The other Arthur from Dublin

Mad Mary wasn't the only character to grace the centre of Dublin as we were growing up.

http://churchdoorandback.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/we-never-had-it-so-good.html

We also had Arthur Fields who graced O'Connell Street and particularly "Carlisle Bridge" from 1930 to 1985 taking and selling Polaroid photos of the passers-by.    The photos were developed by in a nearby studio by his wife and it is estimated that he took 182,000 over the course of his photographic career.

These photos have now become a cultural and historical treasure chest recording as they did Dublin life in its' simplest form over a period of 50 years.

An online archive is now being established of the photographs taken by Fields, whose real name was Abraham Feldman and who was born into a Ukrainian Jewish family in 1901 - the family fled antisemitism in Kiev and moved to Dublin in the early 1900s.

The online archive of Fields's work can be seen at

 http://www.manonbridge.ie/

and while the site is not easy to navigate or refresh, it is an interesting browse if you wnat to while away a half hour or so.

Well done Arthur and to think we always thought you were a useless old dirty codger ripping off the public - your time has well and truly come.

Hill 16 has never seen the likes of Heffo's Army



The official boys in blue move in on Hill 16 to restore calm















The passing of Kevin Heffernan brings us back to a different era, and the only time I willingly crossed the divide that exists in our country between the codes of Association Football and Gaelic Football. Both names capitalised in the interest of impartiality.

Since 1983, when Chelski and I joined Heffo’s army for a brief sojourn my distaste for the GAA and its negative impact on Irish society has intensified, and by my own admission, at times now borders on the irrational.

But I’m not going to dwell on that paranoid aspect of my psyche, rather I’m going to reminisce on the glorious summer of 1983 when the Dubs were going through a revival which ultimately culminated in a defeat of Galway on a very un-summery Sunday afternoon at Croke Park in mid September. Of that match, I remember the driving rain, the dangerous throngs at the Canal End and the revelation in learning we (the Dubs) had three men sent off rather than two. Two players (one from each team) had been sent off immediately before the half-time whistle and in driving rain we had missed their departure.

Dublin finished the Game of Shame with twelve men and Galway with fourteen.

The summer of ’83 was hot, we were free from exam pressures, a few bob in our pockets, and  Culture Club and Spandau Ballet on the radio driving us forward with an air of confidence we haven’t recaptured since.

With no World Cups or European Championships to distract us, the antics and heroics of Joe McNally and Jimmy Keaveney (the Weapon) – both moulded out of the same oversized cast – caught our imagination and together with our devoted “moths”, we joined the already over-populated bandwagon that was the Dubs in flight.

Memorable trips to Croke Park – sitting on the perimeter wall at the Canal End with a two hundred foot drop behind us springs to mind – interspersed with an away game at Pairc Ui Chaoimh in Cork where the Rebels were ruthlessly, efficiently, and to their absolute surprise, put to the sword by 4-15 to 2-10. Call that a stuffing or what?



The concern on Marie's face was less to dfo with the drop on the other side of the wall, and more to do with being left aone with a bunch of half-naked Dubs.




What was it that caught our interest, none of us with roots from the city or with any great love of the game? The feeling of community? The power and euphoria of victory and involvement? The money and time in our pockets? Who knows which but I know it was good and looking back I have too admit that my one incursion onto “the dark side” is filled with strong and vibrant memories.

To the extent you gave us that, thanks a million Heffo, and good luck on the other side yourself.

Away trip to Cork - Boomtown Rats style

I'd fly over Trinity tomorrow and....

While the last post referred to events we witnessed from afar (Amsterdam; Germany) this report now copied below recounts the activities at a sequence of events we participated in.

During the Rag Week Storming of the Trinity Bastille in 1977, I gazed down at the events from the snooker room in Trinity and hoped, in the event that the mob reached that area, that I would be able to explain that I was actually "one of their own".  My dilemma never ultimately occurred and I  watched with delight as the boys from the country, who had their lunch at midday, gave one to the ill-prepared defenders of the last educational bastion of the British Empire.  Pride, go for it boys, pride.

