atching disaster, unfold on the big screen always provides plenty of food for thought. And as schmaltzy as The Day After Tomorrow turned out to be, emerging blinking from the darkness one couldn’t help but wonder about the fall-out, the consequences and the repercussions should the unthinkable happen.

Imagine it, if you will, for a moment. Global warming sends enough polar ice slush into the ocean to turn off the flow of warm air and water. In a flash, weather around Ireland turns monstrous - killer tornadoes in Cork, super tsunamis in Dublin and football-sized ice chunks dropping from the sky in Galway. Mega-hail in Mayo, blizzards in Antrim and ceaseless rain in Limerick. Millions dead, raging torrents blasting through the streets, enormous hurricanes pulling buildings apart, entire counties submerged and towns flash-frozen – the end of Irish civilisation as we know it.
Such a scenario is scary to imagine (apart from the ceaseless rain in Limerick) – more frightening, certainly, than those of most disaster movies. But it could happen. Soon. Ladies and gentleman, I give you The Day After England Win Euro 2004.
Of course with any luck, by the time you read this column such an appalling vista will already be redundant. Deadlines mean that at the time of writing, The Day After England Win Euro 2004 is still in the early stages of development, to borrow from the parlance of the Hollywood suits. Indeed, statistics would suggest that the script will never actually make it into “the can”, ending up instead in the dustbin of some frustrated producer, rubbing shoulders with such never-to-be-made blood-curdling horror epics such as The Day After England Win World Cup 2002, The Day After England Win Euro 2000 and their blood-curdling celluloid ilk.
At this precise moment, however, as I sit in my lonely garret looking out over a cityscape (okay, so I’m actually sitting in my living room with one eye on the tennis) bedecked in Union Jacks and crosses of St George, the threat of a horror blockbuster spelling the end of Irish life as we know it is all too real: England play Portugal tomorrow and they just might win.
Should the unthinkable have happened, it’s fair to say that in both England and Ireland all hell will already have broken loose. By the time you read this they may already have booked their slot in the final, in which case there isn’t a second to lose. Gather up your loved ones and flee for your lives. Don’t look back, don’t glance at The Sun.
That it may even have come to this is an unexpected national tragedy. Originally, it seemed as if this was to be the year of the screwball comedy. Oh how we laughed as, before us on the big screen, the stereotypical hapless English buffoons capitulated against the French as the closing credits rolled.
Then it all went the shape of the pear. The inevitable sequels were tales of redemption, which saw the plucky underdog prevail and a new love interest emerge. And how. Cocking a snook at formulaic Hollywood epics of yore, the scriptwriters opted to leave the dashing, swashbuckling, clean-cut hero flitting in the wings. Sensing that jingoistic hordes were ready for change, they asked us to love an unlikely champion: an incoherent, grunting, Neanderthal man-boy bruiser resembling the love-child of Shrek and Mr Potato Head.
Cleverly, they engaged our sympathy by making us feel sorry for him. Abandoned in Middle Earth until he was taken in and reared by orcs as one of their own, Wayne Rooney didn’t have the best of starts in life, they said. But luckily for him, his ability to kick things – footballs, dressing room walls, opposing centre-halves – endeared him to audiences who cared little for his murky past as long as he continued to “bang them in”. And bang them in he did, to devastating effect. Now England expects and Ireland lives in dread. One nation’s epic triumph is another nation’s epic tale of woe.
Unless of course they’re already out, in which case we can all relax and breathe easy.
Yes, despite having spent over five happy years in England, I still find it impossible to wish their football team well. Whether or not it’s for reasons of mean-spirited, mealy-mouthed pig-iron is irrelevant – the fact remains that like many of my compatriots, I derive almost as much pleasure from seeing them lose as I do from seeing our own lot win. Occasionally you’re made to feel small, because some of my best friends are Sasanachs, who always root for Ireland and are invariably bewildered by the jubilation with which we greet their sporting misfortune. As a result, there are unwritten rules in our sport-obsessed household. As a token concession to living in England, I lend my wholehearted support to their cricket team; a gesture which I remain convinced has contributed in no small part to their current soaring fortunes.
England’s success or failure on the football field, on the other hand, goes unmentioned. It’s the elephant in the corner of the living room that nobody ever talks about. At times like this, however, it becomes increasingly difficult to ignore as it trumpets loudly, stamps its feet, nuzzles your ear with its trunk, shits all over the carpet and threatens to lose the plot altogether by winning Euro 2004.
Ah yes, the plot. If there’s a God in heaven, it’ll have fizzled out into nothing like a poorly contrived and hastily written fortnightly installment of London Calling already, in which case we’ll leave the picture house cheering.
The alternative, well … let’s not think about the alternative.