Daniel Carey’s Rugby World Cup Diary: The sweet smell of victory

The sweet smell of victory


Sulphur stinks, but the Irish rugby team didn't, on their visit to Rotorua

Postcard
Daniel Carey

THE philosopher William James recalled that whenever a certain man came under the influence of laughing gas, he discovered the secret of the universe. When he came to, however, he had forgotten it. At last, with immense effort, he wrote down the secret before the vision had faded. When completely recovered, he rushed to see what he had written. It was ‘A smell of petroleum prevails throughout’.
A smell of rotten eggs prevailed throughout Rotorua in New Zealand last weekend, but that was nothing to do with the hordes of Irish people visiting for the Rugby World Cup match against Russia. Rotorua always smells like that. ‘Sulphur City’, as it’s known, is a thermal area, with geysers and hot springs galore. And you actually get used to the whiff.
The game itself had more the air of a concert than a rugby international.
With very few seats available, many of the spectators opted to sit on the hillside at the back of the goal rather than stand up. As a duck-shoot emerged on the field, the crowd found other ways to entertain themselves. The chief method? Doing the Mexican Wave, or booing the section of the crowd responsible for its demise.
Much of the amusement came from the clothes which some fans donned. With few actual Russians around, the Kiwis got into the spirit of the old USSR - by flying the Soviet flag, or wearing a Communist-era military hat.
As the tries dried up somewhat in the second half, some Irishmen resorted to what the medical profession might call ... messin’. Cheered on by his pals, one slid, head first, down the muddy hill. Others unfurled loo roll, prompting one New Zealand boy to ask with astonishment: “Where’s everybody getting the toilet paper from?” Good question. But Ireland got the job done, and supporters celebrated long into Sunday night.
Not that the green army had been shy about making their presence felt on Saturday night either. Rotorua’s Irish pub Hennessy’s was where many ended up, but those of us who chose half time in the New Zealand-France game to change bars found only our fellow countrymen (and women) on the streets. “Jesus, this is like asking for directions in f***in’ Letterkenny!” one northerner observed.
That man may have been the driver of a van painted green, white and orange which I spotted in Rotorua’s Central Business District on Saturday afternoon. A hand-written message on the side of the vehicle informed the local population: ‘Donegal County Council will fill ur hole’. Good to know.
I can only blame being tired (if not emotional) for my decision to watch much of a New Zealand TV agricultural programme on Saturday morning. “Bruce Willis will be here after the break,” the presenter told us, and rather than wonder what the ‘Die Hard’ star was doing on a programme about sheep-shearing, I suddenly got interested. Imagine my disappointment when up popped Bruce WILLS, of the Federated Farmers group.
But unlike Willis’s best-known character John McClaine, I was not about to have a very bad day. After a few hours in the Rotorua Museum and Art Gallery, I had learned all about Maori legends, dead cats (among the victims of an 1886 volcano) and the original All Blacks, who played 107 rugby matches on a 14-month tour in the 19th century.
On the way into the museum, I passed a group of council workers resting on their shovels. “Where are you from, mate?” one asked an Asian-looking tourist, a query which met with a one-word response that sounded very like ‘Roscommon’.
The Rossie Asian then convinced one of the workmen to pose for a picture scraping gravel with his shovel, while a woman entered Government Gardens driving a car with the licence plate ‘DANA S 1’. Hopefully that’s not an omen for the upcoming Irish Presidential election, or I may have to stay in New Zealand.