So there it was, Merry Christmas

Everybody did seem to be having fun on Boxing Night (Stephen's Night for our southern viewers, there).

Order of service for the evening was roughly as follows.

Got ready to leave Tyrone at about 3:00. Plan was reviewed when Fr O. called round. The craic, as ever, was good with him. Not your usual brand of priest... So then, belted it up the M1 to get to the Bot (via C&L's place) in time to meet everyone and share a taxi to Ravenhill. Got there, said hello, hugs/handshakes were exchanged, and then we hopped into various forms of transport to get over there. Or at least as close as we or the taxi driver could figure out to where Ravenhill is. It's always had this mystical quality — entirely attributable to drink — like the platform in Harry Potter (there's another blog reference for them). You're never quite sure where it is, but you always end up finding it. Right enough, the sixty-foot floodlights probably give it away, but there we are...

Anyway, got there, and split into our two factions. Me, Gerry, Colin, Pete and his brothers on the promenade side; the Cullybackey Man, M, Shaun and Shaun's sister on the terrace side. In a much better position than the corner in which we found ourselves. I spent most of the first half talking to Arse Cvnt, as he used to be known in Greek, only half keeping an eye on the game. We nipped off five minutes before half-time for some lack-lustre chips and some sort of sausage, before the second, spirit-crushing half. I'm starting to wonder if I'm not some sort of jinx on rugby teams. If I was a superhero, my special power would be the little-coveted "Making My Team Forget How to Catch the Bloody Ball Once It's Passed" power. I'm sure DC and Marvel have a stack of such back-up characters for a rainy day...

Back in the real world (or the nearest APS drunken equivalent), post-match we slowly rendez-voused at the entrance to the beer tent. WIthout getting any beer, which — given the journey which followed — was a stroke of luck. When J, M and the Bloomfields appeared, we headed off "towards" the Errigle. Led by Gerry, who knew as much about where we were going as J ever does when drunk (learned that lesson the hard way in Cambridge). Only when Dr AC realised that he used to work for Thales where we were walking did we do an about-turn and completely go back on ourselves, all the way to the stadium, and thence to the Ormeau Road. I hate not having a sense of direction: I'm inclined to believe others who don't have on either.

Eventually got to pub feeling distinctly sober, despite Pete and Gerry's whiskey supplies during the second half. Then, we managed a Guinness. Everyone decided that I was rubbish at being gay because I should be good at co-ordinating colours but am, in fact, rather colourblind. I eloquently told them where to shove their opinions and made a mental note to check the disability discrimination act. (I have a feeling I won't, and that it wouldn't help anyway, but that's hardly the point.)