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 

Charles Bronson, Jill Ireland and Double Ben

It’s a wet Sunday night, around 10.30, must have been January 1977. 

As the lights come back on, 350 boys file out of the hall. They have just watched the second instalment of three, as Charles Bronson singled-handedly takes out an entire neighbourhood of south Detroit. Testosterone fills the air. Plastic bins are kicked. We make our way up to our own night-neighbourhoods; the 5th. Year rooms, Main Street, the Rat’s Hole and The Hotel. 

Up in the dorms, groups huddle. The plot is discussed; the final scene in which a blood-stained Charles Bronson stumbles home to a semi-dressed Jill Ireland, being the most analysed. 

Ten minutes later, were tucked up in bed. The rain drives against the window. I check the time. 11.20. Sleep won’t come. The familiar knot in my stomach grows. Sunday night. No amount of visualisation of Jill’s satin nightdress helps (those horse-hair mattresses tend to have that effect). 

11.30. Now only eight hours. The knot hardens; eight hours to the start of the new week. And that can only mean one thing; Monday morning, 9.15. Double-Ben. Double-chemistry; the cruellest possible start to any week. 

7.50. I drag myself out of bed. The last time I looked at a chemistry book was the previous Thursday. I have a bad feeling about this one. 

Ben Sherry RTE 

9.15. Class opens in the usual way. Ben stands with his back to the desk, rapping with his knuckles against it in the now familiar alertness test…clakity clak clak. Nervously we respond with our feet; clak, clak. (Did he really do it hide a flatulence problem?) Either way, the distraction is welcome, but we know that blood-letting is not far away. 

Silence falls. I keep my head down. Eye contact is lethal. My location in the class - midway down the centre row - has been carefully selected. Avoiding the front and definitely the back. Across the aisle from me is Ollie Dyar and directly in front of me is David Nunes; the two potential Crick & Watsons of the class. The tactic - up until now - has worked pretty well; surrounding myself with such chemical talent has meant I have been free-wheeling in their slipstream and have largely gone unnoticed. 

Until this morning. 

It starts innocently enough. Some routine questions about the weekends theme-work, answered solidly by some of the reliable's at the front. But then he starts working his way down the centre row, quickly progressing to the second row, his frustration palpable, as he’s not getting the answers he expects. I throw a sideways glance at Ambrose beside me (I call him Ben to this day!). We both know danger is coming our way. Like me his head is down. And like me, I can see he’s ashen-faced. 

Without warning Ben (the real one) skips the row in front of us and decides to lob a grenade towards the back of the class. Afraid to turn around, I can now hear this grenade has landed firmly on Con Clifford’s lap and already he is on his feet, having to bring his copy book up for further scrutiny. When Ben asks him why his work has not been done, Con replies meekly (with one of the greatest ever lines) “I’ve been building up my notes.” 

Clifford is sent out of the class in shame; giving the rest of us precious minutes to get some oxygen on board and our act together. 

Ben resumes the interrogation. With horror, I now realise he has reverted to his original order, working his way down our row; the holy grail of what he’s looking for being the correct definition of the effect of potassium and magnesium ions in a water solution (how sad is that, that I remember?). 

Jill Ireland

But now, he introduces a new mind-game. As he receives each incorrect answer, there is a stretched moment of tension as each victim is dispatched. But more worryingly, the next one is now given a higher title; his way of raising the stakes. 

“Mr. Healy, would you care to help us?” Not the answer he’s looking for. Gerry is sent to the door. 

“DOCTOR Hickey?” Chickey makes a gallant effort, but to no avail. 

Dangerously close now. My non-writing hand is shaking so much I have to sit on it. And as I do so, I hear the words. Time freezes. And everything goes into slow-motion. 

“PROFESSOR O’Beirne. Would you care to share YOUR theories with us on this?” 

Time stands still. I’m on my feet but my knees are shaking. Doing my best to look intelligent. I look around. Hoping my eyes can make contact with some key allies remaining; Rossa? Mike? Greg? But it’s heads down all round. There are no life-belts being thrown my way. Sink or swim. This is a lonely place. 

I blurt out an answer. It’s a version of one I’ve heard earlier but with one grammatical change that somehow stuck in my head from my short Thursday reading; I added the words other than (Again sad, I know - that I remember)… “ hardness in water is caused by the presence of ionic solutions OTHER THAN potassium and magnesium…”. 

The answer is met with a stony silence. Ben stands expressionless, tapping the top of his desk. This could be the final straw. Full explosive mode may now be just a tap away. The tension hangs there and is stretched. 

In silence, Ben stops tapping and reaches down behind his desk. I wondered what form of humiliation was in store. Airborne missiles were not out of the question. He walks down to me and places a black metal box on my desk. He opens it and asks me to put my hand in. 

I do as he says; hardly able to place my shaking hand in it. 

I pull out two wrapped boiled sweets. 

He smiles. Shakes my hand and asks me to sit down. I do so, my heart still thumping. 

Twenty minutes later and we’re out of there. Double chemistry was followed by Pat Sheary’s history. John Fennell’s biology brought us to lunchtime. By then normal service had resumed and we were all laughing. 

The rain had stopped. After lunch, we went for a walk around the track and on the way to 2.00 class, I found the two forgotten sweets in my pocket; nothing ever tasted as good. 

By then the first day of the week was nearly over. Only six days to the next instalment of Charles Bronson and Jill. The stomach knot would be back, but I knew it would never be as bad again. After class. More laughing. With my friends. My brothers. Happy, happy days. Never to be forgotten. 

TOB. 

E mail: tobarch@gmaitobarch@gmail.com

If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this article certain organisations may be able to provide help and advice.