Brendan Rumley SJ Remembered

Whenever I read the name Brendan Rumley with Fr in front of it and SJ behind it, it always makes me look twice. This is a night of memories and everyone has their own memories of Brendan. I remember his great sense of fun.

I remember the night the two of us got chased around the streets of Rome by a crowd of angry Italian communists . The school had organised a pilgrimage to Rome for the Holy Year in 1975 , and we landed in the middle of a bitterly fought election campaign between the two main parties who cordially detested each other...the Communists on the left and the Christian democrats on the right . We were very taken with the Communist posters...big, red , hammer and sickle jobs , really well-designed. This wasn't anything to do with the merits or de-merits of Communism...but coming from a very sheltered and conservative Ireland of the mid-70's , these were novel, eye-catching, radical and ...oppositional. Brendan turned to me and said 'Gosh, I'd love one of those for my cubicle'. I replied that it'd annoy the J's. It'd annoy our parents. It'd be perfect !'

So out we went one evening after dinner to peel off a few posters . Whatever about us annoying the J's and annoying our parents, we sure as hell managed to annoy a group of Italians on the other side of the road who followed us as we walked quickly away from our half-peeled posters , and then ran after us as we legged it as fast as we could .

Brendan wore his faith lightly. i was gob-smacked when he told me , two years later, that he was thinking of joining the Jesuits. And later, when i visited him in the Novitiate in Manresa, I was amazed at the depth of his spiritual life. At a time when my own prayers were remarkable a ) for their brevity and b) for their self-interest, he was telling me how the high point of his day, every day, was the hour he spent in silent adoration, and how much he was looking forward to doing the largely-silent 30-day Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius Loyola .

He was Gerry O'Beirne's sole Spanish student and his Spanish was put to good use when he was sent in 1986 to Latin America . He was stationed at a Jesuit school, the Colegio Christo Rey in a place called Tacna, in Peru. Peru was not a safe place to be at the time. And it took great courage to accept this assignment at a time when the country was locked in a bloody conflict between the Maoist Sendero Luminoso guerrilla group which controlled large swathes of the country , and the Government. Neither side much minded how many eggs they had to crack to make the omelette each desired . The Jesuits were popular with neither side. But they were popular with the people .

We live in a selfish and a faithless age . How sad then, that Brendan...so full of faith , and so selfless, a true man for others...should be taken by his illness only a few short years after he was ordained a priest of the Society of Jesus . But how great it was that he was able to do all the good he did , in the time that he had . My youngest son is the same age now as we were when we were chased about the streets of Rome. I like to think, and i dare to hope , that as my children embark on the great adventure of their lives, that in Brendan, I have a friend in Heaven who i can call on from time to time to help me keep them safe and keep them on the right path. 

Ar dheis de go raibh a anam .

Eamon Doohan

Nebuchadnezzar went mad.....

"Too whit- too whoo, a merry note while greasy Joan doth keel the pot”

The sight of Harry Clifford brazenly jigging on the lockers after lights out in the 3rd line open dorms; the extraordinary pace (and hairy chest) of Johnny Hickie at age 13; all of us meekly queuing for our weekly shower at the pool, butt naked, clutching a facecloth to shield our modesty in Rudiments (Tony, more generously proportioned,required a hand-towel); Bertie Brereton, the legend that he was, writing “work hard and be happy” on the blackboard; Brian Lennon (a.k.a. Ronnie Drew), through gritted teeth and with justification, telling me after yet another transgression,”’you're the worst bastard I have ever met, and MacManus, I’ve met a lot of bastards…”; 

The 8pm mad dash for the old gym to play indoor soccer after study in Grammar - sweaty, competitive, exhilarating - 10 a side, if you were too late, tough luck!