Quote:

UCD Rag Week hit the headlines again in 1976 when hundreds of students ran riot through the centre of Dublin. Traffic was severely disrupted when “several hundred undergraduates … congregated at the top of Grafton Street”. The first garda called on the scene was pelted with eggs and flowers and was forced to retreat. The assistant manager of the Ambassador Cinema on O’Connell Street rang the UCD Students’ Union to complain about what he called the “disgraceful” behaviour of students who tried to force their way into the cinema without paying. UCD students also jumped into the River Liffey en masse.

Later that evening, a group of students from Bolton Street College of Technology telephoned The Irish Independent and claimed that they had kidnapped the organiser of the UCD Rag Week, Mr. Billy McGrath “in retaliation for their attack on Bolton Street”. ‘Captain Blue’, a spokesperson for the Bolton St. students demanded back the College clock which they accused UCD students of stealing. They were also requested a barrel of Guinness and a £10 donation to a charity of the Irish Independent’s choice.

In February 1977 as part of Rag Week celebrations, over one hundred UCD students invaded Trinity College, the College of Surgeons and Kevin Street College causing £3,200 worth of damage.

Newspaper reports describe how the UCD students “scaled the walls of Trinity by rope” after the gates were closed to them

Once inside, the UCD mob used a car belonging to a member of TCD staff as a battering ram to get into the Museum building. They also stole a large notice from the college entrance. A Kevin Street College of Technology laboratory was also damaged during the rampage. Eamon Gilmore, current Labour Party president and the then president of the Union of Students in Ireland (USI), blamed the trouble on a “fringe hooligan” element who he said should be identified and made to pay the bill for the damages they cost.
Condemnation came from various circles in society including the Irish Housewives’ Association. Charles McNally, the then UCDSU president announced, that the Union had voted for fundamental changes to the College’s Rag Week, in future “it would be a Community Week devoted to helping the community and city centre forways would be banned”

The Rag Week pranks and “high jinks” of UCD which were a staple annual event are now just a distant memory. Who knows if they’ll ever return?

Video killed the Radio Star

Random thoughts about Christmases past centre around two diminishing or faltering stars and a quaint practice now seldom seen.

Selection box

In the post Christmas analysis years ago, as you listened to your mates listing off what they got, you could be guaranteed that embedded richly in the list was a Cadbury’s Selection Box, or two. Embedded richly indeed because the long slim box of chocolate bars and sweets punched well above its’ weight in those days. No Butlers or Lir chocolates (with real Irish cream) to compete with then and you could be sure that the Selection box wouldn’t outlive the Queens speech.

Nowadays sadly, it lies unattended to, at least until the tree begins to lose its’ pines and the bills start arriving back on the hall floor beneath the letterbox.  The three we bought for our kids (term loosely used) are still unopened and  it will probably be my nostalgic yearning, rather than their chocolate addiction, which will eventually lead to the ripping open of the familiar cardboard box.

Oh, Selection Box - some of us love you still.

RTE Guide

There was no doubt about it but the promise of the “Christmas Day movies” was something that would fill us with hope and expectation in the lead in to the big day. In our three channel world (RTE BBC and ITV) we actually planned what to watch over the holiday period and the RTE Guide played a major role in this planning. With pictures of Bunny Carr or Maurenn Potter on the front (the TV Times would have some piece of totty dressed up as Santa with a red cloak and white boots – hence it never got past our doorway) the RTE was in a word, indispensable. I bought it before Christmas this year (it now has totty on the cover) but it lay unopened on the magazine rack for the whole holiday season, a sad lament to the demise of the age of innocence and the domination of the techno era with channel hopping and average channel stays of seven minutes.

Oh RTE Guide – some of us love you still.

And finally, I started abruptly last night as I realised that in the rush leading up to Christmas, I had forgotten to attend to one of the customary obligations. I had totally forgotten to “look after the binmen”. And strangely enough they had failed to knock on my door to tell ne that they were about to empty my bins on December 21st or whatever date it was. They no longer come knocking and I no longer wish them a Happy Christmas. And why? Because the Celtic Tiger has come and gone, the health and safety rules means they don’t actually empty the bins, a machine does, and the environmental rules means I’m never really going to need them because they’re not allowed take away the old fridge away in the first instance.

