Category: Uncategorized

• 

I saw a clip from the RTE archives recently that was recorded in 1981 in the garda training centre in Templemore. It’s better known now by the fancy title of the Garda College but back then it wasn’t quite so posh. Anyway, a few of the garda recruits were being interviewed about why they wanted to be gardai and how they were enjoying the training?

They all gave similar answers, and the common denominator was a desire to help their communities. I reckon they would have heard the same answers from us if we were asked those questions when I was there in 1979.

When asked about the possibility of facing danger, they said it was just part of the job. They expected to face difficult situations, but they hoped when that time came, they would be professional and do what needed to be done to protect themselves and their colleagues. Again, we would probably have said the same.

We were trained in basic self-defence and even though we were only armed with a piece of stick, we were confident we could rely on that training to get us through. In truth, we gave it little thought because we were young, fit and capable of minding ourselves. We also had the support of a large organisation behind us and that too gave us confidence.  

The training prepared us well for carrying out the regular functions of a police officer. We learned how to investigate traffic accidents, write reports, prepare files for court. We got the tools we needed to get through the working day and the rest would be picked up from the seasoned guys in the station as we went along.

Our self-defence training concentrated on dealing with physical danger only. In those days there was no other kind, so no consideration was given to the mental health of members and that was nobody’s fault. It just wasn’t recognised as a potential hazard for gardai. It might seem surprising now given the nature of the profession and what we know today but that’s just how it was.

There is a better understanding these days of the trauma that can be experienced by police officers and others in the emergency services. These men and women regularly find themselves in situations that could impact their mental health.

Emergency responders routinely attend scenes involving fatal traffic accidents, cot deaths, suicides, murders, and assaults. Occasionally, the same people visit more than one of those events during the same tour of duty and, until recently, that was considered just part and parcel of a day’s work.

In my day, when we had a tough shift, we went to the pub afterwards and had a few pints with our colleagues. We talked about everything except how we were really feeling because if you mentioned being traumatised, you’d never hear the end of it. Better to keep quiet.

I thought things hadn’t changed much since I retired especially after reading about a survey that was carried out in 2018 on behalf of the Garda Representative Association. It found that more than one in six rank-and-file members of An Garda Síochána may have had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and 27% may be described as “walking wounded” in terms of “distress and impairment in their lives as a result of trauma”.

There were many members who felt traumatised as a direct result of what they had to deal with in the course of their work and they felt there was little understanding and little support available. That led to a call for garda management to tackle the issue as a matter of urgency and according to a recent press release by An Garda Siochana, they’ve done just that.

I read on the garda website that over 5,200 Garda personnel completed a Health Needs Assessment Survey, and the results seem very positive. It found the majority of gardai believe there is a strong sense of camaraderie in An Garda Siochana. That doesn’t surprise me because that was always the case.

What was encouraging though was the range of measures they have already undertaken and the announcement that they plan to continue to support the health and wellbeing of garda personnel. That includes enhancements to the independent 24/7 counselling service and the forthcoming launch of a health and wellbeing app. Psychological supervision and supports have also been put in place for garda personnel.

The survey found that 63% of Gardaí occasionally experience trauma at work and 45% experience high or very high stress levels at work. No surprises there but it was good to see that 70% of Garda personnel feel they can now speak with a supervisor about something causing upset at work.

Another positive sign is that over 70% of members of An Garda Síochána are aware of the organisation’s support services including peer support network, the 24/7 confidential helpline and counselling service and the vast majority of those who have used these support services are happy with them and would recommend them to a colleague.

Garda Commissioner Drew Harris said he wants to create a culture where everyone feels supported and can rely on the support services in their time of need. The results have sent a clear message around mental health and trauma and he said one quote in particular captures the unique challenges faced in policing – ‘this is not a normal job with normal stresses.’

“A key objective of our Health & Wellbeing Strategy is to directly challenge and overcome any stigma and bring about the kind of cultural change where seeking help is seen for the strength that it is and not any kind of weakness.”

That’s very positive, and as someone who is regularly critical of garda management, it’s only fair to give credit when it’s due.

• 

I have a sneaky admiration for truck drivers. It’s a responsible job and taking those big rigs through small towns and villages across the country is no mean feat. Especially when so many of those roads were originally built for the horse and cart and haven’t improved much since then. Manoeuvring these machines in tight spots is tricky and requires a lot of skill.