That crazy OPEC oil embargo in 1973, with no electricity and the ensuing mayhem at evening study; the juddering, shaking, pock marked hands of the Infirmary doctor as he administered cholera injections; Wally was called “Gaston” in Eimer McDermott’s French class; Who did you prefer-Miss Ruane or Mademoiselle Bachelerie?(verdict-they were both gorgeous); Shadow-boxing with Oggie-Doggie (my uncle Tom) in the lunch queue; Ned McQuaid’s lavish moustache age 15; the fleeting, intense obsession we had with bridge in Syntax; Kevin O’Connor’s rise and rise as an incredible tennis player of national stature, yet so humble and understated; Mickey O’Dowd’s kind, twinkling eyes and infinite patience; ELO, Supertramp,10cc, Pink Floyd, Genesis, the Eagles, Bob Marley, Earth Wind and Fire, Billy Joel. 

Marty Coyne crooning along with Bill Withers after the Mt Anville social ”lovely day, lovely day, just a lovely day…” (yes, he was in love again), and he wasn’t the only one. Sadly, I was dumped a few weeks later); 

The mountains of mouth-watering fresh bread and spuds we ate. Bob Kryger’s arrival, with his broad NY accent and American warmth; Tigger concussed, unconscious and hospitalised v Blackrock, a chilling, visceral memory. The hot girl working in the ref when we were 17 (come on, you remember her), Martin Moloney’s vast intellect on all matters historical; Jono, Paulie and Jack’s band performance that brought the house down and blew us all away; trying, and failing (after a day), to maintain silence on the Manresa Mouse retreat; Barry’s gentle giant/monster hulk off pitch-on pitch persona; Gucko absolutely hammering full tilt into the unpadded upright on the senior pitch one wet, cold training session-and getting up unscathed and running on ( they breed them tough in Ballinrobe); 

The classic Howick-Shanahan comedic duo in Coriolanus;  Doggo Bolger being awarded the “Alo” trophy in Rhetoric to universal approval; Greg’s immense strength of character as he sealed victory with that 60m kick at Lansdowne Road. Finally, the seismic shift that took place in CWC ethos with the arrival of Philip Fogarty and the unique force of nature that is Mick Sheil.

Flute-flute-pipe, flute-flute-pipe, zith-zith-zither, zith-zith-zither…Nebuchadnezzar went mad, mad-mad, fell down in a rage, mad rage…

written by Mike Mac Manus    #MauraCrannyRIP

Cathal Ryan Remembered

Cathal M Ryan Brussels May 1987
@@rgmcdermott

It's an honour to say a few words about our dear friend Cathal Ryan. 

Ironic that it be here ....we were once caught playing cards in row 13 and were on the verge of expulsion. Fortunately, on that occasion, Paddy Crowe relented and let us off the hook!

Cathal shared our laughter, our meal table, our sadness, joys and failures. He cribbed our homework and we cribbed his (if we were desperate-lets be honest!) Most of us, myself included, never knew him during his adult life. But we knew him intimately during a time in his life that was formative. That he cherished, that was filled with promise and the close bonds of friendship and shared experience. A joker and a wit, we were all the butt of his pranks! In the current era, he'd probably be a YouTube sensation, dispensing advice on full body waxing and how to survive online dating !! 

His unique approach life maybe characterised by his German exam in the Leaving Cert. He studied hard, arrived well prepared that afternoon for the paper, only to discover....it was a morning exam. He was 5 hours late!! Yes, that was Ryan!

He loved life, he loved the ladies and he loved his friends. And that was us. If he were here now, he would not be mournful, he would definitely not be listening to me, in fact he'd probably be shuffling the cards for the next game in row 13!

Mike MacManus

Amsterdam 1987 

Funky Fennell - Two E's, Two N's and Two L's

Up until the time John Fennell arrived in CWC, my striking memory of biology, was a quoted ‘fact' from Mrs. Miller (RIP), that “Pigs fed on the cardboard boxes that Kellogs cornflakes were packaged in, and put on more weight than the pigs who were fed on the cornflakes themselves.” 

