Siobhan's Memories of Paddy

Written by Siobhan Walls, Paddy's younger sister by 16 months.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    .    .

• Fighting over opening the blue foil paper on the chocolate fingers Daddy used to bring home to us from work.
• Opening the cardboard box Daddy brought home with two kittens inside
• The two of us squished in the boot of the VW Beetle with a single of chips on the way home from the baths on Friday night in Cork.
• Going for a picnic in Corry’s field.
• Hitting my head on the wall when he was teaching me how to flick my fringe.
• Looking at each other as we crouched together by Mother’s armchair in the sitting room in Glounthaune in the late afternoon of Sunday March 24^th, 1968 and deciding that as everyone else was crying we probably should too.         

• 
• Swanning around the Phoenix Park in Uncle George’s chauffeur driven car when me and Paddy were staying with them, but all their kids were at school.
• Arriving at Carrickbrack in the chauffeur driven car.
• Playing out the back garden in Carrickbrack.
• Leapfrogging over the trees Grandad had just planted in the front garden of Carrickbrack.
• Meeting Paddy at the top of the stairs on my way to bed where he’d be waiting to make me talk. I had a self-imposed rule that stated I could talk to no-one once I’d kissed Mother goodnight. Paddy would wait for me, somehow make me talk and I’d have to go all the way back down to say good night again.
• Him telling John to dance on my head while he held me down.
• Playing spin the bottle with Scorie, Brenda McLoughlin and Gerry and Brendan Hannon (Paddy had that sussed in that I was his sister and Scorie was his cousin, so no matter where the bottle stopped he got to kiss Brenda).
• Going to Fintan’s disco on Friday nights (I had such freedom being accompanied by my big brother).
• Him and Claire and Eamonn swigging a drinks mixture behind the bushes at Sutton Cross before going to Fintan’s disco (I’m not called Miss Mustard for nothing.).
• Going to the disco in Howth Community Centre and head-shaking to Black Betty till our heads hurt.
• Waiting for the bus at the top of the Baldoyle Road in the freezing cold to go visit Claire and Eamonn.
• Walking home from the bus stop at the top of the Baldoyle Road in the freezing cold after visiting Claire and Eamonn .
• Covering for him for some misdemeanour that Grandad was on to (having friends in the bedroom if memory serves).
• Seething with him for inviting the whole of Sutton and Howth back to Carrickbrack one Easter Saturday night when Ma was away.
• Going around the next morning with a nail scissors and glue to repair the cigarette burns in the sitting room carpet.
• Making him a birthday cake that consisted of 20 pancakes stacked high.
• Dancing with him to Earth, Wind and Fire on the chairs in the kitchen.
• Walking home from the Summit at 2am.
• Buying my first car which he drove to the petrol station in Portmarnock for me before I dared get behind the wheel myself.
• Being collected by him from Heathrow when I moved to London in ‘88.
• Being dropped by him to Luton when I moved home from London in ‘89.
• Going to his and Shelagh’s wedding in Kingston.
• Asking him for advice on a boy thing when Michael was a baby.
• Listening to Michael ask 30 times “What doin’ Paddy?” as Paddy re-tiled the bathroom here when Mother had split the house into two flats.
• Listening to Paddy answer 30 times “Sticking those tiles on the sticky stuff Michael”.
• Listening to Michael telling Paddy (after due consideration and reflection) to “Dick dose diles on de dicky duff Paddy”.
• Ringing Paddy for advice some years later on how to “dick diles on dicky duff”.
• Eating his savoury mince dinner in the upstairs flat at 38 Bayside Walk.
• Eating dinner with himself, Shelagh, Stevie and Savanagh in Baldoyle.
• Going to the Hillybilly in Dingle with him and Muiris on my 30^th birthday.
• Watching him and Mother argue with and against each other in Kerry.
• Playing cards with him and Mother terrified I’d make a mistake.
• Getting to Kerry with a 3 week old Rachel to find no floor in the sitting room.
• Running out to Paddy with a 3 week old Rachel in my arms screaming at him to chase down the hill after Robert who was chasing Nick who was chasing Michael who was chasing Mister the dog who was chasing a sheep over a cliff edge.         

          

• Watching him watching Sam on Coomeenole as we all played in the waves.
• Putting my head in the kitchen door in Kerry to tell himself and Robert to drink less gin, carve more meat and make more gravy.
• Getting a lesson in how to wear a peaked cap at just the correct Dingle angle.
• Accompanying him on the train as far as Mallow when Rachel and I were going to Tralee to visit Mother in hospital in September 2005 and watching him get off to meet Dessy to go to re-hab.
• Refusing to give him money the night before that and buying him phone credit online instead.
• Watching him take photos all night at Robert’s 50^th birthday about a month later – he wasn’t drinking.
• Feeling so relieved when he got to Beaumont before Mother died.
• Going on a wonderful winelands tour with himself and Claire in South Africa.
• Being so touched the week the house in Slea Head was being cleared out when he gave me and Rachel a 50 euro note cos I was so broke.

