OUT AND ABOUT

abbeyfeale on line

OUT AND ABOUT

Edited Sunday, March 24, 2002 04:33 PM

Places to visit;

Julia Twomey`s Bar ....;Jack O`Rourke`s Bar & Hostel ....;Fitzgerald`s Farmhouse

Leen`s Hotel; --; Cellar Bar; Radio Limerick One ;-; Limerick Leader ;;Cyber Cafe

IMPENDING NUPTIALS!

With the arrival of spring, romance is very much in the air around Abbeyfeale at the moment, and rumours of impending marriage nuptials abound.
A local barmaid was seen closely examining the array of sparkling engagement rings in an Argos catalogue recently, when she might have been far more gainfully employed in filling pints for thirsty customers. The young serving wench eventually decided on a gold- plated, uninscribed plain band that retailed at a reasonable E13.75. Her choice was greeted with much delight (and relief) by her betrothed, who saw no reason for spending good money on such frivolities. He intends going down on one knee to pop the question in the Argos Shop in Cruises Street as soon as the young serving wench has paid for her purchase and has collected it from the service counter. Like the rest of us, this fellow is just a soppy, romantic fool where women are concerned!
Meanwhile, a member of the local teaching profession also seems to be contemplating taking a quiet and unobserved little stroll along the Matrimonial Path. This particular muinteoir has lately been observed making furtive trips to the West of Ireland for clandestine assignations with a raven-haired Colleen Gaeleach from the wild and craggy slopes of Connemara. (Is cosuil go bfhuil an taispeach ag eiri leis!) A hush-hush wedding in Rome had been tentatively arranged during the summer holidays. However, all hopes of holding an anonymous and secret ceremony were dashed when the muinteoir had a drop too much to drink in a local hostelry one night and, in a fit of unprovoked passion, he inadvertently spilled the beans and, by word of mouth, invited all and sundry to the nuptials! Ryanair have announced numerous extra charter flights to Italy, and it appears that half of Abbeyfeale will now be in the Eternal City on the 28th August next! What a jolly caper that should turn out to be
We shall, of course, continue to monitor these and other stories and we shall bring you the plain, unvarnished truth, just as soon as we have manufactured it.