Oh how it’s changed.

Billy's boots

Chelski looked cool in his Pumas, and I wore a second-hand pair of Adidas passed down (early) from my brother Des. My fourteen year-old feet were, at that stage, very nearly the same size as his brothel-creeping age twenty-one's.   Declan Ryan and Jim Kinnerk has distinctive Adidas white stripes while Peter Finlay-Mulligan and Donal Donnelly opted for the flashy white stripe down the side. 

In reality the choice was less important than having one or the other – the last thing you wanted to end up doing on a Wednesday afternoon was taking the field in a pair of size ten Blackthorns. That might have been ok for the boggers from the country who liked GAA but not for a southside jack-the-lad who had a copy of Tubular Bells and wasn’t afraid to wear flares.

While you might have got a pass mark for wearing Gola, if you wanted honours it had to be either Adidas or Puma.

And what of the choice?

Adidas, in keeping with their global market share (then and now) were more common and did the business, but there was a certain “class” attaching to the Puma boots making them stand out more. Their thicker stripe was more noticeable than the Adidas ones, particularly on the muddy pitch behind the senior study on a wet November afternoon.   Again market position is relevant – while four times as any people wore Adidas, Puma appear to position their brand on the elite user, listing Usain Bolt, Pele (remember 1970 in Brazil), Johann Cruyff (1974 in Germany) and Diego Maradona as their clients.

If the divide between Puma and Adidas wearers was noticeable on the back pitches in Blackrock College, consider what the rivalry was like in Germany or more specifically in Herzogenaurach where both companies were originally headquartered.

When the owners of the Gebrüder Dassler Schuhfabrik company acrimoniously split in 1948, the two shareholders Adi and Rudi Dassler each set up an independent company to conue their trade – Adi forming Adidas and Rudi forming Puma (originally called Ruda).

The rivalry that developed between them spread beyond football boots – it had more far-reaching tentacles and in the town of 23,000 residents, daily lives centred around the choice of which brother you supported.  "Inter-company" marriages were shunned and graveyards were divided on the basis of Puma or Adidas.  Klaus-Peter Gäbelein of the local Heritage Association in Herzogenaurach in commenting on the split stated that "Even religion and politics were part of the heady mix. Puma was seen as Catholic and politically conservative, Adidas as Protestant and Social Democratic."

The split, which has a number of supposed causes - their different levels of commitment to the Nazi party; a reputed affair between Rudi and Adi’s wife; perceived verbal insults which may have been misinterpretations, remains to this day and while Nike and the other US operators may gradually be taking a grip of the sports merchandising world, to the purists among us it will always be a choice between Adidas and Puma.

In retrospect though, while one stripe or three may have mattered one hell of a lot in the cut and thrust of the locker rooms of third and fourth year; with confidence built or stripped away with a passing comment; the boots we remember most were the nasty and ugly pair worn by a ignorant thug from Athy.

What Frankie Byrne used to deal with - Ireland in the eighties

We spoke today about Frankie Byrne and our lunchtime radio memories of her.  A true legend.  The clip above, supplied by Chelski, makes reference to the sexuality of holy Cathlolic Ireland in the era in which she operated. 

Below is a picture of the kind of behaviour which eventually forced her to leave the airwaves - the eighties saw a new open, raw, coarse sexuality equally at home in the open air as it was within the confines of the marital bedroom.

This picture was taken in one of Ireland's most famous hotspots for orgies and rave parties in those early days of hedonism - Luggala, Co Wicklow.  Absolutely disgraceful.

Porn on the 4th of July

The day after Brusselsblue’s birthday – October 17 – witnessed the passing of two peripheral bit-players from the large cast of players who had a trivial part in my theatre of life.

