A taste of the good old days as Euro fever takes over Athlone

It's refreshing still in this country, to be able to hang a flag from your house, and know it won't be interpreted as a political statement. It's also rare to get the chance to wave an Irish flag in Athlone, unless it's St Patrick's Day. It's rarer still to dress in 40 shades of green, go to the pub - and find not just that you're not alone, but that you'll be hailed for your dedication and commitment to The Green Army. That's how it was Sunday night in Athlone, where there was not even standing room, just squeezing room, in so many venues. Across Ireland, 2.03 million people tuned in to RTÉ at some point over the course of the game in the hope of seeing Ireland trounce Croatia. In Athlone, there had to have been a massive spike in electricity usage, given the number of TVs running in every pub in town - some with several screens showing the game at the same time so everyone could be assured of a view. There just were no match-free zones. In fact, Sunday night was like the Thursdays, the Fridays, and the Saturdays of the good old days pre-recession days all over again - just with added leprechaun hats, flags, psychedelic orange wigs, scarves and football jerseys. We were all out, and we were all in good form. And for that glorious first 42 minutes, when we still had every chance of at least staying equal with the men from the Adriatic Sea, it was as if there was no gloom; there was no doom; there was no recession; we could afford to go out; and we could feel that glorious Italia '90 feeling, when the times had begun to come good, and there was light at the end of the tunnel, and we didn't know how the bonds market worked, or that banks could go broke, or that politicians told lies. Ah, those innocent days. And then, that second Croatian goal, and the excitement became muted; the dream took a battering, but for another four minutes - those first four of the second half - there was still a realistic hope, not just the hope that is fuelled through the gas bubbles of the beer pumps, but a realistic hope, of perhaps again equalising. That ended with that awful third goal. But we were reluctant to concede that a kick of a ball could so nearly end a dream that we hoped could at least last days, and so we kept watching, and shouting, and grimacing, and groaning, and complaining, and feeling we were hard done by. And we were. But we can, still technically do it, so watch out Thursday: we'll be back in the pubs, hoping that through telepathy, together, we can deliver what Trap's army needs to hammer the Spaniards. They deserve it anyway: unlike us, they got a deal from Europe that didn't see Angela's army rapping them over the knuckles and saying: 'this is how you run your country'. That in itself is enough to send the thoughts of 2.03 million zapping eastwards to Gdansk.