CHRISTMAS PRESENT, CHRISTMAS PAST
by
Raymond Fennelly
Christmas is down on the door with us again but, as the fellow says, "Isn `t it Christmas every day now!" Abbeyfeale is beginning the look particularly festive with the colouful street illuminations and the attractive window displays in the various shops and, of course, the Christmas trees and the famous plastic Santa Claus images that mysteriously appear on various walls and shop fronts at this time of the year , and just as mysteriously disappear again as soon as Christmas is over.
Christmas has changed dramatically over the years. There was a time when people, young and old, looked forward with joyous anticipation to the arrival of the Christmas Season and spent months in advance preparing for it. Nowadays, many people face the prospect of Christmas with mock dread. "Will it ever be over?" they moan, and enquire" What was all the fuss about?" when it is over. We are, I fear, becoming a tad cynical in our old age.
Anyhow, today perhaps we might indulge ourselves and take a light-hearted and somewhat nostalgic look at Christmas, past and present, here in Abbeyfeale, and recall times and events that might bring an occasional smile or an odd tear to the eye. I cannot, of course, vouch for the accuracy or truth of any of the following events, as they were related to me in various taverns around the town, and by various shadowy individuals who demanded as payment, both anonimity and several balls malt. I am merely the messenger in all of this, and entirely almost blameless.
Kerryman Is No Joke!
Back in the fifties, the Christmas Variety Concert was eagerly awaited each year and people would be queing for hours and literally hanging from the rafters once they got inside in the hall. At that time, there was no television and very little in the way of organized entertainment apart from the rambling houses and the cards games and the odd dance. People had to make their own entertainment and when a travelling show arrived in town, it was a guaranteed sell-out.
Anyway, I recall attending one such concert in the late fifties (I was still a babe-in-arms) when a little bit of a `divarsion` occurred that was not exactly on the programme
The concert was an excellent production, complete with musicians, dancers, singers, funny sketches, monologues, recitations, storytelling and various other bits and pieces that were part and parcel of all concerts at that time.
The central attraction was a famous ventriloguist from Dublin who was rumoured to be very big in the metropolis. (He was also pretty ample in the girth) However, the real star of the show was the ventriloguist`s dummy - a little chap all dressed up in a green suit and a peeked cap and with tiny little brogues on his feet. And the way that he would sit on your man`s lap and roll his eyes and turn his head and smile and answer back when your man asked him a question. The crowd adored him, and roared with laughter every time he gave out a smart answer. And the banter went back and forth between the two of them as the ventrilogist hopped ball after ball and the little lad fielded every one of them.
They joked about politics, religion, drink, farmers, County Council workers, the state of the roads, the price of cattle, and numerous other subjects that were topical at the time. And, as the cheers got louder, the ventriloguist got bolder and began to stray in to more risque material, the content of which I will leave to your imagination. It did not matter. In the eyes of the crowd he could do no wrong. They stomped and they hollered and they whistled and they clapped and they cheered and they cried out for more until the old hall shook to it`s very foundations.
Now, if the ventriloguist had the good sense to quit while he was still ahead, all would have been well. But he just could not leave well and good alone. At the height of all the hilarity, he committed a cardinal sin - he launched in to Kerryman Joke!
I won`t repeat the joke here because it transcends the bounds of decency and good taste. And anyway, a lot of Kerry Folk visit Abbeyfeale and buy The Weekly Observer and most of them know where I live. Suffice it to say that this particular joke called into question the intelligence and the manliness and the virility of Kerrymen everywhere.
"Did you hear about the Kerryman who .......?" the ventriloguist asked.
"I did, indeed." replied the little dummy. "He tried to ......with his .........but couldn`t ..............!"
Well! Can you imagine it. A Dublinman having the cheek to tell a Kerryman Joke - and in Abbeyfeale of all places! Half of Abbeyfeale is owned by Kerrymen. (and they think they own the other half as well) It was a certain recipy for disaster and you could cut the silence with a knife.
"He tried to ......... with his ...............but couldn`t .............. !" the ventiloguist desperately tried again, thinking that they hadn`t understood the punch line.
That did it! Up from the back of the hall strode this six foot seven inch giant of a man from Lyrocrompane and, with the dint of bad temper and taisbeach rising up like steam out of him, he let flow a torrent of verbal abuse, the likes of which was not meant for the tender ears of our gentle readers here present.
The ventriloguist was taken completely aback by such a sudden and alarming turn of events and attempted to stutter out an apology, but the man from Lyrocrompane was having none of it.
"I`m not talking to you!" he snapped. "I am talking to that little gurrier on your knee!"
The Price Is Right.
Christmas, of course, is a particularly busy time for shopkeepers, as people buy presents for friends and loved-ones and stock up on food, drink and other accessories to tide them through the festive season. And the shopkeepers, Bless them, would always give a little present to their regular customers as a sort of a thank you for their patronage over the previous year - a grain of tea, a pinch of sugar, a barm-brack, a fist of gallon-sweets, a chew of tobacco, that kind of thing. Nowadays, shopkeepers hold Christmas Draws and give out free tickets to customers to draw for valuable prizes such as bicycles, hampers, sets of ware, bottles of whiskey and various other commodities.
In a certain harberdashery in Abbeyfeale last Christmas, a very unusual and amusing incident took place. A comely young maiden from Knocknaboul entered the shop in question and proceeded to examine some colouful roles of ribbon.
The lad behind the counter was a bit of an eejit but he fancied himself as something of a "ladies man" and he began to preen himself like a prize peacock, straightening his tie and checking his flies and slicking down his hair with spit before approaching the delectable young damsel from Knocknaboul and enquiring as to whether he might be of service.
"How much are you charging for the ribbon?" she asked
"To you," he replied with a sickening leer. "one kiss per yard."
"Fair enough." she replied. "I`ll have five yards, please."
Well! Your man was beside himself with delight. He measured out the ribbon, cut it with a scissors and wrapped it neatly in Christmas paper and presented the package to the young lady.
"That will be five kisses." he smirked.
"Very well." she replied. She turned and beckoned to a little old man with a toothless grin and a two-day growth of beard who had followed her in to the shop, and said; "My grandfather will pay!"