Those guys are capable mechanics too because they need to be able to sort out themselves out when trouble comes calling and they’re nowhere near a garage. I say guys but of course there are female truckers too, but the majority are men. They are a tight knit bunch, particularly those driving on the continent.

I had a small experience of that lifestyle back in the nineties when myself and John O’Connor were both serving members of An Garda Siochana in Mayfield. We were involved in Chernobyl related charities at the time and decided to bring a truck full of supplies on a humanitarian aid convoy to Belarus. To do that, we needed a truck and a licence to drive it and we had neither.

The licence was the first step, so we signed up for driving lessons. Our driving instructor was a lovely man blessed with patience. When I met him initially though, I was ready to arrest him under the Mental Treatment Act when on the very first lesson he told me to drive the truck through the city centre.

He knew what he was doing though and after completing the required number of lessons, John and I were deemed ready for the test. We both passed although there was a moment during my test drive when I thought I might have blown it.

We were down around Mahon approaching a small roundabout and a trench had been dug on the left-hand side of the road. There were some large no-parking cones placed along the edge of the trench advising motorists of the hazard. The space was tight, and the truck wasn’t going to navigate the roundabout without touching it with one of the wheels. It was already showing signs of damage from being driven on.

I pointed out my fears to the Driving Tester and he told me not to worry because there was nothing I could do about it so on I went. As I passed the trench, I clipped a cone with one of the rear wheels and sent it in to the trench. In my mirror I saw a worker pop his head up and he didn’t seem very happy. Nothing was said though and I duly passed the test. So did John.

The next item on the agenda was to find a truck and thanks to Peter Dennehy of Dennehy Trucks in Carrigtwohill, we got one. Peter was also involved in charity work and was going on the convoy too. His company offered us the use of a truck for the journey which was very generous of him given that we were two novices although I suspect he may have had second thoughts later on.

John and I went to collect it from their sister company in Limerick and as soon as we sat into it, we discovered a problem. It had a different gear box to the one we were trained in. For those who know even less than I do about trucks, I can tell you that there are two types of gear boxes. One type has a switch on the gear stick and when you hit fifth gear, you flick the switch and that gives you five more gears. That’s known as a five over five and the other one is known as a five by five and has a different switch system.

We were now sitting in a borrowed truck that we were about to drive across Europe, and we couldn’t even get it out of the yard. We couldn’t ask the people in Dennehy’s how to drive it because they would definitely have changed their minds about giving it to us. So, we decided to get it into any gear that would get us out of there and onto the road and then we would regroup once we were out of sight.

Sweating profusely, and praying that nobody was watching us, we stuttered our way out the gate. As soon as we were out of sight, we flagged down a passing trucker and asked him how to select the gears. It was all highly embarrassing.

We eventually got back to Cork and when the truck was loaded, I brought it to an old disused FCA barracks in Cobh where it was to remain until we headed off. While driving it in between two large pillars at the entrance to the barracks, I caught the side of the truck on one of them and got stuck. To get out of that situation, I had to reverse uphill and the strain of that was too much for the poor truck and the drive shaft broke and fell onto the road.

At this stage, the truck was incapable of moving anywhere and was partially blocking the main road. I sent an S.O.S to a friend of mine who hauled it out of harms way with his JCB and then I had to break the news to Peter Dennehy. Peter soon arrived on the scene with his usual smiley head on him and he had the truck as good as new in no time.

We made it to Belarus and back without any more incidents and by the time we got home we were well used to the truck. We could have turned it on a sixpence, but by then I suspect the Dennehy’s were just glad to get us out of it.

• 

The year 2020 is nearly at an end and who won’t be sorry to hear that? I have found as I get older, that time seems to be flying by and while I have no desire for it to go any faster, I can’t wait for the next year to start. No matter what 2021 throws at us, it can’t possibly be any worse than what we’ve been through.

The year started with Brexit and that dominated the news from morning till night. Remember the guy with the blue top hat, draped in an EU flag waving placards and shouting ‘Stop Brexit’? He popped up in the background whenever the BBC conducted an interview and made a nuisance of himself

But he was only a mild irritant by the time Covid-19 came along. Little did we know we would spend the rest of the year moving between lockdowns, cocooning and isolation and it isn’t over yet. Then we had the Presidential Election in the States with more wall-to-wall coverage of Donald Trump, so I reckon we are due some good fortune for a change.