Oh, and in a rigorous scientific experiment conducted in Mrs. Miller’s laboratory, by the class of that time, extremely severe evaporation can take place when fermenting apple juice in a biology lab…..In particular when the large glass container is left close to a (slight ajar) window. Remember, there were no hosepipe bans in those days! 

And one final one from Mrs. Miller’s class, when TC pricked his finger to do the blood test to identify your blood type, and said blood emerged from his index finger, he promptly fainted and fell in a heap on the floor. Thankfully he didn’t consider medicine as a career. 

Although he did take a case of sexual discrimination against UCD when he was denied entry into Physiotherapy in UCD, which he won. Much to our dismay, he decided not to take up the offer of the place in the end. But I digress…….. 

Returning to Mr. Fennell, on his first day in Clongowes in biology class, he swaggers up to the blackboard. Then picking up a piece of chalk, he writes his name on the board, turns around and addressing the class, announces, “My name is Mr. Fennell. Two e’s, two n’s, two l’s.” Here was this new teacher staking out his turf, with some amount of bravado. I liked him instantly. He wasn’t known as Funky Fennell for nothing. 

On some Saturday mornings though, he didn’t as much swagger as stagger.

 

From memory, biology was our first class on Saturday mornings, and on more than one occasion one of his earnest students was dispatched to the refectory to get some oranges for a 'biology experiment'. The experiment involved squeezing the oranges into a glass, and the juice promptly consumed by Mr. Fennell, thereby illustrating the point of the experiment. Friday nights are not supposed to be followed by Saturday mornings in school. Particularly when you are the teacher. 

At on the St. Patrick’s Day SCT victory celebrations, Mr. Fennell introduced some more than willing students - all over 18 and legal I hasten to add - including myself, to Harvey Wallbangers. How sophisticated I felt. However, whatever imagined sophistication didn’t survive to the following morning. Some oranges for a biology experiment would have gone down well then. 

Looking back, it’s worth remembering "Funky Fennell" wasn’t that much older that we were; his 25 years of wisdom in comparison to our callow sheltered 18 years. He was one of the most engaging and fun teachers I had and biology was always a subject I enjoyed, even on Saturday mornings. 

He instilled a lasting love and interest in all things biology….and your minds can wander wherever you wish with that one! We’re all adults now, although some may set out to prove differently on the reunion weekend. Here's to Mr. Fennell: 2’es, 2 n’s, 2 l’s. 

Some other snippets: 

Week 2 in Rudiments in CWC in the top open, Paddy Digan - in the bed next to mine - and I were playing chess. Silently. Whereupon on discovery, we were summoned to Mr. O'Keeffe's room, and given 4 of the best with the leather pandy bat. Ouch! It wasn't as if we were disturbing anyone. 

In Latin class, our teacher Murtagh O’Shea gave me 100 lines: “I must not demonstrate cousinly affection in class.” The reason? I was sticking the pointy end of a compass into John Donnelly’s bum. 

On one late leave in Dublin after a cup match, having borrowed a pair of glasses to make myself look older, I was refused entry into Soldier Blue (who remembers that X rated movie of the time? not me anyway) as I was underage. I was mortified.....but I don't think I was the only one. Sparrow Harte & Dan Farrington too? 

But probably not as mortified as when in Madigans after a cup match, I was nominated to go to the bar to order pints. Slinking up to the bar - not the best strategy when trying to portray confidence - and in the deepest voice I could muster, I demanded “2 pints of Smithwick's and 2 pints of Guinness.” The barman looked at me, smirked, and asked “Where’s your mother son?” Mortified, I retreated to the laughing mob, to lick my wounds. Naturally they gave me plenty of help with that! 

Ned Carroll giving some of us a life to the races on a Saturday afternoon. Racing regulars would have been Morgan Mooney, John 'Conor Pass' Moore, Fran Fitzpatrick. "Puff' Carroll was such a kind man, who was given a terrible time in the Big Study. 

