Kevin Gallen: not Jesus. |
As what is widely known as a “plastic paddy” (we prefer the term Anglo-Irish thank you very much), crushing disappointment comes quite naturally for me. The weekend before last, as last-gasp glory beckoned for Ireland at Landsdowne Road, and Sean Cronin knocked-on with history beckoning, many would have lost their cool. A fit of rage which is usually most becoming of my character.
However, I merely slumped into my chair, despondent, and yet strangely at ease with the disappointment. Almost comfortable.
I must of course apologise for bringing up rugby. You’ll find I’m one of the few people as ecclesiastical about egg chasing as I am about the association code. Please don’t hold it against me.
This ease with disappointment has held me in good stead for a life as a Queen's Park Rangers fan. My dad has always said that you can only truly love something if you have suffered for it. In which case, he must really fucking love QPR. In his 52 years, God has only seen fit to give him a League Cup win in 1968 (which, slightly too young to attend, his father half inched his ticket for a mate) and a FA cup final.
All I have had is a play off final in which the Almighty decided like Abraham on the mountain to test me with a 119th minute Cardiff winner and another season in Division Two.
Between us we’ve witnessed agonisingly missing out on the top division title on the last day of the season, our director being held at shotgun point to sign over the club, two relegations (which led a primary school aged me to, like Peter denying Jesus thrice, except my Jesus was Kevin Gallen, pooh-pooh the tormenting mob desperate to inflict ritual humiliation on those who had the misfortune to not be able to align living in north west London with supporting Man Utd and Liverpool) and false dawn after false dawn.
"I though being five points clear would be exhilarating. Instead it's like being the fox in a fox hunt."
This was finally all compounded by in the moment of our salvation, saved from the brink by some very rich men, they then proceeded to turn us into a national joke. I remember singing with all the strength in my lungs “GIGI DI CANIO! BERNIE AND FLAVIO!”. Gigi was seven bosses ago now. I can’t remember the last time I said Briatore’s name without being preceded or suffixed with a torrent of the vilest profanity.
“So you guys are favourites to go up then?”. These words put a chill into the depths of my soul. Cast from the club that even managed to turn a golden ticket into a quintessential clusterfuck to out and out favourites does not sit easily. The stress of expectation is telling. I thought being five points clear at the top would be an exhilarating experience. Instead it is like being the fox in a fox hunt. A pack of rabid, Premiership-chasing hounds unrelentingly on your tail. If one of them falls behind, another, more bloodthirsty hound steps into its place. Only three defeats all season, and yet still they chase and harry. Every Saturday, Tuesday, Friday (in fact I think Thursday is the only day we haven’t played on this season) I feel like Michael Biehn being chased by Arnie in a nine-month long edition of Terminator.
I honestly do not know how fans of the Big Four do it. Obviously I want QPR to win every time, but that gap between desire and expectation is a painful one if you’re not accustomed to it. Every draw feels like our number’s up. We’ve finally been rumbled. "Your references have been checked and you were never at Havard at all you fraud," they'll say. I’m not sure how much more my nerves can take. I want to shut my eyes and wake up May 8th 6pm in The White Horse with a stream of Guinness in front of me, surrounded by light in the Promised Land. Instead, I have another two and a half months of palpitations, all tied into that one binding thought that keeps all of us football fans from the very bottom to the very top going through all the trauma. Maybe. Just maybe.
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