Goodwill to all men and women

At this time of year I remember a story that Joe Horgan told me. Joe got it off a postman who drinks in the bar in Kinsella's.

It was a few weeks before Christmas and the lads in the sorting office got a letter addressed to Santa. They opened it and found that it wasn't from a child but from an old woman living over near Oliver Bond flats.

'Dear Santy,' the letter said. 'I'm in a bit of a bad way. I'm behind on me rent and I'm afraid that they'll cut off the gas and electric if I don't pay them something. I haven't a friend or relation left alive to me, so the Christmas is going to be miserable. If I had £100, it'd be the difference between having some kind of a Christmas and ending up in the poorhouse. I'm at me wits end, and I don't know who to turn to for help - but you Santy. You're me last hope. '

The lads in the sorting office in Sheriff Street are as tough a bunch of desperadoes as you'll meet, but tears were shed when they read that letter. They immediately got up a collection between them and sent the woman £90 with a little card from 'Santa' thanking her for her letter and wishing her a very Happy Christmas.

The first week of the New Year they got another letter addressed to Santa in the same shaky hand.

'Dear Santa,' it said. 'Thank you very much for answering me last letter. It was really very kind of you to help me, and it made all the difference to me over the Christmas. I was able to get in a bit of food and a few bottles of stout, as well as paying a bit off what I owe on the rent, the gas and the ESB. I just wanted to tell you that the robbing bastards in the Post Office took a tenner out of it.'

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The power of silence

Peggy sometimes goes to the bingo with a woman called Carmel Behan. Carmel is married to a big lug known to one and all as '5 Seconds' because that is the approximate length of his fuse. He is one of the few Dubliners I've ever come across who was born without the ability to debate and discuss at length. After drawing on his limited vocabulary to issue his point of view, he rests his case. If a counter-argument is put forward, he seethes silently for about five seconds, and then belts its proponent.

On more than one occasion poor oul Carmel presented herself at Dr Lawlor's suffering from contusions and abrasions inflicted on her when 5 Seconds came home from Magowan's. Lawlor started off giving her his usual combination of blue, pink and brown tablets, but when that was having no effect, he decided on a different approach.

'This is what I want you to do, Mrs Behan,' he said. 'When your husband is coming back from the pub, as soon as you hear his key in the lock, take a mouthful of warm sweet tea, and swish it around in your mouth.'

Carmel was confused. 'Tea, Doctor? Drink a mouthful o' tea?'

'No,' said Lawlor. 'Don't drink it. Keep swishing it around your mouth. Whatever you do, don't swallow it. Not until your husband has gone off to bed.'

Carmel was bemused, but she gave it a go. And guess what? Peggy says that he hasn't laid a finger on her since.

So if you come into Magowan's and see me and the lads swishing stout around our gobs, while 5 Seconds is talking, you'll know why.


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Jem Kennedy RIP

I was at a great funeral last week. It was the best day out I've had in ages. The dearly departed was Jem Kennedy, who will be sadly missed by the publicans of the Daymo. Possibly by his missus, Rose, too, who seemed oddly fond of him - probably because he didn't come home very often. I often think this is the key to a happy marriage, as absence makes the heart grow fonder, and familiarity breeds contempt. My own dear wife, Peggy, worships the ground that I walk on, but only on the strict condition that that ground is as far away from her as possible.

In his younger days, Jem's interests and pleasures were wide and varied. He was always fond of the drink, and would eat all around him. If he couldn't eat it, he would set fire to it and smoke it. He liked to play cards, and would back horses, dogs, cats ... in fact he would have a bet on anything. Most of all, Jem Kennedy was a renowned ladies' man, known as the Gary Cooper of the Coombe. They used to say that he'd get up on the crack of dawn, whatever that meant.

In his latter years, Jem became a pale shadow of the man he once was. He came to look more like Gary Glitter than Gary Cooper, but he still tried it on with any female who came within range.

He spent his last few weeks in hospital suffering from some form of galloping dysentery. I'm not sure if he died or dissolved.

Back in Magowan's pub, after his remains had been poured into the grave, we were lining up to offer our sympathies to Rose.