Remember the Stink Bomb episode, which I think occurred during Ned's Big Study watch? Poor Ned was picked on mercilessly. Paddy Crowe, Headmaster at the time demanding "I want the boy, and I want him now." I believe the boy responsible for said Stink Bomb episode may be one of boys the named above? 

 

Grattan Donnelly

The opinions expressed published works are those of the author and do not reflect the opinions of Clongowes 1978 Blog or its Editors.

The Special One.....

The 17th of March 1978 will always be a special memory for everyone in Clongowes at the time. But especially those of us in Panel 1. The truth is we overcame huge psychological and physical hurdles to win a Leinster Schools Senior Cup that we probably had no right to win. 

I guess when your school hasn’t won a senior cup in 52 years it is not surprising that you become conditioned to losing gracefully. The main reason 1978 was SO dramatically different though, was down to the arrival in Clongowes of one Michael Sheil.

Being a somewhat humbler sort than Jose Mourinho he certainly never called himself “The Special One” but there is no doubt he was special.

Greg Dilger, CWC Captain 1978

Over the years so many compliments and tributes have been paid to Michael that it is difficult to say anything particularly original. Yet to say that he was one of the most influential people in our lives is no exaggeration. 

Of course, he was a brilliant and innovative rugby coach - way ahead of his time. His training sessions were sharp and purposeful. Never before did we have such a clear vision of what we were doing both as individuals and as a team. He sensitively let you know what your weaknesses were and what you needed to do to improve. 

Woomba Woomba Woomba
Lansdowne Road Macrh 17th 1978

He wasn’t slow to let you know when agreed standards weren’t met. But was also hugely encouraging about what we did well and helped us to build on that. He helped us to understand and believe that it was worth doing the ordinary things extraordinarily well. 

He was enlightened and confident enough to bring in specialist expertise in the shape of Roly Meates and Ollie Campbell. That’s real leadership. Many coaches of that era might have been a bit too proud and threatened to do that. But as I already said - “he was way ahead of his time!”

The way he pulled together a bunch of ordinary guys who in all honesty had never shown any cup winning potential through the previous five years and turned us into a winning outfit, is quite simply an incredible coaching achievement.   

Vinny Murray, Martin Nugent with Noel Turley 1988 LSSC Final v St Michael's
Photo ©RMcDermott

Off the field as Higher Line Prefect he was even more influential. I think I can safely speak for all of our group by saying he tried to make us better people. He challenged us constantly. He helped us to think better about life and what was important. He wasn’t alone in this - we had some wonderful other Jesuits and teachers during our years in Clongowes - but he stood out a mile! 

Looking back, it’s clear he was a driving force in creating a culture of excellence - not just in Clongowes rugby, but in Clongowes generally.

And yet we know that WINNING was never Michael Sheil’s obsession. He was much more interested in helping individuals and teams to get better. After that the results would look after themselves. I suppose that’s why he enjoyed coaching the Super Thirds every bit as much as the SCT. 

Birthday Boy
Photo Robert Kryger

Michael Sheil always refuses to accept praise for the ‘78 Cup win without sharing it with his great friend the late great Vinny Murray. 

Vinny played a major part in our success and went on himself to lead Clongowes to even more Senior Cup success before he sadly passed away in 1999. Not surprisingly Vinny would always say that Michael Sheil taught him everything he knew.

The great man celebrated his 80th birthday in June this year. A very simple calculation reminds us he was only 40 back in 1978. 

And we thought he was ancient.

Greg Dilger on behalf of Rhetoric 1978 and Panel One

Back Row Vinny Murray, John Bolger, Mark Collis, Con Clifford, Tim Meagher, John Rock, Willie Burns, Mick Sheil
Front Row Martin Coyne, Ambrose O'Sullivan, Barry Walker, Greg Dilger (Capt), Dermot Waldron, Gerry Healy, Freddie Browne
Seated; Tony O'Sullivan, Mark Attride (RIP)

CWC 1978 Memories

Officers, Gentleman and Villains......