Milija Aleksic, goalkeeper for the 1981 Spurs team which won the FA Cup, passed away in South Africa at the age of 61. At Saturday’s match at the Lane he was remembered at half-time and Tony Galvin very nearly scored a major own-goal in stating that he was saddened by the news of the first member of the 81 team to pass away and hope there wouldn’t be ”too many more” – he rescued himself by adding the word “soon” at the end of the sentence. Everyone in the crowd, wanting to laugh but honouring the sombre mood, smiled.

On the same day Sylvia Kristel, who had a completely different set of skills to Milija, passed away in the Netherlands at the age of 60.

Famed for her lead role in the four Emmanuelle movies, in the early seventies she unobtrusively represented the alternative to the Catholic upbringing we had experienced in Ireland over the previous two decades. DH Lawrence and Lady Chatterley for the sixties generation: Sylvia Kristel and Emmanuelle for those of us coping with flagrant and open sexuality in the seventies. And coping with difficulty – a sneaked look at the advertising posters on Middle Abbey Street and walk on, Mad Mary awaiting on O’Connell Street. God be with the days. 

Worrying that they both passed away in their (very) early sixties, isn’t it?

First signs of dementia?

The recollections from Blennerville begin to worry me.

I do know that four of us travelled by plane, during which we took the opportunity to steal the Aer Lingus pillows which we realised would come in very useful - now that we had made the upgrade from An Oige hostels from the year before to the independence of camping in our own right.

From memory I then travelled from Shannon to Blennerville with Steve, Rich and Noel where we were to await the arrival of the rest of the group the following day.   Communication to confirm arrangements can only have been by phone box, with a Press Button A to connect.  A four man tent or two one man tents I don’t know but after a bright afternoon which generated endless repetitive games involving a ball, and then the onset of rain, we sought to shelter hopelessly in the tents, with a forced retreat to the centre of the enclosed area in the hopeless intent on staying dry. A useless pursuit.

The following day, the others arrived (Train to Tralee?) by which time we had engaged with the locals and had secured accommodation in the local outhouse, straw, cowshit and all. The only thing missing was the Baby Jesus.

The openness and generosity of our hosts now appears wondrous and alien, yet then it was commonplace. Their house was made free to us although in retrospect it lacked a lot - I cannot recall there being an open fire, nor brownbread or a dog, not even a parent keeping an eye over things. Very peculiar. Tubular Bells was scratched - and we of all people appreciated a good LP - but it didn’t stop Roddy Wood chatting-up the good-looking daughter, a chase orchestrated more for our wonder than his own benefit I now suspect. Roddy always performed better when the subject of voyeuristic envy on the part of others.

The outhouse had its’ own inhabitants, small white microscopic mites who found an attraction to Brian’s mountain boots. The boots saw little of the following morning, so deep was the infestation.

And you know what – after that eventful and difficult start to the trip, the rest is genuinely hazy with only fleeting memories of places we went, people we met and events that occurred. It was the summer of 1975, and I have memories of being outside a Church on a Sunday morning and reading about (or hearing about) Arthur Ashe beating Jimmy Connors in the Wimbledon mens final.

We also slept on solid concrete in a boatshed, courtesy of Barry Fenton, who slipped away the following morning under cover of thinning darkness. Aside from this – little remains in the memory – no pubs, no bikerides, no ceilis, and no stolen potatoes. I sincerely hope that that’s the way it was and not a fabulous, youthful, energetic fun-filled escapade which old age will no longer let me remember. Please, oh please.


You are invited to help the author in his fight against dementia by submitting other recollections of this particular holiday to him by email.

Treasure Hunt 1982

Pat the Baker

A one constant in my life

She was always there for me. Invariably late but she would never let me down. I can picture her now - coming around the top of the road sometimes alone but all too often in a crowd. Without her I don’t know what I would have done. I would have been lost. She witnessed my transition from child to adolescent to university student and more recently to an ageing married man. She was the one constant in my life and I will never forget her.

