Paul Healy on Alan kissing Joan; the peerless Terry Wogan; Willie and the Pope; the French locksmith who got stuck in Kiltoom; Jamie Vardy’s awesome goal…and ‘Storm Cliché’…
Saturday
Everyone is somewhere else, I have the television to myself, so I decide to opt for maximum possible entertainment and dip into Joan Burton’s keynote address at the Labour Party Ard Fheis.
I spare the dog and banish it to another room, at least until the ads come on. I don’t know if she’s a socialist or not – our dog, that is. Then again, I don’t know if Joan is a socialist or not.
Joan makes a good speech, as these things go, but when she referenced the same-sex marriage referendum at some length, I thought it a little mean-spirited of the Tanaiste not to credit Eamon Gilmore for his role in making it happen. She didn’t mention Pat Rabbitte either (she praised Brendan Howlin).
Little wonder that Rabbitte clapped in slow motion, or like a clapping toy in need of new batteries. I was keeping an eye out for the body language between Joan and her all-action Deputy Leader, Alan Kelly, a sort of Charlie Haughey Lite who promises to daub much colour on the Irish political canvass in the coming years (provided he keeps his seat).
In an amusing interview with the Sunday Independent at the weekend, Kelly boasted in a kind of endearing way about being a fast mover who gets things done, while bristling at the very notion that anyone would consider Joan to be his boss! Anyways, when Joan was finished standing up for Ireland, up popped the bould Alan and, not content with shaking her hand, he planted a kiss on the side of Joan’s head.
This was too much for Senator Lorraine Higgins, who burst out laughing, presumably because she was thinking what I was thinking: ‘Yeah Alan, you have some nerve!’ Anyways, enough of the serious stuff.
On the trivial side, Joan claimed credit for lots of things and promised to do much more. I let the dog back in at 9 o’clock when Celebrity Big Brother was starting.
Sunday
For many of us, the death of Terry Wogan represents the quiet, sudden theft of a little more of our youth. I absolutely adored him! We were on holiday in Birmingham for a few days, caravan in tow, back in the late 1970s. That was the very first time I heard him on the radio.
So I woke that morning in the caravan and I turned on a radio. Wogan played a song by Bryan Ferry, then, in that lovely laconic style of his, he mused… “Ah Bryan Ferry…can you think of a better way to start the morning? Answers on a postcard please…” I was hooked from that moment.
For many years, we in Ireland didn’t hear much of Wogan’s acclaimed radio show, but he became a television favourite through Blankety Blank, his chat show, the Eurovision Song Contest and Children In Need.
At his all-conquering peak, he won the ‘Most Popular TV Personality’ award for ten years in succession…he was undisputed king of British television then, and even more popular on his phenomenally successful radio show. We felt that we knew him personally.
He was such a huge presence in our lives for so long. For me, what set him apart from others, was the great sense of humour, the marvellous soft voice, the feeling that this was a wonderfully, warm, kind, self-deprecating man. He was a master of what he did and he brought joy to millions of people over more than half a century.
This week, the world really does seem a little greyer without the one-off that was the great Terry Wogan.
Also on Sunday…
In Kiltoom, Roscommon returned to Division One action, threw everything at Monaghan but lost out to a late scoring spree by opponents who timed their swoop on the points with the assurance of veteran top-tier campaigners.
On Shannonside, Willie Hegarty dragged the Pope into it. “The Pope said this was the year of mercy,” said Willie, “well it hasn’t started in Kiltoom.”
Tuesday
A ‘Match of the Day’ edition midweek is always a bonus. I’m watching, with no knowledge of how this evening’s games have gone. And now I’ve just seen Jamie Vardy score a goal for Leicester (against Liverpool) that is almost beyond belief.
It must be one of the greatest goals ever! In terms of technique, it reminded me (a little) of a goal I scored for Dynamo Rooskey in the early 1980s. In fairness to Vardy, mine was from much closer range.
Oh yeah, and the goalkeeper wasn’t expecting my shot, because he was our goalie and it was an own goal. (True story; I was trying to ‘clear the danger’– and concede a corner).
Wednesday
The election has been called. Forget Gertrude and Frank and those other imposters… get ready for ‘Storm Cliché!’
Sunday – ‘It started with a push…’
The scene was the training pitch at Kiltoom last Sunday, where, notwithstanding superb organisation by the hosts, some motorists found the going tough, in what were terrible conditions. First, a car and its driver, a woman from Monaghan, got stuck.
It was moments after the final whistle. A few Rossies came to her rescue. …even though Monaghan were making off with two valuable league points. Andrew Fox (the photographer covering Sunday’s match for the Roscommon People) took a quick snap, then realised that maybe he should help out.
So he put his camera into the boot of his car, and went over to help push the Monaghan car out of the muck. But Andrew locked his keys in his car…
Next phase of the drama saw Andrew and some Rossies speculate about breaking a window. Of his car. To rescue the keys. Meanwhile, the Monaghan woman got stuck again. The Rossies came to the rescue again.
No photo this time (obviously – camera in the boot). Deciding against breaking a window, Andrew instead rang his insurers. Inpressively, they said ‘We’ll have a locksmith with you in an hour.’
Ninety minutes later, the locksmith arrived, fair play. All the way from Dublin, and on a wild Sunday too. He was French, apparently. (Who’d have thought it?) So the French locksmith, a nice man, went about his business. Within ten minutes, he had opened Andrew Fox’s car and retrieved the keys. Great. End of saga.
But not quite… Because then the Frenchman got stuck in the mud. He was driving (or, at this precise moment, not driving) a fine big van. It was only when Andrew looked in his rear view mirror that he noticed the French man was stuck.
The Irish man had been rescued by the French man; now the French man had to be rescued by the Irish man. (The Monaghan woman was probably at home by now, but that’s beside the point).
Andrew drove back to the stricken French man, then called for help from the St. Brigid’s Clubhouse. Two men who had been stewards at the game came out and rolled up their sleeves. But there was no budging the French man’s van.
Next, further help was sought from the bar. Four more men and a Jack Russell dog emerged. All seven (the dog merely observed) pushed heroically. “Would this count as winter training?” asked one man, panting, as their first epic effort failed. They tried again. They pushed and they pushed again.
Suddenly, the French locksmith’s big van advanced in triumph. The French locksmith heaved a sigh of relief. The group running behind his van shouted ‘Up the Rossies’ – and then went back to the bar. There was no comment from the French man – or the Jack Russell.
