The Irish Times Final, a Supporter’s View

“What do you mean, we can’t drink on the bus!!” was the irate comment from one or two of the hardy group of fans who made the trip to U.C.D. on Friday 16^th of February, to see Ryan/MacSweeney, Beresford/de Brún, and Hughes in action in the Irish Times Debate final. (Or as one wag put it, “Turner and Hooch, Cagney and Lacey, and Hannibal Lecter”) The bus driver, or “Mr Smiley” as he shall forever be known, was not endearing himself to the fans. This after all was the most eagerly anticipated event of the year. Ever since the semi finals a month previously all that anyone in Lit n’ Deb could talk about was the final and the five speakers we had in it. The hype had snowballed when Brian Hughes and Mary Cosgrove, “the dream team,” walked off with the Observer Mace national title a week before. Lit n’ Deb was on a roll we felt, and we all wanted to be there to see it sweep the boards a la U.C.C. What could be more natural than toasting the speakers on the way up? Grumbling a bit, we stowed the cans in the boot of our salubrious 53 seater coach, which looked suspiciously like a 21 seater mini bus, and we set forth.

We chugged along in the early spring sunshine when suddenly the bus stopped. “No smoking on the bus lads” came the voice of doom from the front. I’ve always wondered about the biblical phrase “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Not any more, as the reaction of the smokers, who coincidentally numbered all of the previously foiled drinkers, put hell’s finest to shame. The bus driver then revealed himself as a popular music hater but is ignorance was nowhere near as profound as the idiot who mistook Mick Jagger’s voice for that of the singing hat himself, Garth Brooks. Rolling along nicely through the midlands a heated debate ensued as to whether or not we would be passing through Offaly. Of such stirring issues are cross country bus journeys made.

With a cheer the bus pulled in to that traditional watering hole for all Galway buses, Kinnegad. No sooner had the bus stopped outside “Harry’s” than we made a beeline for the bar, feverishly smoking/rolling cigarettes as we went. “Ten minutes” came the voice of doom. We managed to stretch it to twenty. Enough time for a couple of pints, or in my case, vodkas, and several cigarettes, we were still over an hour from Dublin after all. Buoyed somewhat by the long awaited alcohol/nicotine it started to get a bit noisy and as the lights of Dublin sparkled on the horizon the male voice choir at the back were working through our vast repertoire of Joe Dolan classics. As we drove towards U.C.D. the more cosmopolitan of us attempted to show off our knowledge of the “big smoke.” I freely admit that I didn’t have a clue where we were. A fact that was to become painfully obvious later on.

Finally the concrete jungle of Belfield came into view and we disembarked outside the Arts Block. We made our way in, and looked for Theatre “L”. After a lot of marching around we found it, and all stood around for a while wondering where the bar was. At this point a communist flag appeared and was wielded with great gusto by one of our group, known only to his friends in the Kremlin by his code name “Olga.” In order to head off the destruction of the social order as we know it, we were led to the bar, which was big, noisy, but strangely devoid of atmosphere. After a couple of overpriced (by college bar standards) drinks we all headed back to the lecture hall.

The U.C.G. contingent decided to circle the wagons just behind the speakers of the proposition and the banner was draped out before us so that no one would have any doubt as to where we were from. After a few preliminary items of business the main debate got under way. The motion was “That the punishment should fit the crime” and it was chaired by Michael McDowell T.D. Speaking pro were our own Jarlath Ryan and Ronan MacSweeney as a team and Brian Hughes as an individual. Alex Massey of T.C.D. and the team of Boyle and McDermott from King’s Inns completed the pro line up. Michelle de Brún and Clodagh Beresford were our team on the opposition and they were joined by Clarke and Donnelly from T.C.D., McElligot from U.L. and the hometown boy, James MacDermott. Our vocal chords were called into action immediately as the first to speakers were from Lit ‘n’ Deb, Jarlath Ryan and Michelle de Brún respectively. It would be inappropriate of me to run the rule over two such excellent debaters or indeed over any of the finalists. We shouted as loudly as we could for all of our speakers, drawing a startled look from Ian Walsh, the auditor of U.C.D. L&H, the hosts, and I think that it would be fair to say that at the end we were confident of carrying off at least one of the prizes.

