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 

Brendan Rumley 1959-1999

Brendan came home for a holiday from Peru and I was working with Thomas Cook travel agents during that time and had travel facilities, Not being married myself I could nominate someone to get the same privileges as myself. Anyway, I sent him to the US for a holiday.

During that time was when he got ill.. He went from state to state and from hospital to hospital and after tests and more tests they could not find what the cause wa. He arrived home shortly before Christmas in 1999 and was sent to the Mater Private in Dublin and they tested him. A few days later they told him that he had Lymphatic Cancer and had it for some time.. 

It had progressed very fast and they told him that it might be likely that he would only last 6 months.. He had chemo after chemo and died in the Mater in June 1999. He had asked me to take him to Peru to die but KLM would not accept him unless his blood count was at the level that they required. He had several blood transfusions but did not seem to help.

So when he passed away I had him cremated and ashes were placed in our village Church Ballymacoda Co Cork, as well as the J's in Glasnevin . He is interred in the alter at Cristo Rey in Tacna Peru where he was based and loved so much.. 

Regarding the Irish language yes he loved it. He always joked about a kids school story called ""an sceal fe bo"... don't know anything about it but he would always ask if we had read the book.

Fr Brendan Rumley SJ

Born: Cork, 12 December 1959

Entered Jesuits:  27 September 1977
First Vows: 27 September 1979
Ordained: 30 August 1992

First Mass Wednesday 2 Sept 1992

Died: Dublin, 24 June 1999

Kind Regards

Clem Rumley

If - Rudyard Kipling

"If you can keep your head when all about you 

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, 

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too; 

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; 

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; 

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 

And treat those two impostors just the same; 

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken 

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings 

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 

And lose, and start again at your beginnings 

And never breathe a word about your loss; 

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 

To serve your turn long after they are gone, 

And so hold on when there is nothing in you 

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’ 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, 

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 

If all men count with you, but none too much; 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, 

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, 

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!"

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.

A Swan for a Day - Eamon Doohan

God made the world (or so it seemed to me in Third Line) and divided Mankind into those who were good at competitive sport and really interested in it, and those of us who were no good at all at sport and almost completely disinterested in it. Some guys made a God out of sport almost. I, however, was something of a sport atheist . 

The daily humiliation of the very public Picking of Teams Ceremony when classes ended at 4 O'clock reinforced my detachment from organised sport. The best players would be the Captains, and they would pick their teams in descending order of footballing talent: ''I'll have Tigger. You can take Mike. I want Con. You can have Dida''. And so on down the ranks of players from the really good, to the mediocre to the pretty awful . 

And then...to me. Medical experts call this (and I pass it on to you without a trace of self-pity) the Ugly Duckling Syndrome. 

Years passed. Competitive sport became optional (Phew !) and in Poetry and Rhetoric, Joe Prendiville and I took to jogging every day up the Big Avenue, down past the post office on the road outside the College grounds and back in to school by the winding side avenue. God, how sweet a thing it was to be eighteen years of age with the heat of the sun on your face and the smell of cut grass filling the air, running up that long, long avenue with its magnificent trees swaying in the breeze and getting taller and taller as you neared them and receding again as you passed them by. 

Somebody must have noticed us because in April of Rhetoric year, completely out of the blue, we were asked to represent the school at an athletics meeting in King's Hos in the 5,000m. Our friends thought this was hilarious. So did we, to be honest. But then we thought: ' Why not ? This opportunity will never come our way again. All that running must have done us some good. We weren't going to take it that seriously and anyway, what could possibly go wrong ? ' 

Maybe, I could put the Ugly Duckling behind me, and emerge, ahem, as an athletic swan, so to speak . 

A hint of self-doubt began to dawn on the two of us as we got off the bus at King's Hos and met our opponents. They were preparing for the nationals, they informed us. 

The nationals ? What nationals ? we asked mystified . 

The Irish National Athletics Championship, they replied. Were we any good, they asked (a tad indelicately, I thought ), because timing was everything in their quest to qualify for the Championship. With the precision of synchronised swimmers in the Olympics, Joe and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. On reflection, synchronised swimming would perhaps have been a better sport for us to represent CWC in. The thought crossed my mind that maybe the reason this honour was bestowed on us was because nobody else would do it.  'Aeterna non caduca', I muttered under my breath . 

And boy, were these boy-racers serious ... they were Alfa-Romeo's and Lamborghini's to our Morris Minors. They were absolute greyhounds... and whatever about Joe, who was built like a whippet ... I was more akin to the English Sheepdog in the Dulux Weathershield ad on TV than any greyhound ... amiable and well-meaning, but essentially useless.