Man Or Mouse?
Christmas, of course, is all about giving and receiving presents. In our day, we used to hang our stockings by the chimney at night and, if we were lucky, they would still be there in the morning. Nowadays it is all Playstations and Gameboys and computers and Barbi Dolls - and that`s just the fellows!
And, speaking of computers, the evening classes at the local Vocational School are proving very popular again this year, particularly the French Language Classes which are drawing huge crowds.
And, just before they closed for the Christmas Break, the teacher was explaining to the class how, unlike English, all words in French are grammatically designated as masculine or feminine.
She invited pupils to suggest various words in every -day use and somebody came up with the word computer which, the teacher confessed, she was not really sure about as it wasn`t in her French dictionary. For fun she split the class into two groups, appropriately enough, by gender and asked them to decide whether "computer" should be a masculine or feminine noun. Both groups were required to give four reasons for their recommendation.
The lads decided that computers should definitely be of the feminine gender because: 1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic; 2. The language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else; 3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long-term memory for possible later retrieval; and 4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your wages on accessories for it.
The women, however, concluded that computers should be masculine, because: 1. In order to get their attention, you have to turn them on; 2. They have a lot of data but they are still clueless; 3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and 4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you'd waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model!
One For The Road.
Christmas would not be the same without the occasional small libation - the little whacker of brandy, the Baby Powers, the hot toddy of rum, the dainty glass of lager, the gallon of porter. And most publicans still observe the time-honoured ritual of "standing" a drink to their regular customers at Christmas time. However, this custom is often roundly abused by unscrupolous blackguards who traipse around from pub to pub in search of free liquor, and imbibe drinks that they are not strictly and legally entitled to, while the poor publican might observe that his normal clientele would seem to have increased dramatically while profits continue to plummet.
Another practise that, sadly, is now almost extinct, is the granting of a "slate" to those who might be in temporary financial difficulties occasioned by a minor cash-flow problem stemming from a slight fiscal deficiancy in the balancing of the books. A sympathetic publican would immediately keep the wheels of commerce well oiled and turning by opening up an interest-free line of credit and granting your man unlimited access to all the drink that he and his cronies wanted, secure in the knowledge that, as soon as the creamery cheque arrived, he`d be back in to settle up all his outstanding debts. Our banks and lending insistutions could learn something from this. It is a sad state of affairs that you can cash a cheque instantly in a shop or pub - but not in your friendly local bank.!
Which brings us to the little man from Dromtrasna decided to delay in town for a while and celebrate Christmas Eve with a couple of drinks in the company of a few friends. Four o`clock in the morning, he staggered up the Hill Road and in the door of his house, much the worse for wear.
Herself was waiting for him of course, standing at the top of the stairs in dressing gown and hair curlers and brandishing a frying pan, and he could tell at once that she was not best pleased.
"Where were you `till this hour?" she demanded.
He knew he was a gonner, but he decided (perhaps foolishly) to fire one last defiant broadside and go down fighting..
"I would have been home long `go, Dearest" he said, "only that I bought something for the house."
"Ah, did you, Pet?" she said, perking up slightly. "And what did you buy for the house?"
"A drink." he replied, before his whole world collapsed down around him.
Out On a Limb.
And finally, you are probably wondering why a fairy is always placed on the top of the Christmas Tree. It is a question that wonderfully concentrates the minds of large sections of our community at this time of year. Indeed, around the glowing turf fires in Purt, Kilconlea, Cahir , Bogmount and various other areas in the locality, they talk of little else during the long winter nights leading up to Christmas.
