was treating me. My brother, obviously impressed with my rock ‘n’ roll circle of friends, took the opportunity to have his photo taken with Andy.

After chatting briefly with the rest of the band and enjoying a couple of complimentary cans of Harp, we left the party to continue on into the night. After all – Darren was too young to drink and I had enjoyed a late night one on one session with the band in Belgium a couple of months previously.

As we headed out into the cold, Belfast night a very excited wee brother, told me it was the best Christmas present he’d ever had. And I believed him.

Thanks Andy, Michael and Fyfe, as well as Andy’s father and Rog the tour manager for a very special Christmas party that will live long in my brother’s and my memory for the rest of our lives.

I could talk about the time I went to see you support the Rolling Stones, or even the several times I saw you at the Rock Werchter festival in Belgium (indeed at one stage only some band called REM(!) had played that festival more times than yourselves).

Or even the time that I saw you in Antwerp at the club known as Petrol, where, upon noticing my Northern Ireland flag and discovering I was the guy from Ballyclare you announced to the crowd that, in the same way some towns are twinned with others, “Ballyclare was in a suicide pact with Amsterdam”

Then there was the time that I brought my girlfriend, an Australian girl who had never heard of Therapy? to go watch you on our first date. Needless to say we are still together and I am now living in Brisbane with her. (BTW – any tours of Australia planned?!)

But they’re all stories for another time. Perhaps I’ll dust them out for the 40^th Anniversary!

Thanks Therapy? for all the good times and looking forward to many more.

World Cup Sweepstake 2010: It's a Wrap!

Well folks,

The dust has settled on the World Cup with a final that befitted the rest of the tournament: littered with fouls, play-acting, whingeing footballers, and leaving the referee with no option but to hand out cards like it was Christmas.

Now, I’m no professional footballer, what with the closest I got being a Sunday afternoon over 20 years ago where, along with a few mates, we broke into Dixon Park, the home of Ballyclare Comrades FC and played headers and volleys for a couple of hours until the village idiot saw us and phoned the police.

But what I do know is that the 120 minutes of football that a third of the world’s population tuned in to watch was an awful advert for the game that we all love so much.

From comedy villain Mark van Bommel and his tackles that were so late they could have been from a different time zone to de Jong opening a can of whoopass Jackie Chan style on Alonso, the Oranje successfully managed to break up the Spanish pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass rhythm which meant that a lot of the HD super slo-mo replays were filled with images of growling Orangemen and whingeing Spaniards. Hardly the advert for the beautiful game that Jules Rimet envisaged all those years ago.

Then, with the clock winding down and the game looking like it was inevitably going to be decided by the dreaded penalty shoot-out (BTW – did you know the man who introduced the penalty kick into football was from Northern Ireland?) until, with 4 minutes left of extra time, up stepped Iniesta to crash home a volley which crushed the hopes of the Orangemen but must surely have been well-received by neutrals the world over.

Spain are the World Cup winners for the first time, the Netherlands are left as losing finalists for the third time. Which incidentally, won me 140 dollars for a cheeky 20 dollar bet that I placed a few weeks ago on Spain to win the tournament. Which just about covers all the other bets / sweeps that I've taken part in....

In the weekend’s other game (which was actually probably one of the better games of the tournament), Germany took third spot after beating Uruguay 3-2.

All of which leaves us with the sweepstake results:

1^st Natalie (Spain) 150 AUD

2^nd Ross (Netherlands) 90 AUD

3^rd Yoppy (Germany) 50 AUD

4^th Andrew (Uruguay) 30 AUD

Yours in Football.

World Cup Sweepstake 2010: Two to go...

So Folks,

We now know who will contest the final of the FIFA Budweiser-McDonalds-Sony-Samsung-Hyundai-we-all-knew-that-Spain-Would-Get-to-the-final World Cup and what do you know? After a journey that started 2 years ago with 204 hopeful qualifying nations, which was then whittled to 32 nations carrying the hopes and dreams of their respective countries into the Finals, we now are left with just the two contenders.

In the Red-with-snazzy-blue-shorts-and-a-little-bit-of-gold-trim corner we have the Spanish, whilst in the retina-scarring fluoro orange corner we have the Dutch, which to be fair, were two of the countries that many had been tipping before the tournament began to leave South Africa with the 14-inch gold trophy greedily held to their collective bosom.

Of the two, the Netherlands are regarded as the outsider but at the end of the day it’s only 11 v 11 and there is only so much hypnotic death-by-a-thousand-cuts style of tip-tap-tip-tap passing tiki-strangulation that the Dutch will endure before comedy villain Mark van Bommel will crack, come steaming in on some poor unsuspecting Spanish midfielder, sending him crashing into the advertising hoardings by way of a solid boot in the ar5e with a size 12 clog.

Either way, we are going to have a new World Cup winner with neither country having managed to reach the pinnacle of World Football before. And that has surely got to be good for the game.

But let’s spare a moment for the losers of the semis. Probably the worst game in any tournament to lose, the Germans and the Uruguayans have been sent home at the penultimate hurdle left to rue what might have been. There’s no doubt that the good people of Montevideo will rightfully welcome their team back to a heroes return with dancing on the streets, copious dancing and singing with Grappamiel flowing faster than a Jubulani ball into row Z.

The Germans, however, are a more pragmatic bunch and after having been played off the park by the relentless sideway passing of the Spanish it transpired that Paul “the oracle” Octopus had predicted the result, leading to mass outcry and a move for the octopus to be turned into calamari; although considering that it was the Spanish who sent the Germans home, surely paella would be a better option?

But then here’s the thing:

In some cruel form of FIFA-inspired torture neither of these scenarios have transpired yet because we still have the 3^rd and 4^th place play-off to consider. A game that is generating little interest, save for the fact that it provides a convenient way for us to determine who receives the 30 dollars from the sweep for 4^th place and who gets the 50 dollars for 3^rd.

So as a reminder – here are the contestants who’s sweepstake destiny will be decided in the wee hours of Sunday morning.