While the adjudicators retired to deliberate on what they had seen and heard the motion was thrown open to the floor. Most of the speakers left the hall as did most of us supporters. The minutes dragged on and still there was no word. The nerves were setting in with a vengeance and many many cigarettes were smoked, all prefaced with the muttered phrase “Where the f___ are they.” The tension was absolutely unbearable, like one thousand penalty shoot outs rolled into one massive nerve end. Then the news filtered out from the hall. “Landers is up.” Patrick Landers (not to be confused with Ned Flanders of “The Simpsons”) was waxing lyrical in his own inimitable fashion. After that brief respite from the tension, it was back to the well worn routine, for me, of pacing around, smoking, and rolling another cigarette. Still the minutes ticked by, at this point only one thing was certain, it had to be desperately close. While all this was taking place, a mini drama had unfolded, the Lit ‘n’ Deb gavel had gone missing, last seen in the possession of “Olga”. The revolution had begun apparently.

The topic under discussion had moved on at this stage to the North and it was to the usual passionate debate on this subject that the adjudicators returned. Like a radio being switched off the hall fell silent and Christina Murphy came to the podium to deliver the adjudication. The runner up spot for the teams went to Jarlath Ryan and Ronan MacSweeney. We stood to hail them, it was a good start. Runner up individual went to James MacDermott, the hometown crowd cheered, we applauded. The individual prize to……… “Give it to Hughes! Give it to Hughes!” I muttered with fists clenched and head down…….Douglas Clarke. Wallop!!! “Aw for f___ sake” I heard someone groan. Highes was the man on form, the debater with the Midas touch. It was a shock. Reeling a bit, and slightly sick, we waited for the team prize. “Jesus Christ we have to win something” I thought. It was not going to be as the prize went to the King’s Inns duo. We all gathered around Jarlath and Ronan to congratulate them and soon the auditorium emptied.

Without detracting from Jarlath and Ronan in any way, there was a sense of disappointment in the camp that theirs was the only honour won. Expectation had been high and all the wild talk of “the double” seemed very far away now in the empty halls of U.C.D. We had dared to dream, it didn’t happen, but we had at least got to the final and the “Irish” Mace was already in the bag, with the British Isles final in two weeks. The speakers and guests went to the post debate reception. We went outside to await the bus. However, not all of us were going to go home, a few hardy souls took the view that we were going to make a night of it, and we did, although not in the way that we might have foreseen…

First to the Merrion Inn where we toasted our debaters with each new drink, particularly Jarlath and Ronan, and pledged our support to “the dream team” in the Mace final. Then into taxis to hit the Bective rugby club where a bash had been organised for after the debate. At this point however it all started to go horribly wrong. We lost one taxi on the way, so only three of us ended up out there, at least while it was open. Imagine every youth club disco you’ve ever been at and multiply it by infinity. That was Bective. It was “twilight zone” stuff when a bouncer became convinced that I was on illegal substances because I was rolling a cigarette. Oh I wish…..

When all that had ground to a halt a pair of us decided to go back to the speakers’ hotel to link up with them, they had, wisely, put in a no show at Bective. “You can’t come in.” said the doorman, perhaps a close relation of “Mr Smiley”. So we trudged off to look for the house we were staying in. There was no one home at the address we were given, or so we thought... That misconception was soon corrected when three police cars, one unmarked, pulled up, The resident, an old age pensioner as it happened had rang them. We were hustled into the back of the unmarked car and we explained our situation to the constabulary. Wisely I didn’t voice the opinion that they should be out catching real criminals, although I was sorely tempted to ask for a light, my matches having long since departed. After about ten minutes we were in the clear and the police kindly dropped us at the right house, which was on the same road, albeit right at the other end, with the same number, in a little cul de sac. We were greeted by the somewhat amused residents and so my night came to an end. I couldn’t resist doing a Gerry Conlon as I got out of the car though. “I’m an innocent mon”

The adventures of the support did not include only my story however. The other three members of the “Merrion Inn six” didn’t even get a place to stay!! The trio indeed made it out to the Bective via Abrakebabra but it was all over. Following the same course of action as we did they too tried and failed to gain egress to a certain hotel and failed, a problem shared by many on the night. Including some of the residents!!! One of their number though had friends in Dublin, they could stay with them. The best laid plans however sometimes fail and so it was with our bedraggled band. They wandered around trying various addresses, even one of a Ceefax watching wino, but to no avail. They ended up sleeping outside Heuston Station.

We all headed back west on the Saturday, we may not have won anything, but the night will live long in the memory of some of us. It was, as one of our number later put it, “a glorious shambles.” Not from the debating point of view, but some supporters might benefit from a crash course in forward planning.

Aidan Boyce