What you need to remember is that my family were motor less until my mother in a moment of madness bought a 2nd hand blue Volkswagen Beatle despite having nobody in the family who could actually drive the thing. A trip to town for me did not start with a key in the ignition but with my mother pouring over the well thumbed bus timetable. An algorithim of numbers. Time selected, hand in hand, we would make our way down Brewery Road and wait patiently for our bus to keep it's promise. And it always did - maybe late but it always turned up. The 46a you see was our link to the outside world. I can still sense the rush of excitement and adrenaline as it appeared at the bend on the Stillorgan road at the ESSO building. There was a few seconds while mother and child strained their eyes to get confirmation that it was indeed our 46a and not some impostor. The "46" without the "a", easily detected as it was a single decker had to be avoided as it took the Lower Road into town. This would have left us too faraway from the Anne Street post office where my mother, every week, picked up her widows pension. The 86 was a rare bird - very welcome on the return journey when we might be laden down with shopping- but to be avoided at the outset of the day as it detoured via Ranelagh and would have upset our carefully planned morning. Likewise the 84. No we needed to see the "46A" in the little box at the front of the bus before we could relax safe in the knowledge that we would get to our destination. My mother never liked sitting upstairs but she knew I would be heartbroken if we did not tackle the twisting stairwell. As far up to the front as possible. If really lucky at the very front seat. Sit back and enjoy the journey all the way to Grafton street. We relied on it for short hauls too particularly at Christmas. Buying the 6 packs of coke in SuperQuinn knowing that it would not be possible to walk home with such largesse. Loaded down with plastic bags hanging off every finger and crossing over to Nimble Fingers to await "our" bus. Two stops only but a mighty relief to avoid a trek along the busy Stillorgan road. I can vividly recall the first time being on it without my mother. A trip to Dun Laoghaoire with John O Farrell to go to a meeting of the SeaScouts in Dun Laoghaire. This became a regular Friday night odyssey. Sitting bolt upright wearing our round sailors hats and being easy targets for the "knackers" who would invariably board the bus as it passed through Sallynoggin. The journey back. Playacting with the Pilkington brothers and eating our chips. The night I was alone getting off at the bottom of my road not feeling great and fainted just as I stepped off the running board. Lying on the ground having chipped my front teeth and being ignored by other passersby. They assumed another drunken sailor ! In my Blackrock College days it represented the first leg of a highly complex journey planned with military precision. I needed to get to the bottom of Trees road in order to catch the 5 bus which would take me down Merrion Avenue. If I failed to make the connection all was lost unless Gerry Coll happened to come flying by on that odd looking but oh so welcome bicycle of his.

My old reliable saw me in to university and home again. It was always there along side the wall of trinity college waiting amongst a flock of other buses. You would go from bus to bus looking up at the number waiting to see that magical combination of numbers and one letter - 46A. Salvation. Nothing now between me and the comfort of home.

So on my last trip to Dublin to visit the lady who had taken me by the hand on my very first 46 A trip I decided to travel on it again. I did so in the knowledge that it may well be the last occasion that I would travel on the bus that has stood witness to my life in Dublin. It was only 4 stops to the top of Merrion avenue where I dismounted to walk down the avenue to the Blackrock Clinic. Four Stops but a lifetime of happy memories.

The Quality of Mercy

The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway.
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute of God himself.
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this:
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

Shakespeare at school was a real challenge – the language archaic, the plots tedious and so many of the characters uninspiring.

We were lucky as we had arguably two of the more notable of the Shakespearian works - Macbeth and The Merchant of Venice - but even with them we remember the words and the players now for two reasons – firstly an exaggerated fear of the Leaving Certificate and its’ attaching points system and secondly because of the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia which we donned as soon as we received our results from Hughie Boyle and walked out that door.

Questioning my own critical assessments of Shakespeare, and without Brusselsblue and Chelski cogging my essays on the subject, I decided to take another look at the works that kept us so occupied back in the early seventies. Let’s start with the Inter Cert and The Merchant of Venice.

One can’t talk about The Merchant of Venice without immediately focusing on the most memorable character, Shylock. In terms of bang for your buck, Shylock certainly punches above his weight. Research reveals that he was a minor character appearing in only five scenes and having only 360 lines to deliver. Yet his Jewish appearance, his demands for his pound of flesh, and his court performance make him a highly provocative character - readers end up either despising him deeply or felling immense sympathy for him over his treatment in court. Is this because he is a Jew (for sufferance is the badge of all his tribe) or because he is so mercilessly treated by Portia who if the truth is told is the real villain.