In the shiny light blue corner sporting a dodgy hair-style and humming the epic and never-ending national anthem Himno Nacional Uruguayo we have Uruguay’s Antonio Michelatti

Whilst in the simple yet stunning black and white leiderhosen combo, standing sipping the super-strength lager from his moustache, we have YopMeister

Let the battle commence.

World Cup 2010 Sweepstake - Four-Play

Well Folks,

We’re getting to the pointy end of the jamboree that is the FIFA Budweiser-McDonalds-Sony-Samsung-Hyundai-Let’s-all-laugh-at-England World Cup and we now know the 4 teams that are going to compete for the semis. And of course the four lucky (by association) people from the 32 hope-filled participants of our Sweepstake that set off on this journey all those (what seems like) months ago.

As a reminder, here are the people still left in the sweep:

Natalie (Spain)

Ross (Holland)

“Yoppy” (Germany)

Andrew (Uruguay)

And prizes for 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th to be distributed as follows:

1^st 150.00
2^nd 90.00
3^rd 50.00
4^th 30.00

Working the night shift as I am this evening and with less than two hours until kick-off, I’ve taken the opportunity to take a break from chasing, plucking and counting chickens whilst breathing in the discharge of the “rendering process” (whatever that may be) to have a look at what we have learned since the last update and to preview the upcoming semi-finals.

Hardly seems worth the while considering you’ll all know by the time you read these words who has already won the first semi but seeing as most of you have paid into the Sweepstake (Sidey – looking at you mate!), I figured what the hell, I might as well try and give you some value for money, right?

Well – for a start, all those people that have been saying “It’s a South American Cup” (believe me – there have been some) are now probably scurrying under a rock, burying themselves with great gusto into Wimbledon (but hasn’t that finished already?) or for a brave (but deluded) last few pledging they're allegiance firmly on the Last Great South American Latin Hope that is....erm....Uruguay.

Bye-bye Brazil – seems you weren’t that good after all. Maradona – the South American version of a leprechaun on smack - managed to give “Ze Germans” a massively ill-conceived motivator in the pre-match press conference. Well Diego, as you go home to a rapturous welcome from a surprisingly easy to please Buenos Aires population, you can comfort yourself with the realisation that perhaps “Ze Germans” weren’t that “nervousssh” after all. Indeed, like the cars that hail from the Fatherland, the German football team continues to run like the well-oiled machine they generally are at these tournaments. And oh how that annoys the English.

Yes, the match-up with Spain in the second semi-final looks like it is going to be a cracker. Especially considering the Spanish coach del Bosque, goalkeeper Pepe Reina, golden boot shoe-in David Villa, and (probably) Manuel from Fawlty Towers have all been saying (again) that Torres will unleash his hitherto undiscovered skills at finding the back of the old onion bag in Spain’s upcoming match.

I can hardly wait.

But hey – perhaps an awful World Cup will keep the vultures from taking Liverpool’s prized asset away from us....even if it means my extremely misguided 5 dollar bet on him to win the Golden Boot has proven to be an over-enthusiastic heart over-ruling a more than willing brain.

But back to tonight’s semi final. And here’s where the World Cup gets really exciting for Yours Truly and (at least four of) our sweepstake participants.

Now, I’m not (much of) a betting man but there’s something about the World Cup that brings out the “I can beat the Bookie” mentality in me. But, true to form, things have not been going.....er, well - to form.

So far, my friends at Centrebet.com have welcomed into their corporate, sweaty, slightly damp-smelling overcoat’s heaving pockets :

1. The aforementioned 5 dollar bet on Torres to be the leading scorer of the tournament. A player who is now, quite frankly, looking like a man that would struggle to score his ar5e on a barbed-wire fence
2. A 20 dollar bet on a draw between Germany and the Socceroos. How they must have p!ssed themselves at that one – great way to start ‘sticking it to the bookie’ that one
3. And then of course there was the cheeky 5 dollar bet on England to win......THE TOURNAMENT....... Well, I figured on the off chance that if they were going to do it and I had to listen to it for the next 50 years then I may as well gain financially from it

But then here comes the good news, for you see, not all my money (at least not yet) has gone Centrebet’s way and I’m sure their struggling to catch some zzzzzzz’s these days when they must realise that I still have a little bit of money out on a long lend in their bank account:

First, there’s the not so silly looking 20 dollar bet on Spain at 7-1 to win the tournament. Oh yes – that would cover my bets (and sweepstakes) that would. And still leave me with enough money to treat myself to a bottle of cheap sangria at the nearest Tapas bar.

However, as my dark horse punt, I placed a 5 dollar bet on Uruguay to win the tournament at ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FIVE TO ONE!

Now wouldn’t that make the whole experience worthwhile?!

To the people that would say “ah but how can you cheer on a team that cheated to win the tournament?” I could give them 625 answers but for now, I’ll give them just the one....

“Está justo celoso. ¡Venga en Uruguay - permítanos golpe el Atasca-Llevando holandés!”

Of course, by now you’re all p!ssing yourselves because you already know that Uruguay, the nasty cheating team that they are, have been kicked out of the World Cup....

By a team full of players wearing fluoro and clogs.

And where else could that happen but at this great jamboree that we call the FIFA Budweiser-McDonalds-Sony-Samsung-Hyundai-Let’s-all-laugh-at-England World Cup?

World Cup 2010 Sweepstake - and then there were 8...

Well Folks,

The dust has settled on the group stage as well as the round of 16, leaving 8 brave teams (and of course, by association 8 of us) to fight it out for World Cup glory.

So what have we learnt so far in the 18 days of football, endless nights on the couch and the futile attempts to function in work the next day after depriving oneself of decent sleep for 3 weeks?

The nasal whine of Aussies the world over progressively increased in both pitch and length during their ultimately futile group stage efforts. As atrocity (the Germans opening a can of whoop ass on the poor Socceroos), followed atrocity (brave Aussie born-to-a-Samoan-mother-and-a-British-father-of-Irish-descent battler Timmy Cahill sees red as he is inexplicably sent off for a potential leg-breaker of a tackle), followed atrocity (Harry “sick note” Kewell rises from his death bed just long enough to make an impact on the World Cup.)