Many many years ago in the dim and distant past, a small farmer from Grogeen was left minding the house one Christmas Eve morning while his good lady wife departed on a day-long shopping expedition to Abbeyfeale, leaving him with a long list of chores which were to be performed in her absence.
Mindful of the great responsibility that had been thrust upon him, the little farmer carefully mapped out his day. Firstly, he strolled down to the well for a bucket of fresh spring water. Then he cleared out the ashes and lit a new fire with cipins of bogdeal and sods of black turf, giving the bellows a hefty twist to get a good blaze going. Next, he hung a black pot on the crane over the fire and filled it with water before submerging in it the carcass of a large chicken, setting it to boil as per instructions.
Contented that matters were well in hand, he took down another bucket and went out to the shed and prepared to milk the cow. He carefully placed a stool beneath the nether-regions of the docile creature who stood there contentedly chewing her cud, and very soon he had a double jet of precious white liquid spraying in a steady rhythm into the bucket with steam and froth rising up out of it.
The bucket was just about to overflow when catastrophe struck. Bubbles, the householcat, had been sitting motionlessly on the high window ledge, closely observing a little wren who had been scrabbling furiously for grains of oats on the cow shed floor. Just as the wren was about to fly off, Bubbles pounced, missed his footing and landed with a mighty shriek and a clawing of sharp nails on the unprotected hind-quarters of the unsuspecting bovine.
Well! The cow jumped six feet in to the air, kicking with her hind legs and sending your man and the bucket of milk flying. The little farmer landed on his back in a big heap of manure with the upturned bucket spilling hot milk all over his lap. The cow meanwhile burst her chain, charged out the door and was last seen galloping gaily off in the direction of Mountcollins.
The little farmer picked himself up and gazed ruefully at the empty milk bucket. There would be no colouring for the tay that morning. Conscious of the terrible smell that was emanating from his clothes following his close encounter with the pile of manure, he headed for the house to change apparel. Just as he arrived at the door, the sheepdog came flying out past him with the carcass of the chicken gripped tightly in his jaws, and away with him in the same direction as the runaway cow.
Observing that matter were not now going at all as planned and that dinner might be a little late, he changed his clothes, placing the soiled articles over the crane to dry. Just then, he heard a further commotion from outside and, looking out the window, saw that the goat had broken into the vegetable patch abroad in the haggart and was gorging himself on cabbages and lettuce.
Out he ran, brandishing the four-pronged pike and the goat took off over the ditch, his spanselled legs making him appear to be running in a three-legged race as he headed in the same direction as the cow and the dog.
The little farmer sat down for a moment to catch his breath, but was up and running again almost immediately as he caught site of the thick black smoke rising from the chimney of his recently-vacated residence. A chimney fire in a thatched house was a serious occurrence.
He raced in the door and saw that the lately -disgarded garments hanging from the crane were burning fiercely up the chimney. He grabbed a shovel from behind the door and going in under the chimney breast he proceeded to poke the chimney in an attempt to dislodge the thick layers of soot.
He succeeded only too well. That chimney had not been cleaned for over twenty years and the deposits of soot had built up to a thickness of several feet. As soon as he disturbed it, the avalanche started and the soot cascaded down and the dark dust rose, enveloping both himself and the whole kitchen in a film of black powder.
He emerged from the hearth looking like Al Jolson. All that could be seen were the whites of his eyes. He sat down and looked with utter dismay at the scenes of carnage and destruction around him. He thought of his lady wife and began to wonder what hospital food might taste like. There would be no White Christmas this year.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. He opened it and there, standing before him was a young lady all dressed up as a fairy for Christmas.
"Good morning!" she said, brightly. "I`m here to deliver this Christmas Tree that your wife is after buying from us. Where would you like me to put it?"
So he told her. And thus began the custom of placing a fairy on top of the Christmas Tree each Christmas.
Weekly Observer 5/12/01

A FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK.

Raymond Fennelly

When Abbeyfeale man, Mikey Mahony, travelled to America, little did he know that he was about to embark on a world-wide tour with that well-known punk rocker and founder-member of The Pogues, the colourful Shane MacGowen.
The way Mikey tells it, he was this night in a bar in The Bronx enjoying a Bud with a few mates when he was introduced to MacGowen`s Road Manager. During the course of the evening the manager let slip that MacGowen was starting off his world tour with a gig in Boston at the weekend and they were looking for someone to do a few odd jobs, such as moving and setting up the equipment, selling tee-shirts and tapes, fine-tuning the bodhran and keeping some semblance of order among any attending groupies.
Mikey, who is a graduate of the Spike Murphy Academy of Excellence and Opportunism, immediately volunteered his services, and the following morning he flew to Boston where he met up with MacGowen and his entourage. The concert was a great success and MacGowen was so impressed with Mikey that he invited him to join the tour permanently.
And so it was that for the next several weeks Mikey found himself criss-crossing the United States and visiting such diverse places as New York, Chicago, LA, Dallas, Vegas, Nashville, Baton Rouge and all points in between. He travelled first-class, stayed in the best hotels, partook of the finest food and wine and enjoyed all the trappings associated with a successful rock tour.
Eventually, the American leg of the tour came to an end and the crew headed for Europe. Mikey`s proudest moment came when MacGowan played in Dolan`s Warehouse in Limerick last month and he was able to procure complimentary tickets for all his family and friends. MacGowan also made a less than impressive appearance on the Late Late Show at this time, but Mikey put that down to tiredness and jet lag. "That guy works sixteen hours a day," he explained. "and when he`s not performing and writing songs, he practices continuously and also gives numerous press interviews. He was totally shattered that night on the Pat Kenny Show."
Shane MacGowen has a cult following in many countries and his classic best-seller,Fairytale Of New York, is still selling and receiving extensive air play, particularly at Christmas.
Mikey claims that MacGowan`s reputation as a hell-raiser and a heavy drinker is greatly exaggerated. "I`d spill more in one night, than he wouldn`t drink in a week!" he claims, loyally.
There was also the rumour that Mikey took over from MacGowan during a gig in Rhode Island when the singer wasn`t feeling too well ,and that he gave his own inimitable rendition of A Rainy Night In Soho.
"That never happened." said Mikey. "I went on stage during the gig all right - but only to connect up a couple of wires that Shane had pulled out of the microphone. A local newspaper published a picture of me on stage and that`show the rumour got started. I sang the backing vocals for The Irish Rover that night, but there were five thousand people in the auditorium and they all sang along as well, so it didn`t really count!"
Mikey will be off on his travels again in a few weeks time, when the tour heads for Australia and the Far East. No doubt he will have many strange tales to tell when he returns and, hopefully, he will share some of them with us.
Meanwhile, as they say in all the best showbiz circles - break a leg, Mikey!

THE HOMECOMING

Raymond Fennelly

Christmas is that time of year when our exiles, who have laboured long and hard in foreign fields, allow their minds to slowly drift to thoughts of home. All over the world this Christmas, people are dreaming of the place where they were born, and feeling a desperate longing to return.

And so it was that, fifty years to the day since first he left, he found himself standing once more on the platform at a deserted Abbeyfeale Railway Station. And as he looked around at the dilapidated waiting room, the rotting signal box and the overgrown tracks, he thought of all the thousands of people who had passed through this station down through the generations. The tearful departures, the joyous arrivals, the craic the banter and the bustle . Lads heading for the Listowel Races. Fellows arriving home from the beet factories in Allscot and Peterborough. Ladies in all their finery on a day trip to the big shops in Limerick. Hurling supporters decked in green, setting out for Croke Park to cheer on Mick Mackey and his men.

"Begobs" he said to himself "but there do be some great changes in fifty years. We mightn`t have had an arse in our trousers or a penny in our pockets, back then - but we still had the railway!"

Turning away somewhat dejectedly , he decided that he might take a leisurely stroll through the old town to see what other `improvements` had been made in his absence.

The first thing he noticed was the excellently-appointed Abbeyfeale Utd clubhouse and the adjacent soccer pitch, so level and so grand that you could almost play marbles on it. And - joy of joys - they even had proper goal posts with a crossbar and a net and everything! His own brief soccer career had been confined to kicking a ball around The Inch Field when the G.A.A. lads weren`t looking. They used coats to mark out the goals and, as the match progressed, these were moved stealthily closer together to provide a smaller target and making it virtually impossible for the opposition to score.

On Wednesday evenings, when the wind was blowing in the right direction, he could pick up Athlone on the old steam radio, and listen to the dulcet tones of Philip Greene describing yet another great night in Europe for Shamrock Rovers as they played Red Star Belgrade in a game that was marred only by a blind, partisan, English referee and six breakaway and blatantly-offside goals...."And still the gallant Hoops press bravely forward....." enthused the irrepressible Philip.