Photo @rgmcdermott

The 'race 'started. I took up my usual jogging-down-the-Big-Avenue pace. The greyhounds cracked off at great speed and were soon on the other side of the running track to us. Joe pulled away from me to at least give the impression of providing some competition to them. After the first two laps, Joe had stretched his lead on me and was now on the other side of the track and the King's Hos boys were nowhere to be seen . Where could they possibly be, I wondered naively? My heart sank as the sound of their running shoes on the track behind me got louder and louder. Effortlessly, they cruised past me, and on to catch Joe. It was both funny and cringingly awful at the same time, and I was suddenly seized by an uncontrollable and entirely inappropriate fit of nervous giggles at the absurdity of the situation I found myself in. Giggling and running, let me tell you, are a bad combination 

Public humiliation and complete physical exhaustion got the better of me I'm afraid, and before I could be lapped for a second time (and before I dropped dead), I dropped out. Embarrassed and ashamed at leaving Joe in the lurch like this, I stood at the side of the track to at least give him some moral support as he bravely battled on with that steely determination of his . 

Joe as it turned out didn't want my moral support. As he came alongside me, and my mouth formed the words 'I'm sorry ', his mouth clearly formed the words 'you Bastard' back at me, then 'Traitor ' as he came back on the last lap 

Long after the greyhounds had finished, Joe finally made it to the finishing line, his sporting honour intact. Mine was in shreds. Again. All was forgiven as we boarded the bus back to Clongowes. My day of athletic swannery was over. 

Eamon Doohan OC'78

Email: Eamon.Doohan.Z00602 @ gp.hscni.net

The Final Frontier - Rhetoric 1977-78

Its’ Friday of the May Bank holiday last year 2017, I’m just wrapping up looking forward to a chilling out weekend, the phone rings at 4.30pm - I answer it. Our Family Doctor, Breda Clifford says she needs to see me urgently, can I come to her Clinic before 5pm. I respond surely this can wait until Tuesday morning - she advises no, sorry I need to come in now. Denise my wife drives us in. Breda advises she was agonising over the call, but had to make it..............the innocuous wart that was removed last week from my stomach has been analysed by the Lab.......its’ melanoma........serious.......there are 2 types (a) one that grows down.....its’ fatal there is no cure and (b) the one that grows across.........I need a further operation under Specialist care to determine which it is. 

On Tuesday morning I meet Mr Ormond at St James’ Hospital, one of the premier skin specialists in Ireland. It will take a week or 10 days to determine which type of melanoma......I have......all sorts of thoughts have gone off in my mind.........I’m not ready to go.......I’m just on the way back from the wipe out of the Celtic Tiger......financially I can’t leave.......my eldest boy is in his first year of university post CWC.......he’s not ready to take over our business.......my Christian Faith .....kicks in........its’ in God’s hands now.........a surprising calm grips me........the next week is a haze.........the operation is a success.......I have the melanoma that is curable.......a three inch scar is all that remains.........thankfully I will make our 40th Reunion in October 2018........life is a precious gift must be treasured like never before. 

It is the 2nd of September 1977, my brother and I arrive at the Castle, this is my final year at CWC.......the Leaving Certificate will determine our future lives/careers....the game has just got serious. We are all assigned rooms in the 6th year block I am sandwiched between Danno Farrington and Morgan Flynn......we are trusted to study on our own........it’s up to us now. My cube is pretty comfortable - and like all paths in life there is a temptation to “coast and take the easy route” rather than “front up and study hard”........perhaps like the majority of CWC students and most teenagers worldwide, I probably took the path of least resistance and only studied when I absolutely had to. 

Rugby in September 1977 was everything - to misquote Churchill, “if CWC survives for 1,000 years perhaps its’ finest hour was the SCT Cup win of 17 March 1978”.........congrats to Greg, Freddie, Doggo, Johnny, Ambrose, Coyno, Con, Barry, Wally, Mark, Tim, Redmond, Gerry, to the Poetry Players and panel 1.......magnificent. Praise also for our Coaches - Mocky and Vinnie Murray are up there with Joe Schmidt......superb. One memory I have is the Irish Independent headline after our win in the quarter finals v. Pres Bray “Browne the Toast of Clongowes”. Freddie had scored 2 tries.........it was surreal our rugby heroes were celebrities and well deserved. I will sign off on the rugby side of the Cup success now - that Story deserves to be told by one of the Cup heroes themselves. 