Although I’m sure the impact that everyone was hoping for wasn’t the red card that was given for the impact of his arm on the ball that prevented a certain goal as he made a more than decent impression of a goalkeeper. Which is quite ironic, considering he hasn’t impressed as a footballer since he left Leeds for Liverpool all those years ago)

But not content with these injustices, atrocity followed atrocity. Those pesky soon-to-be quarter-finalists, Ghana, failed to read the script and had the audacity to equalise against the brave 10 men of the Socceroos and despite the Socceroos actually playing some of their best football once their backs were to the wall as they faced World Cup elimination, Serbia scored and Germany couldn’t, undoing all the good work of the 2-0 lead that the brave Aussie lads had notched up previously.

World Cup hopes in the bin. Thanks for the memories, now rack off Pim!

Following their struggles against poor form, inept tactics, rash tackles, illegal goal-line clearances, and an undoubted vendetta from referees, FIFA and the world in general, there was only one thing left for the Aussies to do to cope with the injustice of what had happened.

Yes, shamelessly adopting the New Zealand team like they hailed from a hitherto unmentioned Australian state or territory and claiming them as their own (something they’ve been doing for years as Phar Lap, Split Enz, Russell Crowe and the poor pavlova would be only too willing to testify), as the All Whites defied their pre-tournament odds of 2500 to 1 and stuck it to Slovakia, Paraguay and reigning World Champions Italy no less.

Yes, the All Whites can hold their collective head high, as they return from a World Cup finals to their home land in the ar$e-end of the world undefeated.

Something their counterparts in the oval-shaped game have not been able to do since.....erm......

In every World Cup there are teams that surprisingly flounder and then there are others who – well – surprise. For every North Korean team that resolutely stifled a less than samba-ing Brazil there was a North Korean team getting flogged 7-0 by the Portuguese, a drubbing that I’m sure had their King of Political Spin, the dictator Kim Jong-Il rueing for quite some time. After the initially optimistic performance against Brazil he saw an opportunity to please the masses and decided to show – for the first time ever – a live football match on the one and only state-run propaganda television channel.

Lord knows what the masses thought as they watched their country getting thrashed on the world stage by a bunch of men with half the world’s supply of Bryclreem stuck to their heads.

For every Frenchman shrugging his shoulders, swearing, shouting at his manager and getting packed off home in disgrace, there were many more who did their talking on the pitch – by striking off the training pitch – and by the looks of their performances – on the football pitch as well, ensuring that they didn’t get too comfortable in their South African surrounds and were soon sent home (in economy class) to face the wrath of the French public – and its government.

Ably prompted by the White Caps, cheating, diving, boo-hiss and - let’s face it – reigning world champions Italy fared no better and were sent home, I’m sure, to face recriminations at Rome airport from many men dressed in Kappa tracksuits or designer suits and shades somehow managing to simultaneously hurl abuse with both hands, whilst shouting at the top of their lungs, gesticulating wildy, smoking on cigarettes and ordering a double-expresso delivery on their mobile phone whilst checking out the air hostesses.

Speaking of hostesses, the hosts, South Africa, diappointed but not as bad as was expected and at least they gave us the lasting memory of the vuvuzela. The less said about that the better.

Refereeing decisions were inconsistent and seemed to favour the big teams. Yet again. Conspiracy theories abound as USA! USA! USA! have two perfectly good goals disallowed, Argentina get away with an offside goal in the Round of 16 and Brazil at times look like they’re playing basketball rather than soccer. And then of course there is the Frank-Lampard-goal-that-never-was-in-a-sweet-revenge-for-1966-kind-of-way in England’s brave but futile attempt to beat Germany by allowing the Germans to run rings around them for two-thirds of the match in the hope that they would eventually tire out. Unfortunately, the only tired and burnt out image on show at the end of the game – apart from Capello’s withered features – was the England team itself as they trudged off the pitch.

Shakespeare himself would have struggled to write a better tragic comedy than the Ing-er-land football team’s performances at major finals for the past 44 years but surely had he dreamt up such a farce, even he couldn’t have come up with such a sad, insipid, anti-climax of an ending. The Golden Generation (as they like to be referred to) will now disappear into the sunset leaving the hopes of millions crushed at what might have been. No doubt the players shall try and console themselves during their retirement as they count their endless millions, peruse their air-shelters full of chavtastic bling-covered cars and search for sympahty in the form of the nearest airhead WAG-wannabe.

It’s all so unfair, isn’t it?!

And with that rather convoluted and contrived segue.....

Speaking of unfair – I have attached the updated spreadsheet containing the current standings that leaves 8 of you in the running for the big money.

Except - and here is where the “unfair” part comes in - there won’t be the “big money prizes” promised at the start of the competition because a few of you have still to pay their entrance fee of 10 dollars. So basically, this is the “name and shame in front of your peers campaign” - if you see your name with a red mark against it, then can you please respond by transferring the money into my account, or email me (not the whole group – we don’t want to pi55 off Lisa!) with other arrangements.

Thanks – and for those of you still in the game - why oh why couldn’t one of you have picked Greece instead of me?!

Arcanada......ARMSTRONG!!

Well Folks,

We're just a few short days until the Festival of the Beautiful Game, also known as the World Cup, begins. As we all know, Northern Ireland, my wee team has not qualified and like me will be watching the proceedings on the TV.

Indeed, it is at times like these that I wish I hailed from a nation that did qualify for World Cup Finals, that was capable of getting to the quarter finals, a team that, in spite of its supposed “minnow” status could become the smallest country to ever have qualified for the World Cup finals and indeed, the smallest country to ever have qualified for more than one World Cup finals or hell, even the smallest country to have reached the World Cup quarter finals.

A team that could fly in the face of perceived underdog status defeating host nations one-nil (in spite of some shocking refereeing decisions, and having a man inexplicably sent off).

Erm – hang on a moment – I do come from a country that can boast all of this. And much more besides...

WORLD RECORD 1

At Spain 1982, in Norman Whiteside, we had a player that beat a long standing record by none other than Pele himself by becoming the youngest player ever to play at the World Cup finals, a record that still stands. And while I’m talking about Pele, Northern Ireland managed all these feats listed above without playing someone who Pele himself once described as the “Greatest Player that ever lived”, George Best, who at the height of his prowess was playing for a Northern Ireland team that was, let’s face it, just a wee bit rubbish.