It was far from a soft day when the casket of Fr Joe Brereton SJ was lowered into the carved out grave by a new generation of Clongownians in the community graveyard, just off the main avenue in the edge of the Mainham town land. Alongside the recently departed Fr Paddy Lavery SJ, the more affectionately known “Bertie Brereton” was laid to his final place of rest in front of many Clongownians, past and present. His arrival in the company of many of other former stalwarts of the community - long since gone – now complete. It was just somewhat unfair that this most gentle of men did not get more deserving weather, or bright Spring sunshine, in order to record the sad moment when he left the Clongowes Community for good. 

But then again, Bertie was never one for the limelight. 

Having spent the past four months at Jesuit Community Care Home in Cherryfield, Fr Joe Brereton had made one of the biggest moves since he first arrived in Clongowes in 1968 – after some time in Manresa House in Clontarf and Gonzaga College in Ranelagh. The only other major move he faced during his time in Clongowes, was recalled by the main celebrant of the funeral mass, Fr Michael Sheil, and that was when the new Rhetoric Building was completed and as Higher Line prefect he relocated to new quarters. Other than that he had been full time since his arrival, coming after an education in Crescent College Comprehensive in Limerick as a pupil – and a place he was to return to as a teacher once he was ordained a Jesuit in 1954. 

In recalling his dominant shadow over the Clongowes Community, “Mocky” Sheil fondly remembered that the Bertie era started even before the current Jesuit Provincial, Tom Leyden SJ, had arrived as a would be Clongownian – in Elements many years ago. In addition, Mocky estimated that his influence had been cast over 3,000 pupils during his tenure at the forefront of teaching – albeit English or Irish . And a testament to that influence was the cross section of ages in the Boys Chapel for his funeral service, all reflecting a man that in a very quiet way, yet determined way, had managed to impact many, many generations during his teaching years. 

For those who wondered in the early days why soccer played such a role in the teaching of English, it was his Liverpool roots, where he lived until the premature death of his Father. After which the family moved back to Limerick. In looking back over old copy books in clear outs and house moves, it is now clearer to me why so many essays, projects and drawings of the 1974 world cup were acceptable English copy to Fr Joe Brereton. He love football – unbeknownst to many of us. 

In a moving, honest and potent homily Fr Sheil eulogised Fr Brereton recalling at one point the manufactured rivalry between Higher Line prefects in the old Rhetoric Building. 

Since forever it seemed Bertie called his fellow dwellers on the top floor of the old 1966 building "Officers", all seemingly a reflection of a higher quality of Rhetorician in the scheme of things - in his mind. This was indeed carried further in the cup teams and other sports, as Bertie was not slow in reminding his fellow Higher Line prefect of same on very possible occasion. So no cup winning team passed without a competitive count from Joe Brereton as to his Officer Numbers in the wining side -driving Fr Sheil to invent his Gentlemen term for those residing on his lower floor as a tactical response 

And in such a way the rivalry between Officers and Gentleman began legend recalls. But it was perhaps the term "Villain" that evoked the most recognition from the packed church during Mocky’s fond recollections on Thursday morning. It was the fiercest term that Bertie ever mustered when talking about the most mean of people. 

In an era when the hard edge of The Raz - aka Fr. Gerry O’Beirne – was not slow about calling things as they were and often in the most non Jesuitical language - Fr Joe Brereton never mustered beyond the term villainous. Which most accurately reflected the soft and caring nature of the man characterising everything he stood for during his four plus decades in Clongowes Wood College. Whatever about being and Officer or a Gentleman, one thing you never wanted to be was a Villain. There was possibly nothing more troublesome. 

In fact one abiding personal memory every time the name of Ballycastle in Northern Ireland is mentioned – even to this day - is the story of the Corrymeela Community Centre which Bertie so strongly championed over thirty years ago during English lessons. 

Founded as a place for reconciliation between divided communities Bertie inculcated a sense of the possible, even as far back as 1972 Rudiments. It was also the first time I ever heard the phrase - or proverb - “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” Something that has stayed embedded for over thirty years and sums up best the personal impact of Fr Joe Brereton SJ. 