          

          Pic courtesy of Deirdre Kearns' facebook page (Dee Keating I think .)

• Meeting him in Banna in June of last year.
• Meeting him in Dingle a couple of times in July of last year.
• Meeting him and Maura, her daughter and Peadar in Dingle last June.
• Meeting him in Peter’s house in August.
• Talking to him for the last time a few Sundays ago while I was walking the dog up in Howth.
• Seeing his bloodied, bloodless nose when I walked into the ICU in Tralee on Sept 4^th
• Wanting to hold my nose for the smell of decay coming from him.
• Kissing his face and holding his hand and telling him that I loved him.

          

Christine's Memories of Paddy

Written by Christine Brennan (nee Walls), Paddy's older sister by 18 months.

Have been feeling very low since we came back from Kerry and have written down some of my abiding memories of Paddy to help me. I thought I might share them with you all.

Sneaking a look together at the builders in Glounthane with fascination as they were allowed drink their tea with their teaspoons in their cups.

Walking the old road to Flute head's and meeting Paddy coming out of the Ashbourne House hotel with a pack of cigarettes. He was seven maybe eight. Of course we all had to have one. Siobhan was six years old..

Dreading  a family quiz as I knew he would always get the answer before I did.

Listening to the Doobie Brothers at least 20 times a day.

Paddy telling me The Facts of Life.

Dancing with him up and down the kitchen in Carrickbrack to Elton John and Kikki De after I received my leaving cert results

Laughing with him  until we cried at Morcombe and Wise jokes.

Paddy running away from boarding school and being sent straight back.

Paddy and Tim hanging around Carrickbrack when they were meant to be at school.

Watching him and snoops come down the road in his triumph car. Always hard to work out whether it was dog or human driving.

 

Paddy tying the feet of my tights together (when they were on me) and making me walk up and down the dinning room.  I couldn't walk but only because I was laughing so hard.

Holding me down on the ground and telling John to 'Dance on her head'

Visiting Paddy and Shelagh for Sunday dinner when Eoin and Stevie were toddlers.

Paddy working in our house. For the past fifteen years I have been trying to find some fault in his work but never have.

About 5 years ago,sitting in my  car with Eoin at the traffic lights at Sutton Cross when Paddy passes, wearing his hat and the coolest shades I had ever seen, driving a Mercedes. He looked like he had been driving this style of car all his life. I remember looking at Eoin. We both just laughed and said. The jammie .........

Lunch with him and Claire in Gardenworks one sunny day, when he was not drinking and really enjoying the company of a real gent.

Listening to his excitement about his first trip to Spain with Claire.

A wonderful chat we had in Mam's porch a few nights before we closed up the house. He never complained to me, although I know the selling of the house was breaking his heart.

Giving all he had to give playing  against the nephews on Ventry beach. Think he excelled in cheating!

Sitting at the bar in Foxy John's one summer's afternoon just talking shit...

Taking his hat off to push his hand through his thinning hair.

A bloated face in Banna strand. (you're pretty fat yourself !)

Once again playing soccer but this time as a druncle in a very stylish nightdress and of course his hat.

Wearing shades when the sun was definitely not shining as his eyes were so sore.

A short but lovely trip down memory lane with him at Declan's 40th birthday party.

A dying brother in Tralee hospital on Saturday 4th September.

I loved him dearly and will hold on to these precious memories as long as I possibly can.

Christine x x

Eulogy for Paddy Walls, Died 4th Sept 2010, Aged 49.

Delivered at his cremation in Cork on 9th Sept 2010.

"Let's have a quick 60 before we go" said Paddy. The house was silent and completely bare. The removal men had long since removed themselves and we were about to leave Carrickbrack House for good. This was the house I grew up in with Paddy.....Paddy, my big brother, a huge and ever-present influence in my journey to adulthood. Now we were leaving the only home I had ever known, but Paddy wanted 'a quick 60' before we left.

'A quick 60' was nothing more than a game we played in the back garden involving a football and a shopping trolley. Most respectable homes in Dublin at the time had at least one shopping trolley in the garden. We had 2....but kept one hidden behind the hedge so as not to lord it over our neighbours, 'the Beirnes', who had to make do with a Superquinn basket which they kept all their tennis balls in.