Portia wins her case on a technicality, the “exact” pound of flesh becoming impossibility, having failed with an earlier appeal based on Christian morality and mercy. But how can she of all people ask anyone to be guided by Christian virtue when she has entered the court on false pretences - a woman dressed as a man - to “impartially” state the case for Antonio, the friend of her suitor? Honesty and independence out the courtroom window in one fell swoop.

Additionally where was her mercy when the Court forces Shylock to convert to Christianity – a punishment of unthinkable magnitude to a Jew – but then again, as she stated in her famous speech, mercy is an attribute of God himself. Not expected of mere mortals like her, Gods only; and of course, maybe the Jews. A warped sense of standards clearly.

Portia therefore is the truly evil character in this tragic comedy. Anti-Semitic, and maybe racist if we are to drive deeper into the issue of the caskets of gold, silver and lead. A Venetian chosen ahead of a Spaniard and a Moroccan, with another rigged competition.

I’d like to meet with Shakespeare and ask him of his intent, when he wrote the play. Certainly the play appears to cast Shylock as the evil one and subsequent history and its attaching anti-Semitism has made his image more and more reviled. Was it Shakespeare’s intent to join the growing movement of hatred towards Jews at that time or was his devious portrayal of key characters as I have interpreted – a hidden treatise on the injustices and double-standards he saw developing around him? That the problem really resided with the fairer than fair Christian Portia?

Eitherway Shylock’s legacy will live on, the debate will continue. And maybe, just maybe, Shakespeare was dong more than writing a play to retain the patronage of whoever funded him. For the time being therefore the (Venetian) jury’s out on whether he was a clever and cunning linguist or a boring old fart that has destroyed the lives of so many schoolchildren around the world. In other words was he the English Peig?

We never had it so good

I always felt we got a raw deal with the Seventies.

Our older brothers and sisters got the swinging sixties; the later generation got the anarchic early eighties; both vibrant and influential in their own way. Musically the Beatles and Stones formerly; the Clash and the Stranglers latterly. And what did we get – Boney M and the “Rivers of Babylon” and Baccara with “Yes sir, I’m a Lady (and I need a certain song)”, and going back earlier - Mud, The Bay City Rollers and Showaddywaddy.

They now refer to this musical phenomenon as Glam Rock – tell me please what the hell was glamorous about stomping around in platform boots and parallels with hair trailing along your shoulder singing “Shang-a-lang”? We must have looked like a complete bunch of tossers (I know Gerry did), nearly as bad as the kids of today leaving their underpants showing, a foot above their trouser belt-lines. The tendency and ability to make a totally fool of yourself continues through the generations.

Our fashion sense was certainly highly questionable, a fact we can once again blame on the decade that was in it. Was the seventies austerity (cueing for petrol; miners strikes in England; rising unemployment) the reason why we wore shirts and ties made from the same material – job lot maybe – “cut a tie from it as well” - or the reason why everyone aged 15 to 25 wore a Levis or Wrangler jacket? Flair and individuality were sadly missing and it’s little wonder we were depressed. At least the Punks shook things up a bit and left their mark on society.

Television brought little to excite us – four channels including BBC Cymru, game shows, scripted and predictable comedians - and all this with the multi-channel environment of MTV only around the corner. Michael Parkinson, the Two Ronnies and the Generation Game. Essential Saturday night viewing, a lead-in to Match of the Day and Leatherhead beating Leicester 3-0 in the FA Cup with Chris Kelly, the Leatherhead Lip, scoring twice.

The political landscape was bleak – Tories v Labour in the UK; Fianna Fail v Fianna Gael in Ireland, with occasional interruptions by Brendan Corish. There was no Green-inspired talk of rainforests, no far-left republicans and the only Christian Solidarity movement was provided by Mad Mary on O’Connell Street as she danced among the passing citizens telling them about the glories of the Immaculate Conception.



In short, all things considered, we should have had no hope.

