Paul Healy on losing track of the days during the newspaper’s busiest time of the year; trying to remember to put the bins out; turning down millions of euro from a kind mystery man…and an oft-told seasonal tale on how Santa brings such festive cheer…
Some day or other(s)… Phew!
It’s been a busy month. At the Roscommon People, we’ve produced a lot pages since the 3rd of December. It’s not bad going for a free newspaper with a small but very dedicated team.
A lot of pages, and over 1,000 cups of coffee. Christmas, or more accurately December, is the busiest time of the year in the newspaper business. That and election time.
Last week, we published as normal on Thursday morning. Now, during Christmas week, your Roscommon People comes to you on Monday morning. That meant we had to produce this issue in little over three days. Working long hours on Thursday and Friday, we set the process in motion.
By 6 o’clock on Thursday evening, I was looking longingly at my first Christmas-related invitation of the year. ‘Cordially invited by Roscommon Town Team to join us for a reception in Roscommon Tourist Office/County Museum (celebrating the role of volunteers in our community).’
From our Abbey Street trenches, I could almost scent the mulled wine and tasty finger food down town, but unfortunately I couldn’t leave the office. Friday morning, back to work, back to cajoling our advertisers for early copy, back checking our emails, back ‘phoning our contacts, chasing news stories, compiling reports, designing pages. By mid-morning, breaking news – real domestic drama which stopped me in my tracks.
The first potential crisis of Christmas. Did we put the bins out? What day is it? I went home, put out the bins that should really have gone out on Thursday night, crossed my fingers and the dog’s paws, and returned to the office. At Christmas time, you do lose track of what day of the week it is.
Resume checking emails. For the umpteenth time this year, someone I don’t know is offering to put millions of euro into my bank account. Seemingly this guy, who lives in a war-torn country, has millions ‘trapped’ in a bank account. He wants to send it to me! It sounds too good to be true, but the person who has emailed me is insisting that it’s all above board. He has millions to off-load, I, bizarrely, am the chosen recipient, and all I have to do is get back to him, and, I guess, make the arrangements.
Decision-time…Commitment to newspaper deadlines, or accept millions of euro into my bank account and retire? It’s no contest. There just isn’t time to avail of the kind offer; I move on to edit an email about Brussels sprouts.
It’s Friday evening, and in the Roscommon People office, we’re all wilting. Now I’m even hearing strange sounds in my head. Music and merriment. This is too much pressure. But thankfully there’s an explanation: I catch a glimpse of Santa travelling up Abbey Street in his Santamobile; he’s ho-ho-hoing and Christmas carols are ringing out. Seeing Santa doesn’t speed up the process of finishing the paper for us, but still, it’s a reminder of the joys of the season.
After a very late Friday night in the office, we’re back in again on Saturday…and the end is finally in sight. But we’ll leave a page or two blank for another day to include coverage of Roscommon’s first game under Kevin McStay and Fergal O’Donnell and what promises to be an even more competitive joust; Murphy v Higgins in the Fianna Fail Selection Convention. By Sunday morning, Seamus Duke’s report on Roscommon’s comfortable win over Laois is down on a page.
Now it’s Sunday evening and Eoghan Young-Murphy and Mick McCormack have reports and photographs from the Fianna Fail showdown in the Abbey Hotel.
Congratulations to Cllr. Eugene Murphy on his victory. He has travelled a long road; it is good to see persistence being rewarded. Here in newspaper-land, we’ve travelled our own long road recently. It’s been a busy month and a very busy few days.
Everyone in the Roscommon People office is exhausted, but, as we prepare to begin our Christmas shopping, we’re delighted to have completed another year of publishing the Roscommon People.
Thanks to our readers, advertisers and contributors for all your support. We’re taking a break next week. We’ll publish again on January 7th. That’s if we haven’t accepted that offer of millions of euro still trapped in a foreign bank.
* You know you’re a certain age when that worry grips you. On Friday, the fear – the not knowing – was terrible. But, good news…the bins were out in time and were collected.
Ah…a Christmas story
The old stories (yeah, I’ve written about the following before) are best. Before I started working in the newspaper business in Roscommon, I did a few years in the newspaper business in Cavan.
It was 1987. It was Christmas. It was an incredible scene. The Gardai had located a few Republicans after some high profile ‘incident.’ There had been searches in safe houses, in not so safe houses, and in fields and boreens.
Now they had three men located and they were due in Cavan Courthouse for an emergency sitting. But this was not going down well with Republican supporters, including known IRA activists.
A crowd of ‘protestors’ gathered outside the courthouse and the atmosphere was extremely tense. There was a big Garda presence and a big media presence, including the man from ITN in London. If the man from ITN could be there, myself and Ciaran Mullooly – at that time, the men from the Cavan Leader – thought it only right that we should be there too. Tension hung in the air. There were scuffles.
I kept my notebook hidden and merged in with about ten heavily-bearded men, rueing the fact that I had shaved that morning. (I felt a bit self-conscious; by the time I had a beard, many years later, all these guys were on ceasefire). There was snow and sleet on the road. All traffic was diverted.
Danny Morrison, renowned Republican, sat on the steps of the courthouse. It wasn’t a sit-in protest; he needed to change his socks and shoes. The protestors gave the Gardai lots of stick. The mood was menacing.
The Gardai feared that supporters of the men in captivity would try to seize them once they arrived at the court. Everyone was wet and freezing cold but the man from ITN looked immaculate. Two hours went by.
The ten bearded men beside men and the other hundred or so on the street and outside the courthouse wanted the three captives released. I wanted a pint. Cavan had been brought to a standstill. Then, all of a sudden, the crowds magically parted, the Gardai did that arm-waving manoeuvre they do, the bearded men went into a respectful reverse, and one vehicle – and one vehicle only – was allowed through.
As the car parted the watching crowds, all of the night’s tension was suddenly suspended, and the driver waved and smiled. It was Santa Claus, looking even more splendid in his red suit than the man from ITN.
Santa, with his great white beard waved and smiled, and the tough Republican sympathisers, with their darker, more militant beards, bashfully waved back. So, three ho, ho, hos for Santa, and his wonderful capacity to bring people together and spread some of the spirit of Christmas amongst us all!