'Ah, God love ya, ya poor craytur,' said some old Crone, who had shoved in ahead of me.

'Thanks very much,' said Rose. 'I'll miss him. I will.'

'Ah ya will o' course,' said the Crone. 'Ah bu' isn't he at peace now, the poor man, after all his pain.'

'Tha's true, it is,' sniffed Rose. 'He suffered enough.'

The oul-wan drew herself closer to Rose, and asked in a lowered voice:

'Tell us this - is it true tha' he died o' the diarrhoea?'

Rose jumped up and at the top of her voice said:

'He did NOT die o' diarrhoea. He died o' GONORRHOEA. Jem was an OUL SPORT - not an OUL SHITE!'

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Frankie's early career

When I was a young fella there was very little work going in Dublin and you had to be willing to turn your hand to whatever was available. I blagged my way into a plumbing job once, but that ended in tears - well, not tears exactly - more of a deluge when I turned a nut left when I should have gone right. I was a fishmonger, a bike repairer and a lorry driver's mate. I even thought of joining a convent except I didn't think I'd get through the medical. But the easiest job I ever had was in Dublin Zoo.

I replied to an ad in the Herald looking for a general assistant. I was interviewed by the man who looked after the apes and monkeys.

'Wha' I'm goin' to tell ya is highly confidential,' he said.

'Whatever ya have to tell me will go to the grave with me,' I assured him.

'Well, it's like this,' said he. 'Our male gorilla - Buster - is after dyin'. He's very popular. If the word gets out tha' he's brown bread, it'll do awful damage to the gate receipts.'

I thought he was going to ask me to bury or stuff the poor animal.

'Wha' I want ya to do, Mr Flynn,' he said, 'is to put on a gorilla suit, go into the compound, swing aroun', eat a few bananas... Ya know the kind o' thing.'

I did and to make a long story short, I took it on. And if Buster was popular before, I don't mind telling you that he was a big hit now. Real gorillas are all well and fine, but they're lazy bastards. They sit around all day scratching their arses and not much else. As a conscientious employee, and in all fairness a bit of a show-off - I threw myself into it. I made faces. I pranced around. I swung off the ropes like feckin' Tarzan. The kids in particular were delighted with me. There was even a spot on RTE television when they discussed breeding from me.

It all went great until one day, I got a bit carried away swinging on the ropes. I let go at the top of a swing, flew over the fence, and landed on my head in the compound next door. When I could gather myself, all I could see was a bloody great lion bearing down on me.

'Help! Help!' I yelled, trying to get the gorilla costume off. The lion pounced and pinned me to the ground. He was all teeth, claws and hot breath. I said my last Act of Contrition and committed my soul to my maker.

'Shut up, ya feckin' ejjit,' said the lion, 'or ya'll get us all sacked.'


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Scottish Irish Unification

I was talking to Ginger Celtic in Magowan's last night about the Jock Referendum. As you know Ginger yields to no man in his adoration of Glasgow Celtic Football Club. Having attended many home games, he regards himself as an authority on all things Scottish.

'So wha' do ya make of it all then?' I asked him.

'I'll tell ya,' says he. 'This has bin comin' for a long time. Whether they say yes or no, there'll be a split.’

'A split? Bu' after the vote, won't they all get back to workin’ together like feckin’ ants?' I said to get him going.

'Not at all,' he spat, like I was an eejit. 'Hell hath no fury like a Scotsman with a bee in his bonnet. They're like the shower in the North. Irreh - whatyacallit?'

'Irritatin',' I said.

'No - irreconcilable. Tha's it. There'll be no peace there. The Yessers won't give up, and neither will the Unionists. Eventually they'll split the place up, with the Yessers comin' in with us, and the Noers stayin' with yer man Cameron.'

'Comin' in with us? Whatya mean?'

'It stands to reason. The Yessers all the Gaelic gang. We're all Celts. They want to stay in the EU, fly the flag, and give the two fingers to England. Sure we're like peas in a pod.'

I warmed to the idea.

'The oul oil will be handy, right enough.'

'An' between us, we'll have a better football team.'