We got a small taste of it with the news that Covid Vaccines are on the way and I’m optimistic that our luck is about to turn. Good times are ahead but I’m not prepared to just sit back and hope for the best. I want to be proactive on this so I’ve been doing some research on behalf of the nation and I’ve discovered that there are things we can do to improve our chances of having a better year in 2021.

I have checked numerous websites for ideas on how we can get the year off to a good start and several sites share some of the suggestions so they must be true. The Chinese seem to be the most informed on these matters and just so you know, 2021 is Chinese year of the OX. So there

OK, so to ensure good fortune we need to avoid the top ten taboos and if we follow these simple guidelines, we should be alright.

Firstly, don’t use negative words.  So, all words with negative connotations are forbidden and that includes death, sick, empty, pain, ghost, poor, break, kill and words like that.

For example, instead of saying the freezer is empty, say the freezer needs refilling. If someone is close to death, refer to them as being unlikely to be living a long and happy life. If you have a friend going on stage in the theatre, advise them to shatter their tibia. Don’t mention ‘break’. Sounds tricky but you’ll get the hang of it after a while. Sorry, forget ‘hang’ – that wasn’t a good choice.

Don’t break ceramics or glass because that will break your connection to prosperity and fortune. I know I used ‘break’ twice there but it’s ok for the purpose of demonstration but that’s the end of it. If a plate or bowl becomes fragmented, immediately wrap it with red paper and after the New Year, throw the wrapped-up shards into a lake or river. (Need to come up with a more environmentally friendly option for this one).

Don’t clean or sweep. Cleaning or throwing out rubbish may cause you to throw your good luck with it. If you must clean, start at the outer edge of a room and sweep inwards. Bag up any waste and throw it away after the 5th day. If your bin needs emptying, do it before midnight or on January 2nd.  

Don’t wash your clothes, they can wait until January 2nd. and you shouldn’t take a shower on New Year’s Day either. Kiss someone dear to you at midnight on New Year’s-eve to ensure affection for the next 12 months. (That’s probably better than kissing them the following day anyway when it sounds as if they’re going to be fairly manky).

Don’t lend money or precious items and don’t pay back loans either or you will be paying out money for the rest of the year. Fill all your wallets with money to ensure prosperity. Open the doors at midnight to let out all the badness and make plenty of noise to scare away the evil spirits.

A Polish tradition states that if you wake up early on New Year’s Day, you will wake up early for the rest of the year and if you touch the floor with the right foot getting out of bed, you can expect a lot of good luck for twelve months.

The colours you wear can also influence how the year might turn out. Blue is a happy colour and can protect babies from getting a fever. Red is an excellent choice for those looking for love and passion and those who are looking for positions of power. White should be worn by those seeking new beginnings and opportunities.

Choose your food carefully too. Eat twelve grapes, one for each chime of a clock, right after midnight to bring luck in the New Year. Pork is good because pigs dig with their snout, representing forward movement and progress, and fish is a good choice too since most fish swim forward. 

When it comes to drink, these suggestions might be a step too far for us. Toast the New Year with champagne and right after midnight, take three short hops without spilling your drink and then pour the champagne behind you to leave all negativity in the past. If your champagne lands on someone else that’s good luck for them.

So, there you have it.  Don’t use bad words, don’t shower, don’t clean the house, only wear red, white and blue, eat pork and fish and hop around on one leg with your bottle of Guinness and everything will be fine. Happy New Year.

• 

My son mentioned to me recently that he fancied the idea of buying a site in the countryside and building a house on it. My immediate reaction was to try and talk him out of it. I thought of my own experience of building our first house back in the eighties and I didn’t want him following the same path.

We built it by direct labour, as many people did back then, and it was a hard slog from start to finish. I remember the hassle we had drawing up the plans for a bungalow and the complicated process of applying for planning permission. Organising the materials and trying to do a lot of the work ourselves meant it took two years before we could move into it and that was only for starters.

Painting and decorating, landscaping, laying the footpaths, driveway and patios seemed to take forever and continued long after we took up residence. For those few years we didn’t take holidays. We hardly gave ourselves a weekend break and every penny we had went into that house. There was no day off.