And you know as I contemplate it further I can still hear my mother’s voice from the seventies, her downstairs and shouting up to me - the angry teenager - “And how badly off you are”.

She knew about the “prosperity” and “improvements” which were to come.

Take a look at us now, in our digital age.

Mystery location - where is this?

Answers on a postcard please. Clue - a man with a green face, running.

Well done to Chelski who identified Aghadoe House in Killarney, the An Oige youth hostel which welcomed Olympic champion Art Webcars home just before closing on a balmy summer's evening in 1974.

Return to the grassy knoll

I returned yesterday to the scene of most notorious crimes committed in the twentieth century, or arguably, in civilisation.

The Castle Building on Dealey Plaza is bounded on the south, east, and north sides by 100+ foot (30+ m) tall buildings. One of those buildings is the former Texas School Book Depository building, from which, both the Warren Commission and the House Select Committee on Assassinations concluded, Rich Hudson and Art McCooey dropped the firework which nearly blew the cassocks off the President of Blackrock College, Fr John F. Kennedy.

There is also a grassy knoll on the northwest side of the plaza, from which, the House Select Committee on Assassinations determined, based on controversial and disputed acoustic analysis, there was a "high probability" that an accomplice lobbed a stink bomb which dispersed the crowd in about ten seconds flat.

Today, the Castle Building is still occupied by students visiting the assassination site and statistics indicate that since 1975, more than 6 million people have visited the museum, the only female being the college matron to stick a needle in Sean Doyle's arse on the eve of the SCT Final the following year.

The National Park Service designated Dealey Plaza a National Historic Landmark District in 1993, roughly encompassing the area between Pacific Avenue, Market and Jackson Streets and the former railroad tracks. Visitors to Dealey Plaza today will see street lights, street signs and teachers that were in use in 1975, though some have been moved to different locations and others removed entirely (shipped off to Clareville or to the missions in Africa). Buildings immediately surrounding the plaza have not been changed since 1963, presenting a stark contrast to the ultra-modern Blackrock skyline that rises behind it.

Plans are afoot to erect a plaque to mark the site and funds are currently being collected by the Black and Blue Society, the local charity which does tremendous work for those ex-pupils who through no fault of their own, find themselves living in Westport or some godforsaken shithole island off the coast of Antrim.

Save Blackcock's Feather

I first saw my husband in Blackrock Baths. He was twenty two and I was eleven. If anyone told him then that he would marry that skinny kid with freckles, glasses and braces on her teeth he would probably have run a mile. Standing behind him was this other skinny kid, with an inverted chestbone and a nose the length of concord. He doesn’t remember this but everyone was laughing at the contrast. I made my choice there and then. Little did I know that this other kid would traipse around Dublin after me with his gob open and an unfilled, hungry desire in his eyes as he observed my every move.

I want to reopen the Blackrock Baths and drown him in there, in the kiddies pool half filled with piss.

Then I want to go up to the chipper in Georges Avenue and meet the Teddy Boys or maybe the Bay City Rollers – dangerous, maverick, and aloof - me any my cousin secretly thought they were gorgeous and went out of our way to walk by them feigning indifference but looking unbelievably grown up and seductive, or so we thought holding a bag of soggy chips. Except the skinny guy pretending he was Les McKeown – he was a total dick and I have spent the rest of my life avoiding his unwanted affections.

Please help me get this problem resolved for once and for all. If you have any old memories or him, or photographs, or Bay City Rollers memorabilia, please send them to Sydney Parade Avenue immediately. He has nothing to do on Saturday afternoons, as his wife has gone to play golf.

McDaid's Football Special

It is with a degree of nostalgia and fondness that I replicate the article from the Irish Indo of last month featuring the great sports drink of our time - not Powerade, Red Bull or even Lucozade but wait for it ...... the McDaid's Football Special.

Jill and Marie were two of it's staunchest supporters, waiting eagerly over a long journey from Dublin and not permitting any wee breaks, until we had arrived at our Donegal destination and tasted the golden drink.

Let the Indo take over:

A SOFT drink made from a secret recipe that has been enjoyed for over 50 years by a select few is about to be launched nationwide.

