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