'A quick 60' involved one of us crossing the ball 60 times in a row. The other person had to try and head it in to the shopping trolley, more difficult than it sounds, believe me.

Well, the record had stood at 14 for weeks now despite hours spent trying to break it in between packing up the house.

Our final 'quick 60' in the back garden of Carrickbrack House has since passed into legend. With one cross left, the sun setting and the house already locked up, the score stood on a record-equalling fourteen. I crossed the final ball.....and Paddy soared into the air like a man desperate to catch a glimpse over the wall of his neighbour's wife sunbathing......and planted that ball squarely into the shopping trolley.

It was a glorious and perfect way to say goodbye to our childhood home. It also reminded me what it was exactly about my big brother that so inspired me growing up. Quite simply, Paddy always delivered when it really mattered.

Paddy always caught a fish when we went up to Howth Harbour when the mackerel were running. Paddy always hit the shot of the day at Deer Park golf course and he made the pressure putts more often than not. Paddy always got the sparrow first time with the catapult. Paddy always chose exactly the right moment to click the shutter and capture the perfect shot.

And Paddy always got the girl. Not just any girl, but the best girl, the one that everybody else wanted........something which, I am pleased to say, he continued to do right throughout his final years.

I suppose you could say he had a great sense of timing, an essential characteristic if you're going to be funny. And Paddy was funny. I remember another occasion in that same back garden watching Paddy expertly direct the football right into the middle of the enormous 3 metre x 2 metre dining room window. The noise of a thousand pieces of falling glass was quickly replaced with a  stunned silence. Three, four, five seconds passed and then Paddy, with perfect timing, said "Do you know how much out of 10 I hate that ?"

Paddy's sense of direction wasn't quite as good as his sense of timing. In particular he seemed to struggle to locate his own bedroom after visiting the bathroom in the middle of the night. Now while this might have produced a night of excited anticipation for any of Siobhan's friends who were staying over, it probably only further added to Paddy's morning-after confusion as he tried to piece together the hazy memories of another night.

When people hear of the death of someone not directly related to them...the mother of a work colleague for example, they tend to try and pigeon-hole that death. It's not malicious, it's just how we cope and how we explain the world to ourselves. Like..... "Ah, your mother was 87? At least she had a good innings." Or if a person led a troubled life then maybe their death is somehow more acceptable than that of an untroubled person. We think we can measure a person's contribution to this world just by looking at their achievements or their 'happiness barometer.'

I don't agree. I think the true value of a person's life is measured by what others learn from them. Paddy's true beauty often got obscured by his pain. But the fact that his most beautiful traits endured despite that pain.....to me that's what makes those traits even more powerful. I learned a fortune from Paddy. From watching him and listening to him; from his successes and from his mistakes.

Paddy taught me about patience.......the patience required to catch a fish every time, and the patience to know that the answers might not come in this life.

He knew how to catch a fish.

Paddy taught me about gentleness. He had compassion for the smallest and most helpless. His love for animals was well known and and the names Snoopy, Jessie and Cara would feature prominently in his biography. My mother-in-law from South Africa was struck by Paddy's gentleness. She had been so taken by the beauty of the fuschias growing wild all over Kerry that Paddy picked a number of slips and then spent a long time wrapping and packing them carefully in newspaper so as to keep them from dying on the journey back to South Africa. Needless to say, the fuschia slips survived because not only was Paddy gentle, but because when he decided to do something he generally did it very well.

Paddy taught me about fear. I think he had a lot of it and I think it paralysed him. Where it came from we can only speculate, but I know for certain that he doesn't have it any more.

Paddy taught me about loyalty. At the age of 9 I tried to switch from supporting Leeds Utd to supporting Man Utd. I was distraught because Leeds had slipped to 5th place in the top division. Paddy gently explained to me the importance of sticking with a cause through thick and thin. "Hang in there" he implored me, "it's only a matter of time before Leeds start winning again." And so I did. I hung in there and waited........and 34 years later I'm still waiting.

Thanks for that Paddy.

The flip side of loyalty is stubbornness and, oh yes, Paddy could be stubborn. Back in 1978 he told anyone who would listen that U2 were overrated and that the Bogey Boys were much better. This was back when U2 were playing the Community Centre in Howth. In 2010 Paddy would still have told you that U2 are overrated and that the Howth Community Centre is too good for them.

Paddy even taught me about girls. I remember as a teenager feeling down cos' I couldn't get a girl. So I consulted The Master. "Look at how you make us, your family, laugh John. Just be yourself, make the girls laugh and they'll fall for you."  Well, whaddya know? It worked ! Girls have been laughing at me for nearly 30 years now.