With apologies in advance to non SCT winners, our year will always be associated with that magnificent win and this final blog is written on that basis. 

As a fan and spectator my memories of the 17th March win are still to this day vivid......just before kick-off Gucks tells me......he would swap his 2 precious “All Ireland winning medals” to be on the pitch....... an 18-year-old playing for your school in the final must be akin to a day in heaven. The Final whistle rings out and CWC led by Greg has achieved the impossible, bridged the 52-year gap and brought the holy grail back home to CWC....magic.......now the serious partying begins. A room has been hired in Jurys......gate crashing skills are required....Team only......I evade security as a Free Bar awaits...... 

I only find out later that thanks to the generosity of the Dads’ of Greg, Freddie, Johnny and Barry......there is a free bar for at least 3 hours........wonderful....I get acquainted with “Harvey Wall Bangers, Jameson”....we toast the mighty success.... it might be another 52 years....... 

Nottingham Forest under the legendary Brian Clough storm the 1st Division after having been promoted and surprisingly win. Ipswich win the F A Cup causing a massive shock beating Arsenal 1-0. Wales win the 5 Nations and Triple Crown. Elvis is number 1 in September with “Way Down”, his tragic death on the 16th August at the tender age of 42 traumatized music lovers throughout the world. 

Tigger is made school captain - rightly so - his charismatic personality fully deserves the position.......a popular choice. We all settle down to the school routine pretty quickly, teachers in class are listened to attentively, gut instinct warns from within, a decent leaving certificate will lead to greater opportunities. The CAO points system is competitive and being from Clongowes doesn’t carry any extra marks - results only will determine our University choices. 

The CAO form is complex, and choices have to made - we can’t leave life decisions on the long finger any more - I decide I want to be a Lawyer.......calculate that I need decent grades in at least 5 of my 6 honours subjects....it is achievable, but discipline is in short supply I’m not enjoying my first month back as I’m not part of the Senior Panel. I line out for the thirds.........I play well in the first game scoring 2 tries and kicking all of the penalties and conversions, but then my stubbornness, one of my unfortunate vices kicks in........why should I bust a gut playing thirds when I have no chance of moving up. I quit and sulk....

Meanwhile most of my friends are on the Senior Panel and I am consigned to a year with the intellectuals, swots, smokers, comedians......all good company, but really all I wanted was to play rugby. In my first year at UCD I played U-19 for Belvo being picked ahead of a couple of our cup winning team......a small crumb of redemption....served cold and too late to make any difference. A life lesson.......you don’t always get what you want........painful and character forming....a perfect foundation for life. 

There are plenty of extracurricular activities other than sports........there are auditions for the School Play “Coriolanus”......budding thespians congregate and learn their roles, lines and parts, under the tutelage of Johnny Looby SJ. I audition and get a minor part with Con, both of us play “Roman Soldiers”..........I see first-hand the dedication and effort that it takes to put on a superb performance. “Tender Egan” is a smash hit in the Lead Role........he delivers an Oscar winning performance. The cast and crew are given a celebration dinner in the Castle, a 5 course Steak extravaganza served by white gloved waiters, treading the boards has its’ perks. 

Ollie Dyar, Rossa, DJ and Cormac deliver excellent Academy papers. Sean MacBride, the son of Maud Gonne, an international statesman and former politician comes to give a moving talk to the school. Higher Line debating prepares future Senior Counsel, and Solicitors for their roles.........Clongowes caters to all of its’ participants. Eamon Doohan wins the Palles Gold Medal with Peter Howick bagging another Palles - silver on this occasion. James Binchy winning the Palles for Maths. 

We have 2 Socials with Rathnew and Dominican Convent Wicklow - self-proclaimed lotharios claim major romantic success.......but it’s all innocent and most of it probably imagined. Certainly 2 good nights out. We are expected to attend a Retreat in Manresa House in Ranelagh. James Binchy and I go together when our turn comes in early November. 2 days of a mixed retreat with Mount Anville, St Theresians and other South Dublin girls’ Schools isn’t too bad at all. Boys from Belvo, Michaels and Gonzaga make up the numbers. 

The Jesuit methods clearly have their endearing sides. I’m told by the Presiding Jesuit Retreat Leader that his assessment is, I’m a well-rounded Clongowes Boy ready for life’s adventure........if he only knew....I was bleeding inside......I just want to be part of panel 1 and not be on the side-lines....Sport was everything for me, nothing else mattered. 