In the closing prayers at the graveside on Thursday Fr Mick Sheil and Fr Leonard Moloney ended con-celebrating the life of a great man. Done in the company of Fr John Looby, Fr Phil Fogarty, and Fr Colin Warrack. They did so with a befitting sense of ceremony perhaps so typical of the Jesuit Community over the generations. Sadly though the Clongowes Jesuit community graveyard is filled with too many of such stalwarts - now long since at peace – yet evoking memories no doubt for each and everyone of us: Fr Cyril Power, Fr James “Pop” Casey, Fr Charlie O’Connor, Fr Ray Lawler, Fr Percy Winder, Fr Gerry O’Beirne, Fr Freddie Frewen, Brother Fitzsimons, Brother Glanville and the one and only James Treacy - to mention just a few. 

On May 10th 2012 Fr Joe Brereton SJ sadly joined them …. 

May he rest in peace. 

@rgmcdermott

A Man for Others......

Sometime around '74-'75; someone, somewhere, decided that we should have a school (or was it a line?) magazine. Not quite the standard of the Clongownian, but something lighter; a compendium of riddles, humour, jokes, short stories, an odd poem and a highly entertaining “Glossary of Geographic terms” by Brendan Cullen. The only three lines that I recall from it were; High Pressure = exam week, Depression = exam results, Lava = M.K.(O'Brien) pronouncing Lover.

The one item I can vividly remember from that magazine was a short article which began “My name is Bill and I am an alcoholic” written by Bill McEvoy, affectionately known to the boys as Bill Porridge. 

We all knew Bill, but nothing about him. Bill seemed to be about the same age then, as we are now, a kind of general factotum attached to the kitchens. He looked a bit like Churchill, with flat feet, that shuffled rather than walked and always wore a white waiters coat, that was never quite white and made for a smaller man. 

That Bill wanted to tell us about himself, has stuck with me for the rest of my life. He was happy to share his story with the boys, to tell us all that he was human too, albeit with a problem that he had addressed and kept under control. This was the “Dignity of the human being” that Bertie Brereton kept on about. Bill's article was my Eureka moment . 

Fr Joe Brereton was one of the coolest, calmest men I have ever encountered. The story followed him that while driving the college car, after a repair at the garage, the steering wheel came off in his hands. He didn't panic and just calmly pushed it back down onto the steering column and continued on his journey. Whether true or not, it summed up the man known as “Bertie”. 

He appeared to float along, when walking, suffered terribly from the cold and always looked like the next winter would be his last (How wrong we were!) He taught me English & Religion and would always subtly blend the two, to make them mutually complementary and interesting. 

Bertie had no access to new technology. He was the master of the 'pen picture' ; writing meant selecting the bare facts, condensing everything down and finally polishing the story to make it clear and interesting to the reader. 

Around this time Bertie was very taken by the story of Mother Teresa and in particular Malcolm Muggeridge's book “Something beautiful for God”. He knew that there wasn't a hope in hell that he could motivate a class of 15 year olds to read the full book, or be particularly interested in the destitute and dying of India. There were millions of them anyway, what did it matter? Bertie honed, polished and captured the essence of the story and made us think about and discuss the simple messages. 

The essential dignity of the human being and that everyone had the right to life. A right that superseded all other rights. Not for immediate application in our young lives, but deep frozen in our consciousness for later consumption; after all, we were very unlikely to be in a position to determine. who lived or died at that age. 

Bill, through his little article defined for me exactly what was the essential dignity of the human being. Dignity was not being nicely dressed, good table manners or always being polite, or even speaking with a plummy accent. It was something much more intangible but very real, being “Something beautiful for God” 

Whenever I recall my time in Clongowes, I think of many of the standout characters both among the boy's and the staff. No one forgets people like Fr. Jack Brennan, Fr. Gerry O'Beirne, Fr. Paddy Crowe or even Fr. Michael Sheil, because they were strong omnipresent characters. But I also remember, with enormous fondness visiting many of the SRPA clients, scattered around north Kildare. 

