Tonight, I won’t have time to be torn

Here are the kind of high-jinx you get at an international tournament involving Ireland.

At 5.40am yesterday morning, a rather inebriated Irish supporter struck his head through what I thought was the closed window of my apartment in Gdansk. Waking me up with the thickest of accents, he then loudly asked: “Can you let me into the complex boss? I’ve been on the beer all night and lost the keys.”

“Oh, are you even Irish, mate?”