Outside of north Donegal, few people have even heard of McDaid's Football Special, a cola-style frothy drink which is synonymous with Ramelton, the small heritage town where it is made. But owner Edward McDaid plans to take Football Special into the soft drinks premiership. "It is a strange product in many senses. Whatever it is about it, it seems to hit a memory button and conjure up pleasant memories of childhood, even with people who haven't tasted it before," he explained.

His father Jim and his uncles chanced on the unique combination of ingredients over 50 years ago and luckily his uncle Eamon -- who had trained in a soft drinks company in Belfast -- recorded the quantities so it could be recreated. "My father was a founder member of the Swilly Rovers Football Club in Ramelton and they were trying to come up with a soft drink that could be put into the cup after a win, instead of whiskey. "The fruit syrup flavours that are used are all fairly common and shouldn't belong together but they do," he said.

The base ingredient for the drink is indeed unique to Ramelton in the form of spring water from McDaid's very own underground spring well, less than 100 metres away from the production plant. Production Sugar, seven different syrups and a heading liquid are added to the water, which is then carbonated and bottled.

Edward is about to add a marketing and sales person to his six-strong staff and aims to rebrand and triple production at his plant as the product goes nationwide in June. Although business has been hit by the recession, he believes Football Special, and its sister flavours, banana, pineapple and cream soda, will go down well with fizzy drinks fans. "If Donegal people for all these years have been having this experience and enjoying it, could we be so different from everywhere else in the country?" Edward asked.

As for the secret recipe, as with Coca-Cola, its maker's lips are sealed. "Only myself and one other person know and we never travel on the same plane. I fly Ryanair and he takes the Swilly Bus," he laughed.

The Mise le Meas Championship Weekend 2011

Well, it's all sorted out now with arrangements made for the first and last Mise le Meas Championship weekend on April 30th / 1st May. On the basis that Leeds are going to mess it up in the play-offs, we may as well get this Elland Road thing out of the way now because we ain't gonna see them featuring regularly at the Lane, Bridge of Goodison anytime soon.

Mise le meas should be in great form and his knowledge of all things Leeds will be tested as we come face-to-face with some diehards as, over lunch, we quaff the finest wines the region can produce. Time therefore to get familiar with a few of the ground rules:

1. Don't mention Clough and don't look for his picture on the wall in the Legends Suite


2. Pretend you're related to Johnny Giles


3. If you can't understand what a local is saying to you just reply "Ecky thump, by gum" and offer to shake hands


4. Remember it's Emmerdale - not Coronation Street


5. Easy on the faryard animals noises and no sudden sheep sounds when near the gents


6. A great topic for debate is the War of the Roses - it appears no-one knows who won it. The daft buggers.


7. Don't mention Cantona either - a big no-no


8. Please keep an eye on Mike if he wanders. Nostalgia, emotion and elation will be rampant and the locals might not take too lightly to the stuff we put up with.

Finally, remember these guys idolise Billy fuckin Bremner:

An interesting footnote on Emmerdale from Wikipedia:

The farmyard filming techniques of Emmerdale Farm were originally modelled on the revolutionary soap-opera The Riordans, made by RTÉ, Ireland's broadcaster, from the mid-1960s to the end of the 1970s. Th e Riordans broke new ground for soap operas by being filmed largely out of doors (on a farm owned in the storyline by Tom and Mary Riordan) rather than the usual practice of British and American soap operas, of shooting almost completely in studios (where 'outdoor' scenes were sometimes filmed indoors). The Riordans pioneered farmyard location shooting with real farm animals and actors driving tractors.

In the 1960s and 1970s, outdoor filming of television programmes using OBUs (Outdoor Broadcast Units) was in its infancy due to the far higher costs involved and the reliance on things like the weather that were out of the control of the programme makers. The success of The Riordans showed that a soap opera could be filmed largely out of doors. Yorkshire Television sent people to The Riordans set in County Meath, Ireland to see the making of the programme at first hand.

So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Gerry gets his chance to pull

Love the tank top, Gerry.

The Nasher 1969