In the old days when Wales defeated Ireland in the rugby, my late father and I would console ourselves with the phrase “At least Olaf will be happy”. Though she is in Paris at present I am sure that my eldest and fairly thirsty daughter, will need no great persuasion to wander into a pub to cheer on her compatriots in red.
Here in the last village in Wales it has been agreed that we watch West Ham in the cup on the telly here at the Welsh Hovel then head down to the boozer – already decked out with numerous Welsh flags – to watch Wales take on Ireland. Naturally I shall be wearing an old London Irish shirt but my son Joshua is becoming more Welsh by the day and so will be wearing his Welsh shirt and hat.
Last night in our nightly, and often rambling, prayers we prayed for West Ham to avoid FA Cup humiliation and I suggested that we prayed for Ireland to utterly smash Wales. Joshua interrupted, assuring me that God was a Wales supporter. Should the unthinkable happen today in the rugby, at least Joshua will, like Olaf, be happy, a double consolation but not much of one.