I can still recall all their names. Everyone of them had a story of hardship, loneliness or illness. They all had one thing in common, their incredible dignity. On reflection I think we the boys, benefited far more, because we learned so much from them. 

I also think of the wonderful dignity of people like Brother Fitzgerald, who without any dramatics, fixed, broken windows, burst pipes, broken door hinges, lost keys and more than an odd blown fuse. Tony Crabtree, who ran the tuck and book shops. Eileen (Delaney) & Phil Melia (the butler), Bill McEvoy, Bill Delaney who cleaned the classrooms every day, Martin (the tailor), Jim Tracy who was forever 34. 

Mrs Melea, who managed the younger domestic staff. The Dunne's and the Tracey's. Mrs Tomlinson who worked in the Infirmary for over 40 years, The staff who cut the grass, mowed the football pitches, made sure the heating worked. The dumper and its driver that had the combined title of “Sputnik”. The people who did the ordinary things extraordinarily well. People who worked and lived anonymous lives so that we could enjoy the privilege of reaching our full potential to became the “Men for others”. 

These were the others for us. 

Epilogue: 

By about 1975, when I had completed the Inter Cert and there were three of us in Clongowes with another three to go. My parents were really wondering whether their very considerable investment in our education was yielding the desired results. Exam results were good enough but not spectacular. 

Apart from that, there was not a lot else to show for my three years and fees were rising fast. Early into my Poetry year, I was actually starting to really enjoy Clongowes and life there improved dramatically. I had found my niche in the SRPA and on the catering committee; hard-balling in negotiation with Chef Robert Dagger and Br. Adams S.J. 

One of the staff , a young girl – surname Kelly, lost her wage packet and was in terrible distress over it. All I remember is that she reminded me of the Edith Piaf that Fr. Ray Lawlor had introduced us to. Several days passed and a general appeal among the boys and staff to locate the missing wages proved fruitless. 

So myself and a few others decided that we should do something to help and we organised a dorm collection. Not one boy refused and we collected several multiples of the weekly wage and presented it to Ms. Kelly. We thought nothing more of it and it was very much something that came from the boys and not prompted by the school. 

Christmas came and the Christmas report arrived home. There was always some reason or other, in every report. that Fr. Paddy Crowe felt I was operating well below potential. He was probably correct. I felt sure that this report was going to be no exception. But I was in for a very pleasant surprise. 

Although I can only paraphrase his report “Daniel has had an exceptional term and his time spent in Clongowes appears to have had a belated but impressive effect. I am particularly encouraged by his consideration for those less fortunate especially the remarkable initiative displayed by him and his colleagues in coming to the aid of one of the domestic staff after the loss of her wages” 

My parents knew then that the Clongowes ethos was eventually starting to pay dividends and I know that that report is still somewhere among my mothers most treasured belongings.

Dan O'Connell

A Soapbox Opera

When we were in the early stages of rehearsing the acclaimed 1977 production of Coriolanus, i had the great fortune of finding myself standing right beside the plays renown director Fr John Looby.

Somewhat at a loss for words in this predicament, I did manage to blurt out a question which I hoped would not offend. Why had Fr Looby chosen this play as it was not one of Shakespeare's best known works?

Fr Looby thought for a moment. Then, sucking in his teeth in that little way he had, he said "Peter, the advantage of working in Clongowes is that its very easy to cast the plebeians"

And then, mirthfully, he sucked his teeth even louder.

Over forty years on, I have reflected on what Fr Looby said to me that day.

There was no doubt an element of jest in his remark. But was it really fair to configure the word plebeian with the year that brought the Leinster Senior Cup home after decades of hurt?

The year which delivered an unprecedented Leaving Cert performance of such magnificence that it lifted the school several rungs up the school performance table as published by the Irish Times?

