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

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

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.

The First Pupils

On May 18th 1814 the first pupil, James McLorinan of Dublin was admitted to the school. His parents were drapers and belonged to the evolving prosperous class of Catholics who were willing to take advantage of the classical education, which Fr Kenney proposed to offer. The annual fee was 50 guineas, and the boys spent 11 months in the school with the annual holidays confined to the month of August.

Students were accepted from the age of seven. In winter they rose at 6am and retired at 8.45pm each day. In summer they rose at 5am and retired also at 8.45pm. The school uniform consisted of a cap made from rabbit skin, a blue blazer with brass buttons, a yellow cashmere waistcoat and corduroy trousers.

The first three Rectors were Fr Peter Kenney (1814-1817), Fr Charles Aylmer (1817-1820) and Fr Bartholomew Esmonde (1820-1821). Fr Kenney came back in 1821 and remained until 1830 when Fr Esmonde returned. In 1814 all three were young men. Fr Kenney was only thirty five while Frs Aylmer and Esmonde were both in their twenties. The fact that a large number of wealthy, sophisticated, middle-class parents of the period were willing to entrust the welfare of their sons to such young and inexperienced men for eleven months of the year, is ample testimony to the esteem and respect they had for the Jesuit system of education.

The reputation of the College spread rapidly and by 1815 there were 110 pupils enrolled. This figure rose alarmingly in 1816 to 201. It is difficult to ascertain where such a large number were accommodated. Various suggestions include the castle itself and in the castle yard where the Wogan Brownes’ stables, outhouses and offices were located. One thing was certain; the school was overcrowded and that overcrowding combined with a poor quality water supply led to a major outbreak of typhus in the College in 1819. Fr Aylmer, reacting to medical advice and to the concerns of the parents, closed the school and sent the students home for six months.

This hiatus enabled him to embark on an extensive building programme, which was to transform the College campus dramatically. 1819-1820 saw the construction of the Lower Line Building (now the Concourse) and the Higher Line Gallery (now the 1966 Building). The Higher Line Building was famous for its long gallery. Lewis, in his Topographical Dictionary of Ireland (1837), states that the corridor was, ‘more than 300 feet long’. This period also saw the construction of a shorter gallery parallel to the Lower Line Building. This is now the People’s Church.

Despite all the building, when the students returned in September 1819 the numbers had dropped significantly to somewhat over 100. The figure of 200 was not reached again until 1886 with the amalgamation of Tullabeg and Clongowes. Fr Kenney returned as Rector in 1821. He realised with just over 100 students in the school that he wouldn’t require the two-storey building that ran parallel to the Lower Line Building and which consisted of classrooms and dormitories. In August 1822 he converted it into a chapel for the boys and it became the People’s Church in 1907.

This material is largely taken from A Short History of Clongowes Wood College, which was privately published in 2011 by Mr Brendan Cullen, a local historian and formerly teacher of history in Clongowes (1971-2007). It is reproduced here by kind permission of the author.

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