The Cup starts in February, an easy win against Masonic. Pres Bray prove to be difficult opponents however Freddie’s heroics sort them out. We are in the semi-finals at Lansdowne Road against St Michael’s.........a close encounter....we edge through. Celebrations begin in earnest.......we are unable to control our thirst for Guinness, Harp and a chaser.......watching the clock as we leave Jurys .......we have to be back at Batchelors’ Walk for 9.30pm. We straggle back.......the team has gone for its’ meal.......the rest of us jump on the number 46a bus much the worse for wear.......and just about clamber onto the Bartons’ bus home to Clongowes. 

We are in various stages of inebriation.........a warm feeling engulfs those of us who stuck to the Guinness....those who took chasers are in a different league and much the worse for it. We have an hour to sober up.........some of us don’t make it. Mocky meets us at the front of the Castle. I hold Titch Kelly up with the help of Felix........we get him to his room. Others are not so lucky...........there is an emergency meeting called the next day. Conduct unbecoming Clongownians is not acceptable even if we are celebrating a SCT semi-final victory, as rare as a blue moon. Authorities must make an example of a few.......suspensions are issued to Johnno, Morgan, Jack and one other whom I can’t remember. 

Pleas of understanding are made by Tigger as school captain and indeed myself as a member of the School Council........they fall on deaf ears. At the declamation/meeting Peter Howick makes the best point using his comedic talent to great effect.......he exclaims that its’ impossible to celebrate an SCT semi-final win, with a slice of Pizza! 

The Cup Celebration takes place in the Refectory after Easter. Surviving members of the 1929 Team return.......the baton has been passed....the SCT CUP is enshrined in all its’ glory in a trophy outside the refectory. A magnificent dinner ensues with all invited - except the majority of 6th year who weren’t on panel 1........fair enough.......one special memory is that Robert and myself borrow a Roast Turkey from under the Chef’s eyes and gorge on same in the warm summer evening in front of the castle.........even the uninvited are entitled to celebrate! 

There is a concert arranged and highlights include Johnno a la Rock Star Donnelly and his band crooning out the 6th Year Block, a special rendition of “Jailhouse Rock”.......one of the lines seared on the memory is “little Titch Kelly on his side trombone”. Con sang a Bernie Flint song, and there was comedy from Tigger and Birdie, with the Muppets song being rebranded as “It’s time to put on purple....its’ time to put on white”, by our own CWC quartet..........Peter Howick comedian acts as MC......X Factor eat your heart out! 

We are now deep into the summer term, exams just weeks away. A certain “Joe Foyle” arrives to offer us “speed reading tips” at a price. A number of us sign up - Bob Krieger remarks that Joe’s Rolex looks pretty expensive........obviously earning so much on the promise of teaching speed reading to mugs like us! One thing I have always remembered from that encounter is that the smooth-talking Mr Foyle remarked “The Guy who’s doing nothing is working the hardest”.........a life lesson. And yes, the speed reading was worth every penny! 

Alcoholics Anonymous come to give Rhetoric a talk - a notice goes up on our Board - “Voluntary attendance except for 2 named members of our year who are mandatory attendants ........at 40 years remove and knowing my Editors’ reluctance to allow any potential additional earnings for Senior Counsel via Libel claims.......I will not reveal names. That said I have great respect for our Jesuit educators....they got more things right than wrong........and the 2 gentlemen probably did benefit from the event! 

The last Sunday in May comes around too fast - our final month in Clongowes is upon us. There were a couple of noteworthy issues at school council level. As 40 years have now passed, the official CWC secrecy rules no longer apply. My first reveal is that Brother Joe was not happy with the treatment he received post the CWC SCT victory.......I was consigned along with Greg and Rossa....to broker a peace deal by the School Council. I strenuously pointed out that I was not on Brother Joe’s Christmas card list to say the least, I was told to carry out my duties. I went along........in fairness Brother Joe had trained the team at U13’S level and deserved some praise/acknowledgement....which he accepted from our delegation. 

The other reveal is that Doggo won the Aloysius by a short head - there was a very worthy runner up - it possibly should have been a dead heat. Another life lesson......sometimes you will never know how close you were......by the way the name of the runner up is not to be revealed. 

We had a final farewell dinner with the Jesuits and Teaching Staff and our esteemed editor has already circulated a copy of the menu and signatures in his excellent email updates. Mick O’Dowd our Deputy Headmaster made a memorable speech - he spoke about values and integrity, and standing up for what is right, we were now ready to face the world. We closed with “Auld Lang Syne” - and went our separate ways. 

And so, to finish we were born in 1960 (Not all of us - The Editor ) and made in Clongowes Wood College.

Written by Francis Fitzpatrick OC'78    @fitzlaws

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