'Well roll on the Republic of Ireland an' a lump o’ Scotland then,' I said.

Remember where you heard it first!

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Frankie is on holidays

A uniform is the mark of authority

A uniform is the mark of authority. Put a man in a hi-viz jacket and he will be obeyed like the emperors of old. The notable exception being bored members of the Garda Siochana holding up the walls of the GPO who manage to make a uniform look like a badly tied up potato sack.

Back in the day the hi-viz jacket hadn't been invented, and we had to make do with a peaked cap. Me and Joe Horgan had one each and we regularly delighted in reorganising the cinema queues outside the Savoy and the Carlton. Once we told people lined up outside the Plaza that the showing had been cancelled by the Department of Health due to an infestation of something. This was more plausible than you might think! They all dutifully trooped off, and me and Joe went in and had the place to ourselves. The management must have been mystified.

Another time we diverted traffic coming down the North Circular Road into a cul de sac. This was great fun until the cul de sac got full and people realised what we were up to. We would have been lynched only that the irate motorists couldn't leave their cars and chase us very far.

A great little money-spinner used to be helping drivers to park their cars in Parnell Square. This was before the Corpo muscled in on the parking racket and put in meters, clamps and their own extortionist employees.

The drill was to make a big show of guiding a driver into a parking spot, opening the door for him or her, and then offering to 'look after' the car while they were away. There were a lot of break-ins to cars back in those days, stealing radios and the like. The unspoken suggestion was that if they didn't pay a suitable fee, that something very bad might happen to their pride and joy. The great majority smiled grimly and coughed up. This was especially the case if they were visitors. The best were culchies up to see a match in Croker, who had heard and believed terrible stories about Northside gougers.

One smart-aleck - obviously a local citizen who knew the score - said to Joe:

'No, y'are alright. I won't be long, an' there's a rottweiler sittin' in the back seat.'

Without batting an eyelid, Joe responded:

'Puts out fires, does he?'


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Up the Duff

Miley Magee's youngest one is up the duff. He is very put out because he's already housing her two sisters and the three little ones they have between them. No sign of paternal support for any of them of course.

'Have ya no idea who done it?' I asked him in Magowan's the other night.

'Are ya coddin' me? If ya ate a tin o' beans, would ya know which o' them made ya fart?'

'It's like that is it? I asked.

'It is. I don't know where they get it from. Loose morals an' looser knickers. Their Ma was never like that.'

'Not tha' ya didn't give it a go?' I suggested.

'Ah, yeah, well ya had to. It was expected. To show yer interest like.'

'But if she let ya get any farther than a feel of her diddies, ya'd have to radio back to base for instructions.'

'Correct!'

'Except for Marie Dunn, o' course.' I pointed out.

'Ah yeah, she was always obligin' - or so I believe.'

'Did ya ever hear the story about when she left the convent?' I asked.

'No. Go on. Tell us.'

'Well the girls had to go in one by one to say goodbye to the Reverend Mother, an' she asked them wha' they were goin' to do next. A few o' them were goin' into the sewin' factories, one into Batchelors, another into Guinnesses, etcetera. When Marie was asked she said tha' she was goin' to be a prostitute. The Reverend Mother nearly had a fit. They had to get smellin' salts an' a drop o' whiskey from the bottle they kept for Father Collins. Eventually she calmed down an' asked Marie if she wouldn't reconsider.

"No, Mother." she said, "I've decided. I'm goin' to be a prostitute."

"Oh, a prostitute," said the nun. "Thank God! I thought you said Protestant!"

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World Cup Fever

A man I know called Eugene Larkin has a cushy job in the Civil Service - something to do with fishes and trees. Through some chicanery he managed to get himself to Rio de Janeiro last week to liaise with Brazilian officials about their fishes and trees. While there he managed to finagle a ticket to the World Cup Final between the Germans and the Argentinians. A good ticket it was too, just down from Septic Bladder.

He was telling us all about it in Magowan's last night - the colour, the drama, the atmosphere, the celebrations .. the lot.

'I've never seen the likes of it lads,' he said. 'There musta bin the whole population o' Argentina tryin' to get in,' he said.

