Day out at the rugby – Ireland win the Grand Slam and I lose the curry test

The premise of this catering operation fascinates me. Having two containers of equal size seems to assume that half of those wanting to eat will choose the vegetarian option. But there is a problem with this - everybody is choosing chicken.

As I get closer to the front, I notice the level of the chicken curry beginning to drop alarmingly. I think I’m right in saying that the staff seem to be reducing the size of the portions they are serving in an effort to stretch it. Meanwhile, the chickpea curry remains undisturbed. I think I can see a skin forming over the top.

As I said, I’m very hungry. I now am torturing myself on the horns of a dilemma. Do I go for the chicken (assuming there is any left) and risk being given a tiny portion, or do I feast on a tsunami of chickpea curry? This choice magnifies itself within my mind to become an illustrative test of character. Do I choose a little of what I like or a lot of what I don’t like?

I’m hungry. When I get to the front, I see the chicken curry container is close to empty. I ask for the chickpea. The server piles it high on my plate. I move on to pick up some cutlery. I hear the man behind me in the queue ask if there’s any more chicken.

“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from in the kitchen,” the server responds cheerfully. Another man emerges carrying a new tureen filled with chicken curry. I grip a napkin tight in my clenched fist.

I pick doubtfully at my food in the press room. I am in the Aviva Stadium in Dublin where, in about an hour, the Irish rugby team will attempt to win the Grand Slam when they play England. I have been sent to cover the match.

I should not try to pass this off as a normal day at the office. In more than a quarter of a century in journalism, the number of sports assignments I have covered could be counted on the fingers of one hand which has had several digits amputated. I love most sports and am a keen rugby fan, but I lack the detailed knowledge of the game which would enable me to write about it competently. Instead, my task today is to record the post-match press conferences on video.

I’ve never been in the press room of a major sports stadium before. I feel like an outsider because everyone seems to know everyone else - apart from me. This sense of separation is enhanced by the fact that I am the only one not eating chicken curry.

“What’s the chickpea like?” one of the other journalists asks me.

“It’s the best damn chickpea curry I’ve ever had,” I respond truthfully.

After dinner we go to watch the match. I have a tremendous view of the pitch from the press area high in the stands. I am sat beside an English journalist who writes for a national newspaper. We chat briefly about the upcoming game and I’m anxious not to appear ignorant so restrict myself to a few words. When he talks about turnovers and offloads being key, I simply nod along wisely.

The match begins. All around me journalists are scribbling notes or typing quickly on laptops. I don’t want to seem out of place, so I also begin to write some random thoughts on a small notepad.

“England kick off. Ireland have the ball. England have the ball. Ireland kick the ball. England kick the ball. A guy has just walked past carrying six pints of Guinness! Impressive.”

At one point the English journalist removes his headphones to check a detail.

“Was that Sinckler’s first carry?”

“Uh, yeah, I think it might have been,” I respond hesitantly.

There is a nervousness in the crowd as the scoreline remains close. But the noise builds and the dam of relief bursts as Ireland pull clear in the closing stages. By the time Ulster’s Rob Herring scores the final try to seal the Grand Slam, I am out of my seat, with all the pretence of being an impartial journalist banished.

I have an enhanced respect for the art of sports journalism as I witness colleagues around me calmly working while I am stirred and left breathless by the scale of the emotion.

But I have to compose myself to go back downstairs the video the press conferences. England are first and captain Owen Farrell looks like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than in this room being questioned by journalists. This sense of exasperation is deepened by the fact that journalists persist in asking him questions about his relationship with his dad, the victorious Irish coach Andy Farrell.

The incestuous weirdness about the whole affair is deepened when Farrell senior appears minutes later with the Irish captain Johnny Sexton. There is an almost paternal sense of pride as Farrell talks about Sexton’s achievements, describing him as Ireland’s greatest ever player.

Soon, the media obligations are finished. I transmit the videos on my laptop and begin to pack all of my gear away, while simultaneously trying to remember where in Dublin I have parked. As I walk out of the stadium, I see that the catering staff are beginning to clean up. I can hear two of them having a discussion about what to do with all the leftover chickpea curry.