Those memories caused me to discourage my son from following my footsteps, but I immediately regretted it. If that’s his dream, then I shouldn’t allow my personal experience to prevent him from chasing it. After all, we had twenty-five good years living in that house and created many happy memories there, so it wasn’t all bad.

We were young and fit at the time and well able for the effort. We just got on with it and I’m sure he would also manage fine if he took it on so he shouldn’t take any notice of what I say. Not that he does anyway.

A friend of mine just reminded me of something else I did back in the day that I wouldn’t do again when he bought a caravan. We did the same when the kids were young, and we thought we might knock a bit of fun out of it. It was a tiny, basic affair a bit like the one in the episode of Father Ted. We enjoyed it at the time but living in such a small space would break me now.

The thought of climbing out of the bed is enough to give me backache. The fact that I have increased in size would make moving about a bit more challenging too. The grunting and groaning from the exertion of trying to reach the chemical toilet in the middle of the night would probably wake the neighbours and I’d be asked to leave.

My friend has taken caravanning to a new level though. He bought an ultra-modern version with a proper kitchen, shower, heating system and it can even be parked by remote control. This guy doesn’t believe in hardship. Mine finished up as kindling, which was the best place for it, but we did get some pleasure out of that simple way of life I suppose.

I got another reminder of that simplicity recently when I called on a friend of mine. He’s a man in his seventies and he was doing some work on a vacant house in the countryside. Painting and decorating mainly and as I was passing, I called in to see how he was getting on.

As I got out of the car, I could hear the birds chirping and little else. The front door was open, so I called out and found him in the front room painting away. There was no radio or background music to disturb the peace, it was just him and his paint and he was completely content being on his own.

There aren’t many other houses around so I was wondering how he would manage if he fell off a ladder or had some other mishap. I asked him if he had a phone and he told me he leaves that at home because he doesn’t need it and it would only be distracting him.

His family knew where he was and if they needed to reach him urgently, he said they could drive up to him. Otherwise, callers could leave a message on the phone and he’d get it at some stage. He had arranged to call the owner in a few days’ time to give him an update on the progress of the work and until then, he didn’t need to make any other calls.

The idea of pre-arranging phone calls seems completely alien these days, but of course that’s what we all did back in the day. Before mobile phones arrived on the scene, we relied on landlines and to answer those you had to be at home, so it was common to arrange a call for a particular day and time. There was nothing wrong with that either and we managed fine. 

We have become slaves to technology now and there was something liberating about seeing my friend free himself from the constant demands of it. He has no interest in social media. He’s too busy getting on with his own life to concern himself with the comings and goings of others and he doesn’t see the point in talking on the phone if he has nothing to say.

He was enjoying the moment and had no intention of bringing any unnecessary pressure on himself. It was hard not to be envious of him. It was another reminder that the old ways of doing things weren’t all bad.

So, I’ve decided not to discourage my son from building his own house or buying a caravan if that’s what he wants, and I certainly have no intention of trying to persuade him to leave his mobile phone behind. I’d have a better chance of getting him to walk into town naked.

• 

I’m going to sound like a TV critic here, but I saw something recently while watching an episode of ‘I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here!’ that got me thinking about the divide that exists between those living in the world of celebrity and us ordinary mortals living in the real world. It’s considerable.

Everyone knows what this show is about by now, so I won’t bother explaining it. It’s been running since 2002, and it’s usually recorded in Australia but because of Covid-19, they filmed it in a castle somewhere in Wales this year. It was different but in fairness to the producers they did well under difficult circumstances.

The contestants consisted mostly of actors, singers and show biz people. The fact that they were referred to as celebrities suggests we should know them, but I had never heard of some of the names.

They all had their reasons for being in the camp. Some said they took part in the show because they wanted to challenge themselves while others wanted to conquer their fears. It also presented an opportunity for some to bolster a flagging career or to reinvent themselves, but the money must have been a consideration too because the fees were substantial.

For a three week stay in the castle, it was reported that Sir Mo Farah, a very successful athlete, picked up £300,000. Vernon Kay of Family Fortunes fame reportedly received £250,000 and the lowest earners were rumoured to have collected £50,000 each. Nice work if you can get it.

I’m not sure if it even qualifies as work though. Twelve celebrities playing games and having fun in a castle in the company of Ant McPartlin and Declan Donnelly on one of the most successful television programmes in recent times could easily be described as a great holiday experience. OK, so they were without their families for a bit but they were well compensated so it shouldn’t have been a problem. But it was for some.