The year which has gone on to deliver extraordinary contributions to law, medicine, journalism, business, politics and house flipping.

There can only be one answer. Yes.

For there was one aspect of the 1978 generation that was not just plebeian, it was positively cretinous.

I bow to no man in my appreciation of the work of Francis Fitzpatrick, Tigger O'Beirne and others who have contributed to this magnificent blog. The memoirs of Suetonius pale in comparison to the vivid pen pictures that these writers have painted of legends like Ben Sherry, Pop Casey, Headmaster Crowe, Gerry Lynch, and the woman they called the Soup Dragon.

However no one can understand what it was like to grow up in the senior echelons of the school between 1976 and 1978 without mentioning the word SUPERTRAMP.

Ok to modern eyes Supertramp are a footnote in musical history. They enjoyed some commercial success in the late 70's with their album Breakfast In America but, after the issue which all greasy haired hippy greenish groups like them always split over, ie money, their musical reputation has been significantly eclipsed by time and taste.

Consequently I crave indulgence from younger readers who surely cannot fathom the ubiquity with which this bunch of hairy veggies dominated the cultural tastes of the greatest year that Clongowes have ever produced.

In the same way that i equate the Black Death with pustule blotched bodies being thrown onto a cart, i equate a walk down the cubicles of Poetry with the mind numbing screechings of Crime Of The Century and Crisis? What Crisis?

There was no refuge here. No "safe space".

From one end of the corridor you would hear "Dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer. You can put your hand on your head..OH NO!"

You would quicken your pace to get away from this. But just when Dreamer" would pipe down from one cubicle, Bloody Well Right would pipe up from another!

Right, you're bloody well right,you know you got a right to say". it went. And went.

The wanky lyrics were bad enough. Some of us could obviously equate with the lines "so you think your schooling's phoney/I guess its hard not to agree/You say it all depends on money/and who is in your family tree.... 

Sure, Pink Floyd mined that seam as well. But its one thing one person in the year liking Supertramp, another thing altogether when every tape recorder on the block is mass spewing drippy bollocks sung by a singer so high pitched he can only have had an elephant sitting on his balls when he went in to record.

Even In The Quietest Moments? There weren't any!

That was the one with the sound of air sirens and bomb warnings. Hey, war is hell everybody!

ill stop the lights here for a moment. One man offered a respite from the Supertramp virus.

That man was Con Clifford.

Not for him the stinky hippies. The poster on his wall was of a band now regarded as one of the finest in pop history.

While some sneered at their commercial perfect pop, history has awarded them the status of giants.

That band was Abba and Con Clifford got them well before most of the rest of us.

He told me once that he wanted to knob the blonde one in the dungarees but there was far, far more to it than that.

Thank you Con.

For the most part, I had to keep my feelings to myself. How can you argue with the taste of so many? The masses were totally against me, high as kites in their Supertrampian heaven. Dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer...continued to pur out of the cheap, overworked cassette players up and down, day in day out.

But there was one moment of revenge! A few hours when I thought that the suffering had been worthwhile.

One day, word got around that Supertramp were playing Dublin.

Supertrampers hugged themselves in ecstasy. Piggybacks were broken into. Plans were hatched for the night out of the year.

But, a few months later, there was even better news.

THE CONCERT WAS CANCELLED!!!!!!!!!!

I remember putting my hand on Tiggers shoulders. "Jesus, thats shit, Tigger"

Even though my heart was dancing at Lughnasa at this absolutely brilliant news, I still found time to console the inconsolable.

"Maybe they will reschedule?"

Thats the Clongowes way, isnt it? To reach out to those who are rock bottom while keeping a straight face.

Well, that forty years gone. And so, by and large have Supertramp joining the likes of Aztec bars and clackers in the dustbin of history though they may still may be big in Gdansk or Sverdlosk .

I think I'm over them. if Rossa wants to sing Dreamer at the reunion I wont start shaking or getting flashbacks. 

I'll just throw my slop bowel at him!

All rights reserved - Peter Howick