Across the road from the soccer pitch, he examined with interest the modern Cattle Mart with it`s spacious pens and ample parking facilities. He remembered the weekly calf markets. The roads in to Abbeyfeale would be jam-packed with horses and ponies and donkeys all drawing carts with their rails up and filled with bawling calves. Cattle buyers would arrive down from the North of Ireland and their strange accents could be heard all the way down along Main Street and into The Square ."Will youse not take a wee pound note for yon white-head?" one of them would ask. "I will to be sure," would be the reply, "but if you want to buy the rest of him it`ll cost you another fiver - so it will!"

The demand for calves was poor and prices were bad. Farmers began to come in to town earlier on Monday morning so that they could sell before the buyers had reached their quota. The buyers started to arrive earlier. The farmers again followed suite. Soon the market was in full swing on Sunday evening. Then it moved to Sunday afternoon.

The straw that finally broke the camel`s back (or, in this case, the calf `s back) arrived during the twelve o`clock Mass one Sunday morning.A little man from across the river caused something of a commotion when he strode up the centre aisle of the old church with the peaked cap turned askew on his head, and wearing a pair of turned-down wellington boots and with a piece of a bran sack thrown over his shoulders (it was a desperately cold day) and secured tightly at the waist with a length of foxy hemp. And, if that wasn`t bad enough, trotting along gaily behind him with head held proudly aloft and giving the occasional bleat, was a bouncing three week old polly heifer calf with matching bran sack tied to his back with the same foxy hemp! As a fashion statement, it was bold and imaginative - but it was also a recipe for disaster.

The Parish Priest went berserk! He came thundering down off the alter, uttering profanities not usually associated with a man of the cloth, and ran the unfortunate man and his bleating beast out the door with all the vengeance of Our Lord evicting the moneylenders from the temple. You may be sure that put an end to the Sunday morning calf markets!

Smiling at the memory, our exile rambled on up to the Community Centre- Teach na Feile - built on the site of the old boys` national school. Here, Master Hanley had reigned supreme.

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,

The village master taught his little school.

A stern, severe but very fair man, Master Hanley taught his pupils the rudiments of reading and writing and arithmetic. He also went outside the school curriculum and instilled in them an appreciation of nature, explaing the changing seasons, the migration of the birds and the care and the growth of various plants and flowers.

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,

That one small head could carry all he knew.

He was very fond of the mental arithmetic. "Now boys," he would say. "work this one out for me. A woman comes in to town to buy five mackerel for the dinner. The Fishmonger says that they are one and eleven pence for a dozen. How much, boys, to the nearest farthing, does she pay for five?" Heads would bend over slates and dust would mushroom up to the ceiling as the pupils scribbled furiously with their bits of chalk. One and eleven divided by twelve - put down two and carry one -no - put down one and carry two - the main oul bitch! - wouldn`t she buy an extra one and make it the half dozen - or buy a bit of streaky bacon and not be tormenting us with her five mackerel - put down three and carry two - multiply by five and subtract the answer - divide that by three - now I`m back where I started.

A hand shoots up at the back of the class. "Sir! Sir!"

"What is it, boy?"

"Sir, was it five mackerel or five herring you said, Sir?"

He continued on up the street and strolled out to the Kerry Bridge to view the magnificent G.A.A pitch, complete with new stand, dressing rooms and training gym. A credit to the local club and to the town and the envy of every other club in the county. And now they were county champions as well! He recalled his own brief flirtation with matters Gaelic. He was, in truth, a reluctant exponent of the big ball code. He would be dragged, kicking and screaming, down to The Inch and installed in goals whenever New Street played The Square. "Stand there," the big full-back would order him, "and if anything goes in - we will kick seven kinds of shite out of you!"

Bloody street leagues! Killed if you played - and killed if you didn`t. His torment finally and mercifully ended when he was spotted drinking and cavorting and making a bit of an eejit of himself at a Rugby Social in Tralee. The dreaded `Ban` was still in force and he was quietly and politely asked to relinquish his membership and go off about his business. This, he did with some alacrity.

Wandering back over the Kerry Bridge he stood and surveyed the new boys` school which was built in the site of the old church. He wished they wouldn`t keep moving things around. It was all very confusing. Even the coursing, he believed, was gone from Banard The next thing, they`d be looking to move Father Casey. And the parking in The Square. That`d soon go as well.

