Aviva Zapata - Notes on the Lansdowne Massacre

When the final whistle went, with the crowds already streaming out, the score said it all. As cheery quips about Angela Merkel are replaced with recriminations and accusations, one fact has already presented itself: The scoreline was extremely flattering. To us. We were hockeyed last night and the visitors should have won in double figures.

Herr Oezil sagt hallo

Never mind the fact that Marco Reus has hairdo like a 1980's Lesbian baddy from a sub-Lethal Weapon comedy thriller. Never mind that the creators of Ren and Stimpy do double takes each time the camera closes up on Mesut Oezil. Germany were something else last night. They had style, finesse, interesting hair (see above) and they had the killer instinct. A team of devastating substance.

There's going to be a lot of talk about Trap (he should go - duh!), that the players aren't of the calibre we need to perform, their confidence went, bla, bla, bla. A lot of excuses and platitudes. The scoreline, the Lansdowne Massacre, showed a gulf between the two sides. This was not a gulf in class, however, but in work ethic. The two teams had more in common than you think, which makes last night all the more frustrating, and anger being an all the more welcome emotion among the Irish sporting public.

Both teams have coaches who need to justify themselves in the eyes of many. Both teams have players, whose commitment to the cause has been called into question by more than just the die hard Dunphys and malcontents. Germany's side has been in the firing line since they failed to turn up against Italy in the Euros, whom they themselves flattered after their blue-tinted humbling in Warsaw: some players wouldn't sing Germany's anthem, an indication of a lack of pride when compared to the Italians; a lack of hunger, an absence of desire to get down and dirty with teams who aren't willing to let them play their brand of Sexy-Fussball. The word Weicheier kept getting trotted out in the German press - these guys, literally their cojones, were too soft. 

The scoreline, and that it should have been worse, is a testament to us not getting the point and needing to be punished for it. In football, as in economics, as in social policy, as in most aspects of life, we are too insular for our own good; too unwilling to look beyond our anglophone comfort zone to see what to do right; too unwilling to prise our heads from that familiar English speaking dark place to get the point and get on with it.

Germany are only as good as they are today, because ten years ago, a guy from the German FA traveled up and down the country doing coaching clinics to identify new talent and emphasize fine ball control skills. They even went to Mecklenburg, a godforsaken place with a population of one inbred stork, some lonely looking skinheads sitting on a sand dune, and Toni Kroos. They found him on Germany's Craggy Island and nurtured his talent in elite training schemes. They put in the spade work and look what happened: Hard work pays off.

Too often we're about the quick fix, be it in terms of our economy - Bertie's Ponzi scheme Tiger - or indeed our football - sign up for any oul' English club and toil away at Rochdale for the rest of your life. How ambitious! Imagine if we were as flighty, as whimsical, as romantic as we are, but were rigorous and brave in what we did as well.

Like Mrs. Doyle, we are hardship fetishists. We get off on the misery. Imagine if we were all that but also diligent, organized, open minded and had a plan as well. We shouldn't be so ignorant of Germany, or indeed ignorant of so many other non-English speaking countries that do things better than us. Despite the abundance of raw talent we so patently have in every corner of life, we have done little more than regress to scraping moral victories. We deserved to be punished last night, if only to remind us that we are capable, if not deserving, of so much better. 
    

We come in Peace, We leave in Pieces.

It's important to know when you're beaten. Labour are stubbornly unaware. Which is why it's important.  And because it's important, Labour are stubbornly unaware. Go figure.

It's also normal to back up members of your own party when they are attempting to execute the policies agreed in the program for government. Save in the event that circumstances dictate otherwise, or under the following exceptions:

• Enda said so. 
• James Reilly threatened to sit on your chest unless you let him put primary care centers wherever he bloody well liked. 
• You got Foreign Affairs and just don't give a monkey's any more, because you're like Dick Spring and that's all that matters now. 
• The party colleague seeking your support is a girl.

This last point really haunts me, because of an inescapable and thoroughly overlooked fact:  the Cabinet is a collection of older men, the cabinet table groaning under the weight of dandruff and empty packets of Complan. They are collectively as old as the remaining members of The Grateful Dead would be if accurate Carbon 14 Dating could indeed used to gauge their accurate age. Michael Noonan is so senior, he was able to cry 'sketch!' just as Kevin O'Higgins came out of mass declaring 'Thank God that Civil War is finally over!'

What's more, whilst Enda Kenny put on his curious statesman face for the cover of Time - that one which is one part Liam Cosgrave to two parts Quentin Crisp- Labour, having faced down their nemesis when she resigned last week, want to summon the remaining faithful to the Red Flag over the issue of fee paying schools. 

Coalition Leaders

If this were a TV show, we'd watching a long forgotten episode of Steptoe and Son. Enda is Harold, sitting in a tin bathtub with his hat on. You can guess that in Harry H. Corbett's stead is one E. Gilmore of "leafy" Dun Laoghaire. Eamon's declaring he'll leave, shouting 'You horrible little man!', just as Enda, having goaded Eamo to go, looks at him with puppy dog eyes and asks manipulatively, 'You'd never leave me would you, Eamon?' You know what happens.

An historical note: Harry Corbett, a gifted stage actor, played Hamlet after Steptoe. The story is that no one took him seriously after his stint on the telly with Wilfred Brambell. A similar fate awaits Mr. Gilmore, beloved of his credibility.
   
I'm no betting man, but this is my prediction, and I tend to be right about this - one of the following will happen: a) James Reilly will resign following the botched announcement on the fate of the National Children's Hospital (b) FG will force a Labour climbdown over fee paying schools and make Gilmore's position untenable, or (c) the only thing flakier than ministerial scalps come budget time will be Labour's grassroots. After the dizzying spectacle of total implosion on Merrion Street, we'll all wake up and realize it was all a dream; that Enda Kenny is in fact a lizard from the same planet as Robert Englund in the original series of V, and thus barred from standing for a seat in Mayo, reptiles traditionally running in Roscommon-Leitrim, miles away from Castlebar.  

Following the ensuing and inevitable anti-Gilmore heave and FG's 'grand' coalition (as in, 'sure it'll be grand') with FF, Labour will be lead by a jar of Chiver's Lemon Curd. Its interpersonal skills may be untested, but can only be better than those of the incumbent - through sheer charisma it'll maintain a respectable showing at the polls in March 2013: irrespective of an actual election, it'll show up, just looking respectable, occasionally even letting the women get a look in.