And finally, Paddy taught me about love. He taught me that some people just have that special quality about them that makes others want to love them. Paddy had it. He drew people in. They couldn't help themselves. I sometimes think he was the only one who couldn't see it.

But he had plenty of love to give, especially, I found in his later years. I know I felt the warmth and intensity of Paddy's love these last few years. I don't know if he had mellowed or what, but he just seemed able to express himself better than he used to.

And he knew how take a pic...Table Mountain on fire 2006

Since the weekend I've been trawling through my memories of you Paddy...and I have to say I am astounded at just how many there are. You have been a massive part of my life, maybe bigger than I realised, certainly bigger than you realised. I suspect a lot of people here today feel the same. Your impact on this world was much greater than you ever gave yourself credit for. You only have to look at the havoc you created when you finally jumped on that bus last Saturday night.

Speaking of buses.......while Colette, Siobhan and Christine were sitting having lunch just outside Tralee on Saturday, waiting for Paddy to be transferred to Cork......his ambulance sped past them at high speed. With a sense of timing that Paddy would have been proud of Colette turned to to the others and invoked the spirit of Eric Morecambe and one of Paddy's all-time favourite jokes; "He won't sell many ice creams going at that speed !"

Sorry Christine...not an ice cream van.

Paddy wasn't used to ambulances or hospitals...but he did spend the first few weeks of his life in hospital. Our mother had had a minor complication after Paddy's birth and so needed to stay in hospital while they sorted it out. When we asked her why Paddy had stayed in hospital with her and not come home she uttered one of her famous 'Ma-isms': "You have to remember", she said, "that Paddy was very young when he was born."

As it turned out Paddy was also very young when he died.

I wish we had time for 'a quick 60' right now Pads. I reckon we'd break the record again.......even with you lying down.

Thank you for everything you taught me Paddy. Goodbye....for now. We will always love you; our brother, our father, our lover, our son, and our friend. It has been a privilege to know you.

What's wrong with a draw Sepp ?

Sepp Blatter says Fifa is considering scrapping draws at the group stage of future World Cup finals by introducing penalty shoot-outs after 90 minutes.

Quarter Final penalty heartbreak for Ghana vs Uruguay

"We are considering doing away with draws in the first round... and also ending extra-time play."

Here's a question for you Sepp:

What makes you think a team playing for a draw will be any less negative if there's no extra time, and if a penalty shoot-out is guaranteed in a group game ?

All you're doing is making it easier for negative teams to achieve their objectives. As we stand, an unbearably boring but defensively sound team like New Zealand can go unbeaten through 3 World Cup matches without ever remotely looking like they might win a game. Under Sepp's new system they would have gone to 3 penalty shoot-outs. Even if they'd only won one of those shoot-outs they would have ended up with 3 points....which is what they actually did end up with in this World Cup. Under Sepp's new system all they would have had to do was win one more shoot-out and they would have been into the last 16.

New Zealand equalise in injury time vs Slovakia

Having reached the last 16 without actually trying to win a game why on earth would they now start playing adventurous football ? (By the way, I'm Irish, and I came of age in the Jack Charlton era so I know what I'm talking about!) Another heroic rearguard display from the All Whites against Japan in Pretoria leads to another successful penalty shoot-out and a place in the quarter finals against Spain.

Ray Houghton scores for Jack Charlton's Ireland vs Italy in 1994 World Cup in USA.

I could go on and trace a plausible path to the final for New Zealand but I'm sure you get the picture already. If you want the best teams to thrive in a World Cup you need to give them more chances to break down frustratingly unambitious teams like NZ.....not less.

I really enjoyed the Golden Goal rule, for the simple reason that it rewarded teams who could score during the match and not just during the penalty shoot-out.

David Trezeuguet wins Euro 2000 with a Golden Goal vs Italy.

Not sure what the problem is Sepp. This World Cup had a shockingly low number of goals in the first round of group games (25 in 16 games)...but, thereafter, it more than made up for its slow start. The second set of 16 games saw a total of 42 goals, almost 3 per game. The third round of group games saw 34 goals, over 2 per game. Other than Algeria and New Zealand I can't really think of any other team who played for the draw.

For the record, the 16 knockout games produced 44 goals, as opposed to the 30 seen in Germany 2006.

As for doing away with extra time in the knockout stage and going straight to extra time I am even more baffled by Mr Blatter's latest pronouncement. This tournament saw only two games decided on penalties  (as opposed to four in Germany 2006). If Sepp's system had been in place this year we would have been robbed of  the drama of Gyan's extra time winner for Ghana in the Round of 16 against USA,  not to mention Iniesta's 116th minute winner in the Final.

Asamoah Gyan cannot believe what he has just done in the Quarter Final vs Uruguay !