'Full, was it?' Barney Pugh asked.

'Full!' I said. 'O' course it was feckin' full ya thick eejit. It was the World Cup Final!'

'Well it wasn't completely jammered,' Eugene said. 'There was an empty seat next to me.'

I stared at him, shocked at the sacrilegious waste.

'I asked the fella in the next seat along wha' the story was. He said tha' he'd got two tickets ages ago for himself an' his missus. It was their lifelong ambition to go to a World Cup Final together. Bu' she had passed away, so he was there on his own.'

'Ah tha's sad,' I said 'Could he not a got someone else to use the ticket? A friend or a relation?'

'I said tha' to him,' Eugene said.

'But, apparently they were all at the funeral.'

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Summer holidays of yesteryear

When the kids were little chisslers, one July we had a week in a guesthouse in Arklow. It was desperate. No, hold on, it was much worse than desperate!

The four of us were jammed into a room in the attic with only one tiny window, which gave a fine view of a brick wall. It wouldn't have been so bad if we had the room to ourselves, but we had to share it with resident fauna including bed bugs, spiders, cockroaches and a family of birds nesting in the eaves. A couple of mice visited once, but left in disgust.

Mrs Meagher, our genial hostess told me that it was not her policy to listen to complaints as it only encouraged people to make them. A reasonable point of view, but a shame as I had much to complain about. There was the room which made me realise for the first time what people were talking about when they referred to inhuman conditions in African jails - and I was brought up in a Dublin tenement! And there was the food - at least I think that's what it was. One evening the meal was announced to be liver and bacon, and when I nervously pointed out to Mrs Meagher that we got no liver, she said: 'That's right. There's no liver left.'

I won't speak of the bathroom facilities in case you are of a nervous and sensitive disposition.

The only thing that helped us to soldier on was the camaraderie of our fellow inmates. In particular, there was a family from the Coombe called the Richardsons, billeted in the cell next to our one.

Me and Richie Richardson took refuge most evenings in The Harbour Bar while the women and kids ate chips and ice cream on the sea front. We had a great laugh joking about the dump we were staying in, comparing it to various stalags, gulags and the black hole of Calcutta.

At the end of the week, I said to Richie - joking like: 'Are ya goin' to leave a tip for Mrs Meagher?'

And he said - and this is no word of a lie...

'Well, we didn't last year.'

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We will remember them

My grandfather was a Royal Marine in the Great War. He was 19 when he was injured in the Battle of Jutland in which nearly 10,000 lives were lost in a single day. He was on the battle-cruiser HMS Lion when it was hit by shells from the battle-cruiser Lützow. He lost an eye and had other injuries. Like most men who were involved in that war, he was never inclined to talk about his experiences, but he suffered nightmares all his life. 

My father used to tell a story about the outbreak of the Second World War, and how they heard the news. He was a teenager working with his Da on a painting job in Bluebell. The old man had sent him into town on his bike to get paint and other materials. He had one of those old black delivery bikes with a big basket in the front for carrying goods.

In the centre of Dublin there was great excitement as the news was breaking that war had been declared. The newsboys were shouting the headlines and people were jostling to get copies of the paper.

My father jumped back on his bike and flew back out to Bluebell as fast as he could.

'Da! Da!' he shouted as he arrived. 'It's War! Britain is after declarin' war on Germany!'

The old man looked at him and asked:

'Did ya forget the turps?'


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Luis Suarez is not an original

The news about the Liverpool player Hannibal Suarez reminds me of an incident years ago when me and Barney Pugh played for Mountrock Rangers in the Dublin City Under 17 League. Barney played at centre half and his philosophy was that the ball or the man might get past him, but never both. At this stage Barney was about 22, and his commitment to drinking pints, smoking Sweet Afton, and eating burgers was such that the edge had been taken off his athleticism.

One day he was up against a racing ferret of a young fella, who was not only running rings around Barney, but was taunting him with unkind remarks about his figure. Barney has always had a somewhat deluded view of his appearance. You may see a bulging sack of pork meat, but Barney looks out from what he imagines to be the chiseled features of Gregory Peck. You challenge this self image at your peril - and so this young eejit found out.