Yes OK, the team have yet to participate in their first European Championship finals, but this was in spite of the fact that Northern Ireland beat the former West Germany 1-0 home and away in qualifiers for Euro 84. More recently, “David ‘The Stars in the bright sky looked down where’ Healy” broke the record for goals scored in one Euro campaign, previously held by Davor Suker of Croatia, by scoring 13 times in Northern Ireland's brave, but ultimately doomed, attempt to qualify for Euro 2008. Healy scored thrice in yet another defeat of Spain (who would go on to win the tournament in spite of this defeat at the hands of their old enemy), the match ending 3-2 after Spain having twice taken the lead. He also scored twice against Sweden, 5 times against Liechtenstein, once against Denmark, once against Latvia, and also scored against Iceland. He also became the first player ever to score 2 hat tricks for Northern Ireland.

But it hasn’t always been plain sailing supporting the Green and White Army....

WORLD RECORD 2

*AHEM*

In January 2004, Lawrie Sanchez - he of the famous goal for Wimbledon against Liverpool in the FA Cup final – (something that the aforementioned Norman Whiteside managed against Everton in another FA Cup final) was appointed manager after a run of ten games without a goal under the previous manager Sammy Mcilroy, which was a world record for any international team. The run of sixteen games without a win ended after his second game, a 1–0 victory in a friendly over Estonia, with a largely experimental side, in March 2004.

Chasing the money offered to him by Fulham, Sanchez abandoned us midway through the qualifications for World Cup 2010 and unfortunately things haven’t quite worked out for the Boys in Green for this year’s extravaganza in South Africa but having got all that off my chest, I’m now fully behind the Socceroos.

Although I do have to express my disappointment at the distinct lack of World Cup ‘Anthems’ coming from this part of the world. I mean, after all, who could forget the Northern Ireland anthem “Yer Man,” sung with great gusto and verve by team-members and previous Eurovision Song Contest winner, Dana.

Surely lyrics like “When yer man gets the ball, Northern Ireland scores a goal” has got to be the inspiration behind my wee country’s greatest ever moment in World Cup history on that balmy night in Valencia, 1982.

See for yourself:

Including the famous commentary from the BBC’s John Motson.

“Gerry Amstrong....
what a worker he is....
striding away with Hamilton to his right...
Norman Whiteside up on the far side of the area....
.......
Still Billy Hamilton.....he’s gone past Tendillio!
...
And
.....
Arcanada....it....ooooOOOOHHHhhhARMSTRONG!!!!!

NORTHERN IRELAND HAVE SCORED THROUGH GERRY AMSTRONG!!!

A mistake by the goal keeper and it’s the 100^th goal of this World Cup Tournament!!!

I still remember John. I still remember.

MEGA RED WAR DAY!!

Hot on the heels of my AC/DC experience, I'm keen to add some more thoughts and experiences to this wee corner of cyberspace. The beast within has been re-awoken, as it were.

And with the Big Game coming up at the weekend join me, if you will, on a business trip that I had a few months ago as I recount for you "Mega Red War Day"

Working as a prostitute who can type – sorry an IT consultant – you just never know what may be round the corner waiting for you under the guise of gainful employment.

In this career of mine I've experienced things such as a 36-hour shift in a freezing cold warehouse near Eurodisney, four months of night shift in a warehouse on the outskirts of Antwerp, a never-ending project at a chicken processing plant in the middle of the Australian hinterland, a nine-month stint in remote Central Queensland, a peanut processing plant in even more remote North Carolina and a project during the winter months in the Middle of Nowhere, Sweden.

Oh yes – it's a glamorous lifestyle.

But then occasionally some things happen which come as a total, pleasant, surprise and you end up packing up the suitcase and the laptop for a little bit of international travel that actually gets the juices flowing.

So it was, with great excitement, that I accepted an assignment which meant that I would be spending a week sampling the delights of "Krung Thep Mahanakhon Amon Rattanakosin Mahinthara Yuthaya Mahadilok Phop Noppharat Ratchathani Burirom Udomratchaniwet Mahasathan Amon Phiman Awatan Sathit Sakkathattiya Witsanukam Prasit", Thailand.

Or Bangkok, as we now (thankfully) know it.

Incidentally, the ceremonial name of Bangkok is officially recognised in the (pint of) Guinness Book of Records as the world's longest place name and translates to "The city of angels, the great city, the eternal jewel city, the impregnable city of God Indra, the grand capital of the world endowed with nine precious gems, the happy city, abounding in an enormous Royal Palace that resembles the heavenly abode where reigns the reincarnated god, a city given by Indra and built by Vishnukarm"

So there you go. Thank God (or Indra) for Wikipedia.

My flight was due to leave at midnight on the Saturday evening which kind of encroached on my hectic social life a little, which was a shame seeing as there was a street festival on in my neighbourhood that very day but I'm nothing if not adaptable and after having spent a few hours on the Saturday partying at the Valley Fiesta (http://www.valleyfiesta.com), I bid the party farewell and headed off to the airport around 21:00, a full 3 hours before the flight. There's nothing like the excitement of travelling business class on a long haul flight for the first time (apart from one lucky, unexpected upgrade on a flight back from Hong Kong), so I was determined to enjoy all the trappings that came with it, which basically meant free food and booze in the business class lounge. Lah de Dah!

Having been to very few parts of Asia and only ever seen the inside of Bangkok's airport, I was looking forward to this experience. Yes, I was there to work but scheduled to arrive on the Sunday at six in the morning as I was, I was hoping to at least have that day (and surely some evenings during the week) to see around me and to experience some of what Bangkok had to offer.

And of course - to find somewhere to watch my beloved Liverpool take on our most hated of rivals, Manchester United that evening.

Ah yes, here I was on my way to visit a world-renowned city and global tourist destination for the first time and yet here I also was, more concerned about making sure that I had a means of watching Liverpool v Manchester United that evening.

