Spanish goalfest sinks spirits

“What the hell is it with the bloody third minute? Does the defence just go to sleep?” shouted one irate Irish fan seconds after the ball trundled past Shay Given for Spain’s second goal.

Yet again the boys in green had started a half by giving away a goal. Sadly two more would soon follow.

In spite of rainfall which could have re-floated an armada, there was a significant cohort of Spanish students among the thousands who flocked to clubs and pubs the length and breadth of the country.

While the Irish were deluding themselves that a miracle could happen, the Spanish were quietly hoping to witness a goalfest from their side. Strictly by those criteria, it would have been the Irish who would have been clinking the San Miguel come half time.

After all, with all the Spanish pressure, it was a miracle that there was only a goal in it at the break.

“What do you reckon, 3-0 or 4-0?” ventured one disillusioned fan 20 minutes earlier as the pressure seemed relentless.

As attack upon attack rained in upon the Irish goal, even the referee appeared to have a go, taking down an Irish player, much to very vocal annoyance of the majority of the pub crowds. When a couple of minutes later he compounded matters by harshly yellow-carding Robbie Keane, the anger nearly reached fever pitch.

Towards the end of the first half, a combination of imbibed alcohol and the 1-0 scoreline gave the Irish fans a false hope something could be salvaged. But then the three-minute hoodoo struck once more. Patience began to fray.

“Of course you know the reason the Spanish are so good?” asked one Irish fan of another, more than loud enough for a group of Spanish students to hear. “Its all the omega oils they get from the Irish fish.”

As if to punish his impudence, Fernando Torres then showed Chelsea fans that in spite of his goal-blindness for the club, his first goal was not a fluke as he scored a second.

As with the previous goals, the Spanish students politely celebrated. Too politely for one of their number. “We are winning, you can be happy,” she shouted to her friend across the bar — in English so everyone could understand.

As many Irish fans decided they had seen enough and headed bar-ward or homeward, one petite Spanish girl winded her way to the smoking area. “You’ll never beat the Irish,” she sang softly to herself without a hint of sarcasm.

Fabregas belted in the fourth just to make sure no one took her to heart.