To prove my point.....can you name the man who scored the winning penalty for Italy in 2006 ? Perhaps you can, but I guarantee you he'll never be as famous as Andres Iniesta.

Grosso.....and Iniesta to the right.




So, please Sepp, fix the things that are broken...like teams qualifying for the finals because you're not brave enough to use video technology. But don't fix things that aren't broken. The World Cup had a complicated and bizarre format as recently as 1982. We've had it right for the last 7 World Cups. It works. Leave it alone.

"South Africa... much better, brighter and bigger-hearted than you'd think."

                                Cape Town Fan Walk before the semi final. Pic by Jeff Ayliffe.

This month has changed South Africa, I think for good.

Instead of me trying to explain why, I'm going to leave it to the respected English journalist, John Carlin. Believe me he's well qualified. Carlin is the author of 'Playing The Enemy,' an account of how Nelson Mandela used the 1995 Rugby World Cup to win forever the hearts of white South Africans. His book was recently turned into a movie called Invictus, directed by Clint Eastwood and starring Morgan Freeman as Mandela and Matt Damon as Springbok captain Francois Pienaar.

I remember Carlin writing for the UK Independent in the late 1980's when I lived in London and I always enjoyed his writing back then. He spent 6 years in South Africa from 1989 to 1995 and saw the beginning of transformation firsthand. He now lives in Barcelona and writes for El Pais. How perfect is this World Cup for him?Not sure how he worked that one, but you must think, well done, well done indeed John Carlin.

His article amounts to a take on the 2010 World Cup and was published in the Weekend Argus and Weekend Star last Saturday. It also appeared on www.news24.co.za. What makes it such a fascinating article is that it is essentially the view of an outsider, albeit an outsider with a thorough understanding of what makes this country tick. It's long but well worth the read......

Yes, South Africa can

July 10 2010 at 08:24AM

By John Carlin

It's been a spectacular success. Everything according to plan, smooth as silk; South Africa successfully re-branded; no unpleasant surprises, and plenty of pleasant ones. 

Not a cheep, for example, out of the ludicrous Julius Malema, who the ANC wisely locked up in the attic, as you do with the mad live-in relative when important guests come around. 

No reports of any new Zuma off-spring, or even wife. As for the bigger and far more important picture, the games all started on time and were broadcast live around the world without a hitch (though I gather there were some power-cut problems in England "mercifully, perhaps" during one of their national team's relentlessly hapless displays). No massacres of foreign visitors, either, as long advertised in the foreign press.

Crime generally seems to have sunk to Swiss levels of innocuousness during South Africa's four-week World Cup honeymoon.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu famously declared on April 27, 1994, the day all South Africans went to vote for the first time: "It's like falling in love!" Well, 16 years later, it was a renewal of the marriage vows; it was South Africa falling in love with itself all over again. 

All those stories, promoted by Fifa, among others, about this being Invictus II, about 2010 being the 1995 rugby World Cup all over again, about healing racial wounds, uniting the fractured nation and so forth, were off the mark. It was much, much better than that.



What we saw was just how united and racially healed South Africa really is, how far we've advanced since the nervy 1990s. The word for what we have seen in these past few weeks is consolidation. Nothing new, these past years, to anyone who has walked about South Africa, done ordinary everyday things, in seeing black and white people getting along just fine. 

All the racial tension stories that surfaced after the death of Eugene Terre'Blanche ("South Africa on the brink of racial war" etc), have been shown to be, as a British friend of mine who knows the country well, succinctly put it the other day, "just so much bollocks".

I've been to watch loads of games at the stadiums, but by far the best memory I take away from the World Cup was the atmosphere at Melrose Arch, in Joburg, during the South Africa-France game. From what I saw there, and from reports of friends and fellow journalists who have taken part in identically joyous events of this kind up and down the country, I'd like to ask a question: "If South Africa is not a united country, then what country is?" 

As I have written in these pages before, the thousands gathered before a big screen at Melrose to watch Bafana Bafana's heroic exit from the competition knew in their hearts that it was a lost cause, that their team would not make it to the second round of the competition. But the solidarity was absolute. People of all colours and religions, in what until not very long ago had been an exclusively white residential area, heaving and swaying and singing, celebrating their common South Africanness with proud, unforced energy: what a blow for the legion of dismal sceptics that flood the opinion pages of this country's newspapers!

Never mind black and white, there were a number of Jewish people with yarmulkes on their heads at Melrose and a number of Muslim men with long beards and Muslim women wearing veils on their heads. Where else in the world would you see such people mingling without tension, their national identities trumping ancient religious divides? Not too many places, believe me.


And the great thing is that the world has got to see all this. The rebranding really has kicked in.