Some things never change – and not for the first time in my life have I questioned my passion/curse (delete where appropriate) for supporting Liverpool and the amount of my life I devote to all things Liverpool. I am reminded of a time when I went to spend the weekend in Paris with friends and instead of going to Le Louvre with everyone else, I found a British Pub nearby and settled down to watch Liverpool play Leeds. For the record, we won 2-0 and the queues to see the Mona Lisa were mind-numbingly long. (A bit like these blog entries!)

But, not for the first time, I digress.

Scheduled for a 9pm kick off (Bangkok time – not UK time – there's no way they could trust both sets of supporters to drink all day in the build up to a game between these two most bitter of rivals), I had plenty of time to find somewhere to watch the game. I also had a plan 'B' – an Irish bar 2 km from the hotel, if nothing else turned up.

Having slept like a little baby in the extremely comfortable environ of Royal Thai business class, I was then met and taken to the gorgeous hotel by a chauffeur-driven limo and checked in where I promptly took the opportunity to enjoy a little bit of 'me time', spoiling myself in the sumptuous bath and – bedecked in hotel dressing gown – fell asleep for a couple of hours whilst reading my book on the luxurious bed.

Oh yes – it can be a glamorous lifestyle.

Wakening up around midday, I was all raring to go and checked my Lonely Planet guidebook to see where I should go to experience some of the Bangkok sights.

Incidentally – like a lot of people I know – travelling without a Lonely Planet book is regarded as nothing short of criminally insane and so it is that at this stage I'd like to tip my hat in the direction of Maureen Wheeler, the co-founder of Lonely Planet. A fellow Belfast-born person who now calls Australia her 'home' and judging by the crowds that were out on Saturday past for the St. Patrick's Day parade here in Brisbane, there are quite a few of us round these parts. But that's another story entirely.

As it turned out, there was a train station stop 100m away from the hotel, so I decided to take the train towards one of the main business shopping districts in Bangkok, called Silom, which according to the map was only one stop away. Hardly the stuff of intrepid explorers, I know, but it was enough to get me into the swing of things. (The golf-buggy taxi taking me the 100 m from the hotel to the train stop that reception insisted on organising for me was, quite frankly, embarrassing.)

Having negotiated a train ticket – a feat that I privately congratulated myself on – I waited in the very clean and quiet train station for my first experience of public transport in Bangkok. Promptly, a brand, spanking new train pulled up at the station and I got in. The train was busy but nothing compared to previous experiences in Hong Kong and Taipei. However what this train did have in common with my previous experiences in Asia was that it was another train in immaculate condition. Something of a surprise for somebody who used to travel by train from Antrim to Coleraine University back in the mid-90's, courtesy of Northern Ireland Railways.

Getting off at Silom stop, I walked out of the train station into what can only be described as a shopaholic's paradise. Designer retail store after designer retail store grappled for space with street markets and street vendors selling wares such as food (some of which looked very dubious indeed), trinkets (or 'pruck' as we would say back home), drinks and pirate DVDs. In fact, every street corner at the intersection I found myself at had stalls selling pirate DVDs.

Getting my bearings, I was not surprised to notice an "O'Reilly's Irish Pub" across the street. That would be handy for the evening's match, I thought to myself. No chance of me getting too lost if I was to choose that as my venue for the evening's festivities/hostilities.

Resisting temptation to see what the Guinness was like in Thailand (purely in the name of research, you understand), I went into one of the many shopping centres in search of some food that I could at least recognise and was of course greeted by McDonalds, Starbucks, Burger King and many other fast food joints. But I'm not that much of a heathen, so I settled for a pretty authentic looking restaurant and took my place at a table, trying to look like I did this sort of thing all the time.

After a while, when the waitress looked like she could be bothered serving me, she brought down a menu that was completely in Thai. Strange that, considering I was in Thailand. Thankfully there were some pictures and I ordered what looked like a Thai green beef curry and a glass of Singha beer to wash it down. Little did I know at the time that I should have asked for a gallon of water as well. Boy, was that stuff hot!

Having manfully finished my lunch, I set about trying to replace the skin on the roof of my mouth as I left the shopping centre and headed back out into the hustle and bustle of Sunday shopping in Bangkok. Hassled by street vendors at every step, I ducked into a sports shop to see if I could purchase a (yet another) Liverpool shirt. Somewhat disappointed by the ones on display, as well as the fact that they weren't considerably cheaper than back home, I decided to go with what I had brought with me – a blue polo shirt purchased at Anfield on a visit there many moons ago. Why blue you ask? Well – before I left for Thailand, Krissy, my well-travelled other half, had informed me that it was not wise to wear the colour red in public in Thailand. Or yellow for that matter – for fear that people would think that I was making a political statement - yellow for the royalists, red for the opposition.

Who would have thought it? Certainly not I! So, not wanting to make any sort of statement other than my allegiance to Liverpool, I was happy to go with the 'old faithful' for the evening and continued my walk around the shopping district.

Getting harassed for the umpteenth time to buy some pirate DVDs, I realised that I had walked round the block and had returned back to the same intersection. Spying the O'Reilly's pub across the street, and to be honest a little bit frazzled from the travelling, the extra hot curry and the volumes of people milling around, I figured I would go there on a reconnaissance mission to see what it offered in the way of being a base for the big match.

There was just one problem though - getting across the street.

A four lane carriageway presented quite an obstacle between me and my pint of Guinness, what with traffic flying in all directions and not a pedestrian crossing in sight and it took quite a leap of faith and no little courage to try and get to the other side. Cars, trucks, taxis and the ubiquitous tuk-tuks flew past at breakneck speeds driving as if they were trying to avoid the end of the world.

Standing there, I could sympathise with Frogger.

Standing for over five minutes, I watched how other locals managed it, which as far as I could determine, was throwing the head down and just simply going for it - at least until the central reservation, before doing it all over again to get across the other side of the road.

Steeling myself – for I am nothing if not determined when it comes to my football and beer – I saw a slight gap in the traffic, took a deep breath and ran like a loon over two lanes and jumped onto the central reservation against a back drop of beeping horns, not all of which could be for me. I heaved a huge sigh of relief, as well as a lot of sweat – a combination of the humidity and nerves – trickled down my back. Another death-defying charge across two more lanes of traffic and I found myself at the entrance to O'Reilly's.

