Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own

My old man went to work in Saudi Arabia in 1992. At least that’s what he told us. He could have been in ‘The Joy’ for all we knew getting mates from the ESB working abroad to send home video tapes of far-flung places like Al-Hofuf and the souks of Dhahran. I do believe he was in the sands of Arabia though. The drink-driving laws weren’t as strict in those halcyon days as in as much as the early 90’s can be called halcyon days, so I reckon he was alright. He came back sporting a ridiculous tan and even more ridiculous gold jewellery. Like a Pakistani Del-Boy or an anaemic B.A.Baracus. Ergo, he was definitely not in ‘The Joy’. Plus we met him at the airport.

He was there for nine months, with a trip home at Christmas dividing the trip equally. Laden(no pun intended) with gifts he arrived in Broadford Drive, dishing them out willy-nilly. A Saudi Arabia replica shirt for me, a toy hovercraft for Alan, a purple woollen top and leggings for Lyn which read ‘Chi Pan Pan Chi Pan’ on the waist (I don’t know either) and an Arabic head-dress and suit for our Uncle Joe – which he put to good use, going down to the off-licence in Nutgrove sporting said suit and shades declaring “I buy the whole shop” and brandishing a cheque-book. And a fuck load of imitation Rolex watches. That was a good Christmas that. I was fifteen and because of my Dad’s brief return, our house was filled with relatives which made calling the girl I’d met in Stradbrook the night before rather difficult. I’d sneak into the kitchen to call her and get mercilessly slagged for it. “You know I do but I just can’t say it at the moment...” they would cry and then cry laughing whilst my face went red as I stuttered over my “So what did you do today then?” type sentences. Complete set of bastards...

I used to miss Dad terribly. My Uncle Mick worked in ESB International and would deliver a parcel containing hand-written letters from him and a video tape every couple of weeks. My old man, no doubt out of boredom, would travel the highways and byways of Saudi with his newly purchased ‘Handicam’ perched on the dashboard with the accompanying backing track of a Tina Turner opus blaring to the point of actually deafening people to show off the sites that consisted of sand and more sand. He created a character called Abdul Abhaile (a doff of the cap to his Westland Row all-as Gaeilge days, obviously) for the benefit of his youngest, Lyn, who was seven. She lapped it up whilst the rest of us cringed. “Fucking hell, I’m fifteen for fuck sake!”

But as much as you’d try to shrug it off, it was tough around the house without the old man. There was a father-shaped hole in 86 Broadford Drive. We were such a close-knit family unit you see. The Brady Bunch without some of the bollocks. Someone had to step up to the plate. I was fifteen. Surely this was my moment? Surely...
But no. Into his place stepped a 78 year old man by the name of Jack Connor (never used the O’). My old man’s old man.

Jack lived in Beaver Row in Donnybrook with our Nana(Mary). A Donnybrook long before the days the rugby bandwagon rolled into town. He would get the 48A from Ranelagh up to Broadford and assume the mantle of the chief of 86. If ever you had a problem? Jack was the man. Sure, you thought to yourself, as a fifteen year old upstart, you could have done it your way but no, come on...bow to the head of the tribe. That’s human nature. I would mouth off and think I was the dog’s because my old man wasn’t around but as soon as Jack rolled into town(on the 48A) I was reduced to the snivelling little fucker all teenagers are.

Then one day, Jack spied the dripping tap outside in the back garden. “Bren’s away. It’s my duty to get this fixed”, he thought to himself. So off up to the shed he went to fetch the requisite tools for the repairs. He did this, he did that, as Alan and myself looked on. And then there was a shudder within the walls, and then the attic. Then, nothing. Out of the taps came but air. He’d airlocked the house. I was summoned by my Mam to get Darren Kavanagh from three doors up to see what he could do, but he was baffled too.
We had noticed Jack retreat into the sitting room whilst Darren performed his plumbing resuscitation but when we got in there he was gone. We went out on to the street but there was no sign of him. We panicked. Really panicked.
We searched Broadford Hill and the other one at the front, I think it’s the Walk, but then again nothing ever happened there to make us remember the name of the place so fuck it,and got to the 48A bus terminus at the local community school where we were met with our grandfather Jack, crying. Actually in tears.“What will Bren think of me? Mary will kill me won’t she? Your mother won’t want me in the house, will she?”. Trying to reassure the head of the family was something we were not accustomed to. We coaxed him back but he seemed deeply troubled. Even a bag of chips from Alonzi’s didn’t cheer him up.