He strolled on up to Joy`s Corner and was delighted to find that this familiar landmark, at least, had not changed much down the years. However, a huge advertising board on the gable end caught his attention. It depicted a scantilly clad young lady with most generous proportions exhorting all and sundry to "Drink Bacardi Breezers" \

"Begobs," he thought, admiringly, "We never had anything like that in my day." although whether he was referring to the Bacardi Breezers or to the scantilly -clad young lady with the generous proportions, was not immediately clear.

He continued his rambles up Main Street, admiring the many fine shop fronts with their Christmas displays. He stopped at St Ita`s Hall and thought that the place looked better now than it did fifty odd years ago when they used to go dancing there. In those days, you had to know your dancing. There was none of this standing around like an imbecile , shaking your hands and legs and wiggling your behind as if suffering from palsy and fleas at the same time. A gentleman would walk over to a lady, nonchalant like, and inquire as to whether she would do him the great honour of accompanying him on to the dance floor. If the lady acquiesced , the gentleman would then escort her on to said dance floor. He would place an arm gently but firmly around her waist, making sure to keep the requisite distance between them. When the music started, he would lead off and she would follow. Conversation was allowed but familiarity was not encouraged for fear it might breed contempt. At the end of the dance, the gentleman would escort the lady back to her seat and thank her, politely. That is, of course, unless he`d `pulled`. (e.g. managed to procure `the convey`) In which case, like as not, the two of them would grab their coats and head off to the back of the handball alley!

He had a theory as to why there were so many middle-aged bachelors in the locality at the time. Many of them had just never learned to dance properly. They went to the dances and stood around like love-hungry sheep, unable to ask a girl to dance because they didn`t know how. And how else were they to meet girls? They could go to a match-maker, but that would cost money. And if the goods were found unsuitable, there was no refund; no comeback; no sale or return.

You couldn`t very well march up to a girl in the hall and say straight out; "How`rue!" Any chance of the convey?" Girls liked to be courted; to be feted; to be wooed; to be romanced. You had to saunter up to them nice and cool like, and say; "How`rue. Would `ou like to dance?" And then, when you got them out on the dance floor, grab a tight hoult of them, look intently into their eyes, give them your wildest and meanest James Dean look and ask loudly, so that everyone could hear; "Will we go out to the back of the handball alley for a bit?" I`m telling you, she would be putty in your hands. You can`t bate the bit of foreplay - so you can`t!

It was a ruse that he had practiced to perfction all his dancing life although, strangely enough, he himself had never married. Indeed, as far as he could remember, he had never even been to the back of the handball alley.

He looked across the road and saw that the Abbey Cinema had also closed it`s doors for the last time. He used to enjoy a good film. Westerns were his favourite. Roy Rodgers and Trigger. The Lone Ranger and Tonto Gene Autrey - The Singing Cowboy. The films used to be delivered up from Limerick by train. There would often be as many as eight reels to each film. The reels would be carefully stored in numbered cans and projected on to the large screen in sequence. Sometimes, the young bucks of the town would intercept the film and switch cans, so that the picture might start off with a one-legged man who miraculously grew a second leg before it was over. Or, you might see the cavalry frantically reversing backwards across the screen, being hotly pursued by hordes of yelling red skins also galloping backwards and apparently shooting themselves with their own arrows. It was riveting stuff!

He turned and made his way back down Main Street. The Christmas lights had been switched on. Christmas trees and plastic Santas adorned the shop fronts. Christmas carols wafted out from loudspeakers. Goodwill abounded everywhere. It was a magical time. He paused to soak up the atmosphere.

"Begobs," he said to himself, "but this old town has come along way in the fifty years since I left. They have it better here now than they ever had. You wouldn`t find it`s likes anywhere; not in London, Paris, Rome, Sydney or even New York itself!"

He had never been to any of these places, of course, as he only lived back the road a bit, in Athea.But, as he mounted his bicycle and headed for Buckley`s Cross, he made himself a promise;

" Do you know something," he said, "but I must try to come in to Abbeyfale more often - so I must!"

On this page we hope to carry the odd story, rumour or bit of gossip, concerning local events and individuals.

Again, we appeal for contributors. If you have a funny story, we want to hear from you.

We shall, at all times, protect our sources. (Maybe!)

News -- Sport -- HISTORY -- Home