As déjà-vu engulfed me, I braced myself for yet another Irish pub in yet another foreign country. Another 'home from home' that I was about to embrace. Stepping into the dim interior, inside was a fairly peaceful, air-conditioned, sanctuary from the mayhem of outside and I proceeded to the bar to order a pint of The Black Stuff.

The Guinness, I can report, was not great and the atmosphere was deadly quiet. It did, however, have a big screen for sport which according to the sign "showed all major live sporting events." Indeed, that Sunday lunchtime, it was showing a round of the World Superbike Championships which about four people in the pub were watching intently.

And then there was me - The Only Other Punter in the Pub.

I supped quietly on my pint and flicked through my Lonely Planet guide as I did so. There were lots of things to do in Bangkok. Many sights and sounds (some of them of the ping pong variety) but as I sat there, a little bit hung-over from the festival, a little bit weary from the travel and a little bit on my own in a city of over six million, I decided to return to the hotel and enjoy some more of the facilities. Whilst there, I would also work out somewhere else to watch the football, for although I was sure that I wasn't seeing the bar in its best light, I was certainly hoping for something a little bit more of in terms of atmosphere compared with what it looked like they could offer for the big game.

Back on the train and back in the hotel, I approached reception to ask them how I could get to the Irish Bar that I had Googled earlier. At least I would have plan 'B' cemented in place. The girl behind reception – 'Daisy' according to her name-badge tried her best to understand my Irish accent as I asked her for help and I tried my best to understand her explanation delivered in very broken English but accompanied with a heart-warming smile. To say we were struggling to make ourselves understood would be absolutely bang on the money.

I tried a different tact.

"Football? Tonight Liverpool (my team – BEST TEAM) plays Manchester United (the enemy – BAD TEAM)"

"Ah the FOOTBALL! Tonight!"

I'd obviously struck a chord here. Buoyed by this, I proceeded to explain that I was thinking of going to that Irish pub to watch the football that evening.

"You want to go to pub to watch football? Please wait, I call my friend – he works in restaurant - and will get him to talk to you. I think he goes watch football"

And that's what she did. She phoned the restaurant and a young waiter, 'Life' according to his name badge (pronounced Leef-ah as I later found out), promptly appeared, accompanied by one of the concierges who had been listening intently to my conversation with Daisy.

"You go to watch football this evening?" he asked smiling broadly as we shook hands.

"Yes I am – I support LIVERPOOL" I proudly announced.

His response to this proudly delivered announcement wasn't quite what I hoped as he brushed aside my announcement of devotion to all things Liverpool and responded with "Me. Manchester United."

Seeing my obvious distress at this, the concierge joined in with a sympathetic back slap for me and a "Me. Liverpool. YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE", arms aloft with another of those award-winning smiles that I was beginning to fall in love with.

"Are you going to watch the match tonight in the pub?" I continued.

"Er, Pub?"

"Yes – bar, cafe, pub – you know, beer?" I accompanied this last sentence with the world wide sign for beer, raising my right hand to my mouth in a drinking gesture.

"Are you Irish?" Life, rather unnervingly, asked next.

Is our reputation as pissheads something that defines us all over the world? Still – I suppose I wasn't helping my fellow countrymen in that regard. Perhaps it was because I wanted to go to an Irish Pub.

"Yes – I am"

"OK – we will meet here at 7pm and we will take you to watch Manchester win!"

Enjoying the banter and camaraderie that football supporters the world over share in – for it truly is THE WORLD GAME – I felt a lot better about my prospects for this evening.

"That would be brilliant – although when Liverpool win, I hope you will not be crying!" I replied and we bid our goodbyes and I retired looking forward to watching the game with a couple of locals – all be it one of them a supporter from the 'Dark Side'. I looked at my watch – just 3 short hours until the evening's entertainment was going to begin - plenty of time to enjoy the pool and get some sun.

And that's what I did – at least until the afternoon torrential downpour that apparently is the norm round those parts fell.

At 7pm sharp – I went down to the hotel lobby and sat waiting for my hosts for the evening to arrive. Shortly afterwards Life came over to me, smiling from ear to ear and looking very proud of himself as he sported a very RED Manchester United shirt. I wasn't sure if now was the time to ask him if he was an anti-Royalist, so I let it slide, cursing the fact that I hadn't packed my own BETTER RED Liverpool shirt.

We went to his car as he explained to me that we had to wait on his friend before we could depart. Getting into his car – a rather pimped up Mazda 323 – I got into the back seat and he proceeded to switch on a car stereo, the likes of which I had never seen before. Honest to God, this thing took up half his dashboard, had whistles, bells, graphics, light show – the whole kit and caboodle. I was half expecting a glitter ball to descend from the ceiling when he switched the monster on.

He inserted a CD, pressed a few buttons and before long the whole car, the underground car park and a few of my teeth were rattling to the wonderful bass tones of "Aqua – Come on Barbie Lets Go Party."

I kid you not.

It's not his fault I reminded myself – after all, he can't help it if he's a ManYoo supporter....

A few minutes later his friend arrived. None other than Daisy, the receptionist, greeted us both with a lovely smile and Life with a lovely, big kiss.

Oh Dear.

Perhaps this wasn't the night that I was expecting after all. Here I was, thinking I was going to watch the football with 'The Lads' but instead was going to be the third wheel on a night out with these nice, but very much coupled-up, people.

At least Life had turned the music down a little.

However, we didn't set off and the two chatted animatedly in the front seats as I sat in the back wondering what I'd let myself into.

After a couple of minutes, Daisy turned round and asked if I was looking forward to the game. In our broken English the conversation continued and it transpired that this was Daisy's first game of football, ever, and that she supported Manchester United because Life did.

Oh Dear.

"Why are we waiting here?" I asked, not too rudely I hoped, but keen to find out what the hell was happening with my evening.

"We're waiting on some more friends who are also going to watch the match"

"Ah, OK!" I replied, feeling a little bit better about things.

At least I wasn't going to be the third wheel for the evening - there was a crew of us going – and anyway, once we got to the Irish pub there'd be plenty of ex-pats to experience the match with if things got too difficult, I guiltily thought to myself.