Jack passed away not three years later. And it wasn’t even in that awful moment when he passed, but until I became a father myself that I realised that a father never stops being a father. That’s life isn’t it?
All the advice that my Dad and his Dad had passed to me and I disregarded as “a load of bollocks” became real and true. For as much as you believe your father to be invincible, he is not. He’s just the same as you and me. He has made the same mistakes as you and will continue to make mistakes that you will learn from until the day you don’t have him around anymore. But he does his best. And that’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

Cherish him.

All That You Can't Leave Behind

I write having made the massive life changing decision to move to Canada and all that it entails. I’m sure you’d expect me to (how shall I put this?) blow me own trumpet, a la Marc Almond, and go on about how great the place is and how great a time we’re having but...I’ll save that for another time when the t on my keyboard is working properly and we’ve had an opportunity to properly judge which country pisses on which. I do know which does what, it’s fairly obvious, but we’ll park it alongside that particular sidewalk. Go Blue Jays.

We sat tonight and watched ‘Back To The Future 2’. For the seven hundredth and fifty second time. But the question arose as it always does. If you could go back in time and observe yourself in a particular scenario, when would it be and why?

I trawled through the sands of time in my head and thought about the glory days of Club Sarah and Deep. A bag of chips and she’s yours for the night type things. Fantastic days. Fanfuckingtastic.
I thought of working in the Ballinteer House and staying up until six in the morning watching lounge boys and girls lose their sort-of hard earned wages in games of ‘Killer’ in the snooker hall. Of getting into Noel Murphy’s or Spud Murphy’s cars and heading to some nightclub or other and wasting MY hard earned tips on beer that tasted of and probably consisted of human or horse piss.(Another Marc Almond reference for those still reading). But the constant, the factor ‘x’, the thing that stops me from suggesting that period as the golden period is the same as anything in this life...M-O-N-E-Y.
I, and my associates had none in those days. Therefore, I discount it reluctantly.
1995 sure was a fabulous time to be a bloke in your teenage years. Oasis, Adidas tracksuit tops, three-stripe runners, a shit haircut. None of these I have lost as of yet, incidentally. Live Forever? That was the mantra innit.
Money? Ireland to Canada. You do the ‘Math’. Go Blue Jays. ZZ Top rock.

Just when all seemed lost and town had lost its lustre and the ‘Millennium Bug’ was just about to wreak havoc causing aeroplanes to fall from the sky, forcing bank machines to tell you to fuck right off and helping A & R men from record companies to take over Saturday night televisual entertainment, there was a light in the darkness. I was getting bored of the Nitelink and some Jesus Hairdo freak spouting love and peace whilst punching me about the head as I clung onto my 3(three) kebabs like they were my first born...along came the Three Rock.

The Three Rock was born out of a quaint little nightclub called Marleys where the people did dance and make merry and spread good tidings and goodwill. It may be possible that it is the only nightclub in history that saw an increase in violence with the introduction of Ecstasy. For that alone there should be a monument placed outside of someone dressed in a ‘Kickers’ checked shirt, frozen in time kicking seven shades of shite out of another bloke in a ‘Kickers’ checked shirt. A beautiful, mystical place.

They revamped. They disposed of 45” records stuck to the wall and held the masses enthralled by suspending three Styrofoam ‘rocks’ from the roof. And they got live bands in too. Easily pleased us Ballinteer lot. But it was good. Great in fact.

8pm, meet in the Coach House. Drink tonnes of Guinness and Bulmers. Laugh at Mick Keogh’s latest scheme. Slag my brother off. Have a row with my brother. Make up. Get in a taxi, get out because the row has kicked off again, call him a ‘f***ing c***’,have Brian Kane talk us out of it, hug, get to the door, show ID (I was 24!,sweet),get to the bar, have the legendary Conor ‘Sos’ O’Gorman serve us pints, as it got later have Conor serve us triple vodkas and Red Bull, have another row with my brother because his shirt is shit and he says I look like a gay because of my shirt, Kaner(inebriated now) intervenes once again, do a bit of stupid dancing, The Mulville Fella arrives and proceeds to get very drunk indeed, another row with my brother... “what’s wrong with my shoes?”,make up, watch as Alan, Mick Keogh and Kaner dance whilst looking at themselves on the big screen. Try to chat up the best looking girl in Ballinteer and make a tit of yourself because you’re so drunk and in the end get a mooch from some other girl, another few Vodkas, LEAVE, laugh as The Mulville Fella falls into a hedge and Kaner splits his head open falling off Keoghs back, get home and fall asleep in a reheated lasagne, have a row with your brother because he wants to watch Alan Partridge and you want The Office....Thats a full working day lad!....and don’t you forget it!

God I miss Ballinteer.

Canada is going well though. I’ll fill you in another time.