Courtenay's Column on Radiowaves.fm

We are delighted to present the second in a new series of Courtenay’s Columns, exclusive to Radiowaves.fm. Almost twenty years since the very first article, Pat is back with more musings, ponderings (and any other synonyms you can think of) along with memories from his radio past.
Pat currently presents ‘Afternoon Drive’ on Dublin’s Radio Nova, having returned to our shores in 2010.

In this article, as the Qatar 2022 World Cup reached the QF stage, Pat brings us more memories from Italia 90 with 98FM…

Snap Decisions

A couple of things happened. Packie Bonner saved a penalty, David O’Leary scored a penalty, and Denis O’Brien punched a hole in the ceiling. Goodbye, Romania. Hello, Roma!
“Does anyone speak Italian?” shouted Denis to the crowded basement in Mount Street. No one was forthcoming, not even the girls on the Sales team who hadn’t been chosen for their professional track record. I expected they must have at least picked up a smattering at social events on Ailesbury Road but, nope. So I thought, OK. I speak French, I’m learning Spanish (from a book, I might add) and I remember some Latin from when I was an altar boy.
How hard can this be? “I have a bit, Denis.” “Right. Get in there and get us a hotel.” I was dispatched to the Programme Director’s office. With a beer to lubricate the lingo. Pre-Google, we couldn’t see what we were getting before we paid for it. Besides, it wasn’t my money anyway.

Half the nation had had the same idea but they didn’t have Denis O’Brien’s credit card. By the time I emerged from behind Jeff O’Brien’s desk I had, completely innocently, booked a five-star hotel called the Grand Hotel Plaza. It’s on Via del Corso, right around the corner from the Spanish Steps. When we’d raced across Europe with all our gear, we realised what I’d done. This place has a marble staircase down into Reception. There are matching, full-sized marble lions at the bottom. The house bar was across a ballroom the size of Stadio Olimpico with two chandeliers, each the size of the Colloseum.

Then the trouble started. I’d booked three rooms; one for Peter “MacGyver” Gibney and me, one for Our Man Aidan Cooney and one for Elaine Geraghty. “No, no, no, no, no. Not two men in the same room.” I then had to explain that if you looked at the three lads, Elaine was clearly not likely to be interested in sleeping with any of us. After a long negotiation in French/Spanish/Latin, it was agreed that Gibney and I could share a room. In the event he and I had a threesome with a fella called Jack Daniels. I remember waking up for the Breakfast Show the next day with both of us fully clothed, feet hanging over the end of our one double bed, with our boots still on.

JD and coffee for breakfast, across the room to the writing desk with the midi-system that connected us, via a MacGyvered phone jack and a satellite, to Mount Street. In the middle of peak time the BBC technical crew came into our room with Peter as Elaine, Cooney and I were sitting there with cans on, taking live phone calls from Dublin.

The BBC guys were in hushed awe. “Are they live?”
Gibney, nonchalantly, “Yeah.”
“How are you doing it?”
Fabulous. The Beeb, for God’s sake.

We got the tram to the stadium, where all our supporters were split into segments so we wouldn’t “cause trouble.” Somehow the songs still coordinated perfectly. We were all part of Jackie’s Army, even after Schilacci did what Schillaci did. Stadio Olimpico emptied of Italian fans in about a minute, We stayed and we sang. Jack Charlton came out for a well-deserved lap of honour with Squire Haughey about six paces behind him, cashing in on our adulation of Jack.
Back at the five-star palace, the Italians were gracious in victory. At the bar across the ballroom, I never spent a cent of anybody’s money.

Next time, reclaiming America.