Before too long, another car arrived, the inhabitants of which – 3 male and 2 female, looked almost as surprised to see me in the back seat as I was surprised to be meeting them. And so, with just under two hours to kick off, we set off into the Bangkok traffic to watch the game.

Apart from my limo ride in the quiet hours of that Sunday morning, this was my first experience of actually being in Bangkok traffic and it was quite the experience with Life changing traffic lanes, like he was changing ManYoo shirts and driving with the reckless abandon of a supporter who thinks every frigging trophy on the planet is their God-given right.

I was nervous but I didn't want to seem too ungrateful, so I kept quiet in the back seat as Euro pop 'classic' after another polluted my ears. This was a journey that I wasn't going to forget.

And so we travelled, through congested street after another for over twenty minutes before I started to wonder just where in the hell we were going. My life was in Life's hands I ironically thought to myself and it was around this stage in my Bangkok Magical Mystery Tour that I asked my hosts for the evening where we were going, knowing that the Irish pub was a lot closer to the hotel than we had travelled thus far.

Daisy, who spoke slightly better English than Life, proceeded to explain that we were going to a disused amusement park.

WHAT THE F**K??!

I thought to myself.

"Erm – we are going to watch the match aren't we?"

"Yes, yes of course" came the response.

"Is there going to be beer?" rather disturbingly, was my next question to which I was greeted with good-natured laughs and a placating "of course there will be"

It was only then that I realised the stupidity of my actions. Here I was in Bangkok for Chrissake riding in the back of a stranger's car
going to a disused amusement park to 'watch the game.' I always thought that Liverpool would be the death of me – but funnily enough, this wasn't how I envisaged it.

We drove on for another ten minutes, Daisy and Life chatting amicably and me in the back seat trying to fire off text messages to Krissy on case she never saw me again, with a phone that I new had no reception in Thailand.

And then the traffic ground to a halt. Literally. The traffic – heavy as it had been – became even more intense and we just simply stopped.

"Perhaps they're all going to the match" I sarcastically offered to the front seat.

"Yes" agreed Life.

"What?! How many people are going to go to this game?"

At this point Daisy had to translate, a combination of my Irish accent and the high-pitched squeal of a nervous foreigner making my question too difficult for Life to understand.

After a brief conversation, Daisy happily informed that there would be about Seven Thousand going to the game.

WHAT THE F**K??!

I once again thought to myself.

And just at that point Life pointed up ahead to the right in the distance where I saw three massive screens showing Liverpool and Manchester United highlights. I then noticed the people walking along the footpaths as well. All decked out in the VERY RED colours of Liverpool and Manchester United. I even noticed two guys in Arsenal shirts, which were, of course, in RED as well.

Just what in the hell was all this?! - some kind of football-themed, Royalist convention?

After crawling along for a while longer and as we got closer to the venue, I spied a massive banner proclaiming it was "MEGA RED WAR DAY" (see above for picture), with larger than life photos of Steve Gerrard and Wayne Rooney, the two most famous Liverpool-born players that play for the teams. (Ironically – in the one-eyed world of the Man United football supporter, Wayne Rooney, does not qualify as a "Scouse Bast*rd")

Absolutely gob-smacked at what I was witnessing, I couldn't wait to get inside to see this first-hand.

This was going to be one hell of an experience.

After what seemed an age trying to find a spot to park in and with Daisy using her undoubted charms with a car-park attendant, we parked, blocking around one hundred cars and four hundred scooters in the process and walked out into the middle of 'Mega Red War Day.'

Literally thousands of people were trudging through the dark and puddles towards the three massive Jumbotrons that were broadcasting pictures of previous clashes between these two Titans of the English Premier League. As we made our way through the hordes trying to find the rest of the gang who we had lost whilst trying to find a parking space, I surveyed the scene around me.

Temporary stands had been erected to house the fanatical supporters but by the time we had arrived, they were packed to an almost fear-inducing capacity with the rest of us trying to find a spot on the wet, muddy grass from which to watch the show unfold.

Life tried to make contact by mobile phone, endeavouring to be heard over the almost maniacal commentary from a guy in a white suit and shades on stage who was competing with the equally maniacal screams of the thousands that were surrounding us.

This was intense.

Eventually, contact was made, and we forced our way through the throng towards the three screens and stage at the front of the venue. It looked like we had ring-side seats for this one. Having found our friends and Life explained just who in the hell I was, we all made seats on bits of plastic that randomly happened to be available. As my friends made their spots and offered me some plastic to sit on, I looked around me and took in all that I could.

It was mental.

Breath takingly so.

We always hear about the popularity of our football and our teams within Asia but I really did not expect anything like this. All around me, men, women and children were bedecked in their red and I am not too pleased to report that the (slight) majority of them were wearing the red of Manchester as opposed to that much finer red of Liverpool. But everyone was there and everyone was in great spirits. Even the damp conditions underfoot did not curb the enthusiasm of the masses as they tried to find a spot with the game fast approaching.

"This is amazing!" I announced to nobody in particular as I stood there applauding anyone that took an interest in me which, as it happened, were many. My applause was reciprocated with many cheers and smiles. It was no great surprise either.

As far as I could see, I was the only westerner in the crowd; and being head and shoulders above most of my Asian cousins, I can safely say that if there were any other westerners there that evening, then they must have been members of the Liverpool Leprechauns Supporters Club, for I saw no other person looking anywhere near as out of place, nor bewildered, as I undoubtedly looked that evening.

Having regained my speech and train of thought, I asked my hosts for the evening where I could go and get everyone a beer or two in preparation for the game, as well as to thank them for their hospitality.

My hosts looked horrified at my suggestion and I wondered if I had said something offensive. Looking back, I suppose in a way, I had – because the Thai people are famous the world over for their hospitality and they as my hosts for the evening would not consider for one second that I could even consider suggesting going to get them drinks.

"Sit, sit!" instructed Life and after a bit of polite disagreement and being slightly outnumbered, I took my place as off he set with one of his mates for beer, allowing me to sit down facing the screens and stage and immerse myself in the entertainment.

Ah yes, the entertainment.