Via 15 000 fellow journalists that have descended on this country (please, don't anyone tell me ever again that the World Cup was a waste of money!), the entire planet has got to see South Africa's best face - in my prejudiced view, the best face in the world.



I have spoken in the past four weeks to journalists from Mexico, El Salvador, the USA, China, India, Britain, Germany, Spain - you name it. The first thing that has surprised them has been the total absence of racial friction. Most of them being white, or white-ish, they concurred that the contacts they had had with black South Africans had been consistently civil, cordial, respectful, good-humoured, even fun. 

As for the panic in their hearts at the prospect of murderous hordes chasing them down dark alleys, the predominant sensation among those who acknowledged they had succumbed to these terrors was embarrassment.

I did a bit of work early on in the competition for a big US television channel, some on-air punditry about South African politics and society. The recording studio was at Nelson Mandela Square in Sandton, just above the big statue of the great man. About 100m away was the television station's tented base of operations. 

  
I and an American producer walked from the studio to the base camp and back half a dozen times. Our trajectory was through a crowded mall. The only potential peril I was aware of was that we might trip on the mechanical escalators and bang our heads. 

But you know what? The television station's rules required that on each of these strolls we should be accompanied by a beefy security guard - a dark-suited Nigerian, in this case. The producer I was with honourably squirmed at the timorousness of his employers. The Nigerian kept a poker-face, but inside he was laughing, all the way to the bank.

Worse was the case of the English journalists covering the England camp. The bus they travelled in always had one security escort in front and one behind; four Afrikaner former police officers or soldiers kept watch on them everywhere they went. 

At first the journalists were not displeased to have them around. I heard that before the World Cup the bosses of one major British newspaper (won't tell which, but it wrote about the looming racial bloodbath following Terre'Blanche's death) had the brilliant idea, in these troubled economic times, of hiring a security consultant to address the South Africa-bound troops. 

A man with a briefcase appeared (presumably working for the same outfit that would later provide the detachment in South Africa) and rattled off the figures for violent crime in the purportedly benighted country, for murder, for rape - not excluding male rape. He put the fear of God into the poor journalists. Four weeks later what they feel is deeply embarrassed. 




Talking of journalists, on a less foolish note, the way Fifa and the Local Organising Committee set up the bureaucracy of accreditation and general facilities was a dream. 

Cleverly aware of how critical we often unsavoury characters would prove in the marketing of South Africa, they set up a wonderfully smooth operation. 

Getting your tickets for games was straightforward and the staff were as cheerful as they were efficient. At the stadium media centres and the press seats the internet connections (journalists' lifeblood these days) were excellent, whether you were in Rustenburg, Bloemfontein or Joburg's Soccer City. 

I covered the World Cup in Japan in 2002: this was incomparably more hassle-free. I heard the same from journalists who covered the World Cup in Germany four years ago.




Oh, and let's not forget the Fan Walk in Cape Town, a two and a half kilometre (2.5km) vaudeville show from the centre of town to that beautifully elegant Coco Chanel hat of a stadium, along which the massed hordes, thousands of children included, were bursting with bonhomie - so much so that for the semi-final on Tuesday the love in the air breathed unexpected life into the sails of old Holland. 

The long-buried historical connection with the Dutch (Jan van Who?) suddenly surfaced in the Mother City in a riot of orange. I went up to one orangeman and woman after another, a number flying Dutch flags, and, to my astonishment, all the ones I spoke to turned out to be South Africans.


 

They were happy Holland won, not least because they avenged Uruguay's unspeakably cruel victory over Ghana. But what they were happiest about was, I think, that they had reclaimed the streets. Save for the odd case of pickpocketing (you get them in Vienna), nothing to fear. 

I have a theory - I actually had it, rather more wishfully, before the World Cup - that the criminal classes would go on a patriotic strike during the tournament, doing their bit for Brand SA. 

Whether that was it, or whether it was a pragmatic calculation that what with the emergence of these swift and severe World Cup courts and the flooding of World Cup venues with the men and women in blue it might be best to keep their heads down, the fact is that the country has been more relaxed and at peace than it has been for a long time - maybe ever.

Actually, to be serious, huge credit has to be given to the police. I came across loads all over the country and they were, without exception, polite and efficient, oozing civic responsibility. One that I met off duty in a bar in Bloemfontein sang me a symphony of racial brotherhood, banging on - in his cups, a little - about how South Africa was a piano. The black and white keys had to play together, he said, or not at all.

Obviously we'll have to see if all this lasts after the World Cup is over. Enough people have vented their views on this already and there is not much more to add. 