The next time he approached Barney with one of his mazy little runs, Barney took him out with a flying tackle that would have shocked the crowd at Lansdowne Road. The referee was a policeman in real life and a bit of a stickler for the rules. He sent Barney off, dismissing his plea that his action was a fair and reasonable response to the provocation he had suffered. Barney sat the rest of the match out on the sideline, brooding on life's injustices.

Afterwards, in a commendable corinthian spirit, the young fella came up to Barney and offered him his hand in sporting friendship. If Barney had ever heard the word 'Corinthian' it was in association with the picture house of that name beside O'Connell Bridge. He mistook the gesture as the opening move on some further assault on his person or his dignity. Anyway, his instinct was to get his retaliation in first, so he bit the outstretched hand.

Unfortunately the policeman / referee witnessed this, as did most of the victim's team-mates. Barney was led away in chains and appeared in the dock the following morning charged with assault. To the irritation of the District Justice, Barney denied everything, in spite of the evidence.

'I suppose you were just standing there, minding your own business, when this young man came up and shoved his hand into your mouth? Such was your surprise, and in order to stop swallowing him whole, down to his boots, you bit him! Was that it?'

'Tha's exactly wha' happended your honour,' Barney said.

He was fined thirty bob and bound over.


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A miracle at Lourdes

Every year our local church organises a pilgrimage to Lourdes for the ladies of the parish. It is a spiritual event very much looked forward to by the women. The men look forward to it too.

It is normally led by Monsignor Jim Collins, our hell fire and damnation PP who has a black belt in theology, and a zero tolerance approach to most things - especially people. But last year JC didn't feel up to it and he delegated the job to his side-kick, Father Patrick Higgins.

Higgsy was a shiny and spotless new recruit to the clergy, fresh up from the seminary. He looked like the Angel Gabriel without the wings - all rosy cheeks, blue eyes and golden hair. He always plied his trade with the greatest of devotion and solemnity. JC could do mass in little over twenty minutes, but a groan would go up when Higgsy appeared on the altar, as everyone knew they were in for the best part of an hour. If ever a man had the makings of a saint in him, it was Higgsy.

A week before the pilgrimage was due to leave, he held a meeting for the participants in the church hall. It was hardly necessary as nearly all of them had been there before and knew the drill better than he did.

'Now ladies,' he said, 'we'll be meeting here in the hall at 1.00 p.m. - make sure you have your passports - and we have a coach to bring us to the airport. The flight leaves at half five so we should have time for a cup of tea at the airport.'

'When we get to the hotel in Lourdes, it will be quite late, but there will be a light supper laid on, and maybe a glass of the local wine.'

This got a little cheer.

'The following day after breakfast, we will have mass at the Grotto, then some free time before lunch. In the afternoon there will be the Rosary, and then prayers at the Baths.'

He was beginning to lose his audience, so he rushed through the remaining programme of masses and stations of the cross, interspersed with meals and some socialising time.

'So there we are ladies,' he said. 'I hope that is all clear. I am very much looking forward to a happy and a holy visit, when we all have an opportunity to renew our devotion to Our Lady. Does anyone have any questions?'

Breda O'Byrne, famed in these parts for her ability to put away bottles of stout, put her hand up.

'Yes - Mrs O'Byrne,' said Higgsy.

'Father, if you manage to come back a virgin, it will be a feckin' miracle!' she cackled.


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The lost vest

Peggy's mother and father used to go to the seaside for a week every August. They always went to Tramore and they always stayed in the same room in the same guesthouse. Oul Richie was a man of fixed habits. He liked to know exactly where and when he was going to have his dinner. He didn't care what it was as long as it had meat, veg and potatoes in it, and as long as it came with a big pile of bread and butter and a mug of tea.

Every year in Tramore, hail rain or snow, Richie would go for his dip in the sea - a sight I happily never had to witness. Richie was known in his local as Moby Dick for a very good reason.

One year, after they got back, the Ma was telling us how they got on. The guest house was great as usual. The food was great. The weather was great. The only thing to mar an idyllic week was that Richie had lost his vest on the beach during his annual swim. They had looked everywhere but it was not to be found.