I looked at my watch – 45 minutes to kick off. I looked at the stage where old mate in his white suit and shades was still whipping up the crowd into a frenzy but who, by this stage in proceedings, had been joined by a sexy female co-host wearing a very skimpy outfit.

I watched some banter between the two hosts, totally non-plussed by what was going on when - all of a sudden - a bunch of guys – obviously Bangkok's answer to Boyzone hit the stage to some pyrotechnics accompanied with much bass-thumping Euro pop (Asian Style) music. They proceeded to do their thing on stage – the same as any other boy band the world over, as far as I could make out – for three (I think it was three) songs and left the stage to tremendous applause. These guys were definitely well liked round these parts.

Rather worryingly, and with less than half an hour to kick off, there was still no sign of Life and his mate. I voiced my concerns to Daisy but she just smiled, saying it was ok and I went back to watching the stage, having no clue what to expect next.

Ah. That would be the Beauty Pageant, of course.

Yep – about 20 scantily clad girls in swimsuits and high heels came on stage one by one, strutted their stuff and then said something into the microphone which, on occasion, was greeted by cheers, but for the most was subjected to jeers, cries of derision and boos.

Tough crowd.

Eventually, through some sort of voting process that I was not privy to, a winner was declared. After they contestants strutted off stage, old mate came back on stage sporting a ManYoo shirt whilst his co-host wore a Liverpool shirt and nothing else, as far as I could make out.

Never have I seen a Liverpool shirt worn so well.

Right on cue, with less than five minutes to go until kick-off, Life and his mate arrived with a couple of carrier bags full of beer for the gang and with huge grins – which by now I was thinking was some sort of plastic surgery that all of the Thai people are subjected to at an early age - on their faces.

Just how far did they have to go to get these beers, I thought to myself but didn't have time to dwell on this thought for long as we all said our cheers, our "LIVERPOOLS" and our "UNITEDS" (ably assisted by many from the crowd in our nearby vicinity) and settled down to The Main Event.

I had long resigned myself to watching the game with Thai commentary, but as the big screen switched to Anfield and the crowd settled into an obedient hush, I heard the dulcet tones of Sky's Andy Gray and Martin Tyler talking about the team selections for the match. Never have I been so glad to hear those two voices and it's not often I would say that about Andy Gray.

My joy was short-lived however, as a spotlight appeared on the stage, illuminating two hitherto previously un-noticed (at least by me) middle-aged men sitting at a table watching the same pictures as we were on a small monitor. Immediately the crowd went ballistic and the two of them started to commentate their own version of proceedings as the game unfolded. Judging by some of the responses in the audience, their approach to the game was – at best – irreverent.

And so the game unfolded before my very eyes – me straining to hear Andy and Martin's insightful comments whilst being deluged by comments from these two clowns on stage whilst thousands of Thais screamed, hollered, booed, applauded and laughed their way through the game. It was infectious. Everyone was having an absolute ball of a time whilst I, your intrepid explorer, kicked and headed every ball and coloured the air blue with a few insightful comments of my own in my own wee bubble.

Leading up to this game and after 4 straight defeats, Liverpool were on their worst run of results since 1987 and although we had dominated the early exchanges, we were still searching for the opening goal and with Manchester United so lethal on the counter attack, there was no way anything could be taken for granted.

0-0 at half time and I took the opportunity to stand up and take a breather, as well as to ease my aching back, having sat staring up at these screens fraught with tension as I watched the game unfold. More entertainment came on stage to more ear-splitting applause, this time courtesy of Bangkok's answer to Girls Aloud. A few of the locals came up to pose for photographs with the "Weird Westerner" who had been howling at the moon for the first half but I didn't care - there was a game on. Un-noticed by me (for I had been sat in front of my hosts) Life and his mate had gone for – and subsequently returned - with more beers. I have no idea how much of the match they had missed to manage that but I was eternally grateful – my throat was dry from nerves and my voice hoarse with my shouts of 'constructive criticism.' Then, all too soon but not soon enough, it was time to settle in for the second half.

Ah yes – the second half.

Cometh the man, cometh the hour and up stepped Fernando Torres as he demonstrated his world class with a 65th-minute opener, comfortably shrugging off the attentions of Rio Ferdinand before powering an unstoppable finish high past United keeper Edwin van der Sar at The Kop end.

I went nuts.

Jumping up from my spot in the mud to start dancing and screaming like the lunatic that supporting Liverpool seems to turn me into, I was suddenly surrounded my loads of other happy Liverpool supporters all dancing to our own Liverpool-inspired beat.

Even the ManYoo supporters in our vicinity seemed to enjoy our happiness - it was that kind of occasion.

But there was still a game on - plenty of time for ManYoo to get back into the match. Unless of course Vidic was to do his usual party trick and get sent off against us? Surely a third game in a row would be too much to hope for? Not a bit of it. Cometh the hour and cometh the lumbering eejit in ManYoo's defence and sure enough – cometh off he went.

Things were tense but in truth (trying to be unbiased here), Liverpool seemed in control. At least until our own eejit – Mascherano got red-carded as well to set up a thunderous finale to the game.

But, as the clock wound down, substitute David Ngog raced on to Lucas's pass to wrap up a fully-merited victory with what was practically the last kick of the match. We didn't even wait to see the rest of the game. Everyone knew it was over.

And so it came to pass, that the thousands of us in that muddy field on the outskirts of Bangkok made our way home (or to their hotel) into the balmy evening night. The slight majority disappointed with the result, the rest of us elated but everyone that I saw on that way home sported that famous Thai smile; even those owners of the 500 vehicles that we were blocking their way out of the ground.

Why couldn't watching football always be like this?

Good luck Liverpool this Sunday – and to Life and Daisy and the rest of those people that made my first ever night in Bangkok so memorable, a very big thank-you. I hope you enjoy (but not too much) the game on Sunday and no doubt what will be another 'Mega Red War Day.'

Me? I'll just have to make do with watching it in the wee hours from my couch wearing my colours and howling at the Southern Hemisphere moon.

YNWA

This blog was brought to you on my St. Paddy's Day afternoon off, drinking a few bottles of XXXX bitter whilst listening to a St. Paddy's playlist. Now I'm off to join the throngs in Brisbane city. Perhaps I'll see you there?