Though it will be intriguing to see if the police turn out to be as assiduous in protecting the foreign Africans here, against whom murder and mayhem is threatened (especially in jolly old Cape Town), after the final whistle blows on Sunday night, as they have been in keeping the rather more welcome World Cup visitors safe. We'll have a test case right there of whether it's all been a dream or not. 

Which brings us to the first lesson of this World Cup: the primary purpose of government is to protect its citizens. Well, let's absorb that thought and act on it. Sustain the good work that's been done after the show is over and watch this country go.

The second lesson, not at all unrelated to crime, is that if South Africa really puts its mind to something, it can do it, it can make a plan. Fifa has got a pretty bum rap from people in this country for its autocratic ways, but the Swiss-Germanic rigour that's flowed from Zurich has definitely sharpened up levels of efficiency and organisation round here, not to say - the big South African "d" word - of delivery. 



Someone who works high up in the Local Organising Committee told me how at first it had been a big culture shock to work with these Swiss; they did not understand each other at all. But in time they established a rapport and the fusing of African ebullience with old European discipline ended up doing the job admirably.

The big lesson I take away from all this is one that I already knew but had forgotten, amidst the distracting babble we read about in the press and, hear and see in the broadcast media from the political classes, chatterers and newspaper columnists. 

South Africa is much better, brighter and bigger-hearted than you'd think from paying attention to all that lot. The society is great, and it is the reason why (never mind the safari parks and the fairest Cape) so many of us foreigners who've spent time here find this country more beguiling than any other on Earth. Ordinary people have so much more wisdom, grit, resilience, invention, courage and generosity than you find in most countries.
 

And some of these ordinary people are to be found, for sure, in the ANC. Even in the upper reaches of the government, if you look hard enough. There are the looters, the hypocrites and the frauds, too, as we all know. We can just hope that the experience of the World Cup might have awoken their better angels, brought out the good that lurks in many of them, that sparked their commitment to politics in the first place. 

Failing that, as a friend here says, let's pray that they remain content with taking just five or 10 percent of the national cake, instead of 30 percent or the full damn monty.

Your Julius Malemas - and I use him as a generic term for all that's rotten and silly about the South African political scene - are best ignored. Or rather, friends in the media, try, if you can resist the temptation, not to publish and broadcast what he says. Delve deep, rather, into what he and his like do. 

As for Zuma, he is a nice guy and has many of the best instincts of the best South Africa. The problem is that he lacks gumption and sexual maturity. Not much we can do about the latter, but maybe we can prod him to show a bit of principle and character and lead the ANC back to what it once was, abandoning its lootocratic ways. A leader must not be a jellyfish, said PW Botha. Heed those words, Mr President.

Though, perhaps, he won't. In which case, let's take comfort in the knowledge that the country is, I repeat, bigger and better than the state. 

If the state does not get in the way, if it actually helps, as it has done with this World Cup (notably the policing, but also the building of infrastructure) then great. 

If not, well, South Africans have it in them to make a plan. The big message from this spectacularly successful staging of the greatest show on Earth is that, yes, South Africa can.
 

Now, with more confidence and pride and calm than ever before, get on and do it.

·  John Carlin was the correspondent for the London Independent in South Africa between 1989 and 1995. He has returned to South Africa frequently since then, including nine times in the past 18 months, chiefly to work on television documentaries. He wrote Playing the Enemy, the book on which the Clint Eastwood film, Invictus, is based. The book has been translated into 16 languages, including Spanish and Dutch.

This World Cup really can change South Africa.

I heard someone describe Cape Town this week as a ghost town.

In reality it's no different to how it is any July. Three million people going about their daily lives; schools back; roads busy. But I know exactly what they mean. There's an eerie lack of World Cup in Cape Town, and across the whole country, this week. Nothing seems quite real. There's a kind of numbness about. I can't even feel properly upset at the Springboks losing to the All Blacks this morning, for the second week in a row !



Slowly, the enormity of what we pulled off is settling upon us. Our mood swings from intense pride to a melancholy sense of loss. Mandela's 92nd birthday is tomorrow and most people will be doing their 67 minutes of helping others. It's particularly pertinent this year given how we have got to know each other over the past month..


The best thing about this week has been hearing the World Cup stories of so many South Africans. I knew the World Cup would put this country on the international map but what I underestimated was just how much ordinary South Africans would get swept up in the event. I have yet to speak to even one person who was not deeply moved by what happened this past month.

This is the story of one Afrikaans family who sent their story in to Kfm radio station this week;

Hi
The Schreuder family just had one of our most amazing months ever. To truly appreciate how big the world cup impacted our lives you need to understand that we are a very conservative Afrikaans family who passionately follows rugby and cricket. Until the world cup, we have never watched a full soccer game together before. With the build up to the event my wife and kids was not too excited and did not expect it to be too big a deal....