It was a great mystery. The prospect of anyone nicking any item of Richie's intimate clothing seemed very unlikely to me. I suggested to Peggy that maybe a tall ship was stuck for a main sale and borrowed the vest, but she didn't think that that was either helpful or funny.

The following year, the pair of them headed off to Tramore as usual. Afterwards the Ma gave us the review of the week. The guest house, the food, the weather, etc., were all great as per usual.

'But c'mere,' she said. 'D'ya remember me tellin' yis tha' himself lost his vest on the beach last year?'

'Yeah,' said Peggy.

'Well he found it when he went for his swim!'

'Y'are jokin',' said Peggy. 'It was still on the beach?'

'Not at all,' said the Ma.

'He was wearin' it all the time!'


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M&S for all your shopping needs

Don't forget to order a copy of 'It's a Desperate Life' for Father's Day - do it now! Not socks. Real men never need more socks.This is a myth put up by women who exalt newness over comfort and familiarity. 

Last Monday Peggy went shopping for brassieres, knickers and tights. For herself, like - not me. She puts these articles of clothing under enormous stress so that they never seem to last very long on her. As I say, I've got socks and underpants that are older than most policemen,and there's still loads of wear left in them.

Tights in particular are a complete joke and a con. They're obviously not meant to last - certainly not on a woman like Peggy. You might as well be trying to hold back the incoming tide with a stern remark. I've told her time and time again to get herself some proper woolly socks, but I might as well be talking to the wall.

Anyway, she was traipsing backwards and forwards between Marks & Trotsky's and Dunnes-Stores-Better-Value-Beats-Them-All-Everyday, getting quotes and estimates, as she does.

I wasn't with her myself because life is too short for that class of thing, and anyway I had an important investment decision to make with regard to a thing that was running at Roscommon.

She got back in time to make the tea - dragging several sacks of lingerie behind her - and told me what happened.

She was in Marks, stress-testing gussets and elastic, when her attention was drawn to a drunk who had entered the premises. He staggered up and down several aisles, crashing into things and knocking them over. He seemed to be looking for something. Peggy thought that he might have remembered that he needed to buy a present for his wife's birthday. (I think that was a dig at me, because I somehow forgot again this year - a bit of a surprise after what happened last year! But that's another story.)

Eventually, he wandered into the changing-room area and locked himself into one of the little cubicles.

By then the store authorities had been alerted and a young under-manager was sent to investigate. He went into the adjoining cubicle and listened. All he could hear was the sound of the drunk grunting and muttering to himself.

'Ahem, excuse me, sir,' he said. 'Are you okay? Do you need any assistance?'

'Ah yeah! Good man!' the drunk replied.

'Is there any paper on your side?'


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Father's Day 2014

As Father's Day approaches you'll be agonising over what to buy for your one. Well stop agonising. Get him a copy of 'It's a Desperate Life'. You will establish yourself as his favourite child for evermore. Let the other eejits get him the socks.

Speaking of fathers, my Da used to tell a story about a wake at a house near Smithfield. The priest came along to offer his condolences to the family. As he turned into the street, he was somewhat surprised to hear that the joint was hopping. Eventually his knocking was answered by the man of the house, and inside he found the room was jammed full of people drinking, singing and dancing. The corpse was lying on the floor.

'That's disgraceful,' the priest said. 'The corpse should be reposing on the bed, not thrown like that on the floor.'

'Ah yeah, Father,' said the householder. 'I know tha'! The only thing is tha' we need the bed for the coats, d'ya see?'

The priest was not an unreasonable man, and he did indeed see.

'Well, you could put the corpse on the table then,' he said.

The householder shook his head sadly.

''Bu' Father, the dhrink is on the table.'

The priest scratched his head.

'Well, why not three chairs then? You could lay the corpse across three chairs.'

The householder could see nothing wrong with this idea, and he looked for help from the assembled mourners.

'Hey, lads, lads! Can we have three chairs for the corpse?'

And the enthusiastic cry went up:  'HIP, HIP... HOORAY!'

The hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' is now available as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com