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!"

You can buy the hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers - especially the excellent Owl Bookshop in Kentish Town, London NW5, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com

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.'

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, especially the Owl Bookshop in Kentish Town, London NW5, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com

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.'

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

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?'


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