Wow, were they wrong.


I literally cried when Bafana did not go through after playing so well against Mexico and France. Still they can keep their heads high and be proud. They should also know that going forward they will always have the Schreuders from Durbanville screaming at the top of their lungs whenever they play.

The Schreuder family on the Fan Mile in Cape Town.

We realized that we had to now pick a new team to support. We had a 50/50 split in our house with the girls supporting Germany and the boys backing Argentina. So we had to do the fan mile with the kids. We also made use of public transport to get there, which was another first for the Schreuders. What a great experience. The fan mile was pumping for the Argentina Germany game, with complete strangers stopping us to take pictures with us and especially our kids, who my wife transformed into
little works of art. We will never forget the vibe and the camaraderie we experienced that day.

Now it is all over, but our lives have been changed by this wonderful event and we will never be the same. If you have any doubts, have a look at this.... to see how sport can change the world.

Schreuder son with new friends on the Fan Mile.


Regards,
The Schreuders from Durbanville

11 July - The Final - Soccer City - Spain vs Netherlands

Spain reign as the Dutch get all butch....


So that, ladies and gents, is that. Match number 16, the biggest of them all and most certainly the biggest event I've ever been to.

I had to shake my head in disbelief a  few times. You keep saying to yourself  "I'm at the World Cup Final" but it's hard to really take it all in.



Joburg was buzzing on Sunday morning. We went down to Nelson Mandela Square for breakfast and the atmosphere was electric. Dutch and Spanish fans trying to outsing each other and a real sense of something huge happening.



Then on to Gold Reef City to while away a couple of hours in the early afternoon. It was deserted and very eerie. The kids got to ride everything they wanted witout any queues but eventually the quiet became too much. This was World Cup Final day and we needed noise. A quick hop to Soccer City (we were there by 4pm) and the goosebumps started to make their appearance. Thousands of Dutch fans were camped outside the ground having their own party with their own stage and their own dj.



One of the wonderful things about a World Cup Final is how the nations of the world are represented. It's considered proper form to wear the colours of your country.......... even if they didn't qualify. So of course I wore my Irish shirt while the rest of the family wore Bafana shirts.

The closing ceremony really was as good as it looked on tv. I was following a BBC website on my phone while sitting in the stadium. They sugegsted, tongue-in-cheek, that the only reason the stadium was full for the ceremony was because Shakira was appearing. The BBC probably don't realise how close they were to the truth given the immense popularity of the Colombian superstar and her World Cup anthem 'Waka Waka.'



While waiting for the game to start I sms'ed a contribution to the BBC site........"From John, an Irishman living in SA.....I watched my first World Cup Final on TV in 1978 when Argentina beat Netherlands. Have always dreamt of going to a final since then. I'm writing this from the stand at Soccer City. Am so proud of what this country has achieved over the past 4 weeks. There might be a few tears shed tonight."


And there were. The closing ceremony was spectacular and the appearance of Mandela was the real highlight.

What chance did the actual game have after that? Even less once it became clear that the Dutch were going to try and kick their way to victory. Not a classic by any means but not as bad as people are making out. Apart from the last 20 minutes of the first half chances were being created on a regular basis, mostly for Spain, but not exclusively. I do think the referee was too quick to hand out the first couple of yellow cards. It just raised the temperature from what was already boiling point.


So, a disappointing game, but, in truth, it's been some time since we've had an exciting World Cup Final. I would say France-Brazil in 1998 was the last quality final and even that wasn't brilliant. Before that you have to go back to Argentina-Germany 1n 1986. But thank God it didn't go to penalties. That really would have been a pity for everyone except the Dutch.

At Soccer City you have a brilliant view no matter where you are sitting and I am proud to say that I saw live a goal that won a World Cup. It really was like watching it in slow motion. Iniesta looked odds on to score as soon as he got the ball. In the precise moment that I saw the net bulge I knew immediately the enormity of this strike.

To watch the Spanish celebrate there and again 5 minutes later when the final whistle went was so gratifying. To watch the Netherlands players crumple and collapse was heartbreaking.

Which is why the World Cup is as big as it is. One single shot  means a lifetime of regret for one and immortality for another.


My kids got up at 6.30 this morning to go back to school . It was dark and exceptionally cold. I think they were completely shellshocked. The contrast with the last 5 weeks is so huge it's disorientating. Which is how the whole country is feeling today. It'll take us all a few days to readjust but nobody's really complaining. Successful people recover quickly and it's abundantly clear after the last 5 weeks that South Africans are particularly successful people !