One of the contestants I had never heard of, got very upset when one of the other contestants was voted out. They had only been together as a group for five or six days but by then they had become friends and losing this camp mate was too much for her. She was distraught.

She cried her eyes out and had to be consoled by the others. The poor girl looked as if she had just discovered her entire family had been sucked up by a tornado and were last seen disappearing over Scotland. It made me wonder how she would cope with a proper tragedy beyond the castle moat in the real world. Her reaction was in sharp contrast to what I heard the following day on the radio.

I was making the dinner during the Joe Duffy Show, so I missed the start of it. He was interviewing a guy called Ger Smith and if you haven’t heard it, I recommend you check it out on the RTE player. It would do you good.

He had an amazing story to tell. He is thirty years old now but when he was only thirteen, his mother was taken into care by the HSE because she was suffering from schizophrenia and she has been in care since then.

Back then, he was living in a flat on the top of a tower block in Ballymun and shared the flat with his twin brother, another brother who was a year older and a younger sister. When the mother left home, the little girl went into foster care, but the three lads remained in the flat. Relatives kept an eye on them as best they could and eventually, they got a home help.

Ann Thomas was her name, and she was a regular caller to their flat and became part of his family. According to Ger, she was more than a home help, she was more like a second mother and he spoke very lovingly about her. He described her as a phenomenal person.

Years later, they discovered that Ann was actually a nun who did some work with Sofia Housing for disadvantaged people in the community. She deliberately dressed down because she didn’t want the children to treat her any differently to anyone else in the complex. According to Ger she was a saint but the most striking aspect of his conversation with Joe Duffy was how positive he was.

I don’t know anything about the guy, whether he’s a saint or a sinner, but listening to him was inspirational. He’s had a tough upbringing. His mother was taken from them at thirteen and they were practically raised by this nun. He thought the world of her, and she obviously had a major influence on him until she died last October.

All Ger wants now is to give something back and to have his mother transferred to a nursing home closer to hm where they can spend more time together and be a family again. That looks as if it’s about to happen.

He wasn’t complaining, even though he had plenty to complain about, on the contrary. He was incredibly grateful for the values that were instilled in him by his mother while she lived with them and by Ann. He is very thankful to all the staff who have looked after his mother down through the years and all he wants now is to spend more time with his mam because he says time is very important to them.

There were no tears and God knows, he was entitled to shed a few but I got the impression that Ger isn’t a guy who spends too much time feeling sorry for himself… unlike some of those I saw in a castle in Wales.

• 

Who knows where we will be by the time this column is published? We could be in the mother and father of all lockdowns or if our behaviour spirals out of control, we could be all locked up by the gardai. They’re in a difficult spot and I have sympathy for them.

They’re caught in the middle of a tug-o-war between the Government on one side and the very fed-up public on the other and crime doesn’t stop because of a pandemic so they have plenty of other matters to be getting on with. Performing COVID-19 checkpoints and investigating alleged breaches of the restrictions is not how they want to fill their days.

They prefer to advise rather than prosecute but even that can be tricky as we saw recently when they had to instruct a priest to cancel Mass. That’s not something any member of An Garda Siochana was trained for, unless the training has changed dramatically since my time, but that’s exactly what they had to do in Cavan.

As the priest was about to go out on the altar, he was visited by the gardai who advised him that he was contravening the current Covid-19 regulations. There were around 50 people in the church waiting for Mass to begin and he was told to send them home. He refused and gardaí later informed him that a file had been prepared for the Director of Public Prosecutions and if convicted, he could face a fine of up to €2,500, and six months in prison.

The priest was unrepentant. He wasn’t concerned about his congregation becoming infected with the virus because he felt God would protect them. Scientists had a different theory, but in his opinion the scientists were wrong because God has healed people in the past and has even raised people from the dead.

The priest is entitled to his opinion, but science makes a strong case for following the guidelines and, like it or not, it falls to the men and women in blue to enforce adherence to those guidelines. Not the most comfortable situation for the gardai to be in because they are trained to fight crime: Taking on God is an entirely different matter.

These are strange times, and many of us are having to behave differently. We must think ahead and consider the likely outcome of our actions or we could find ourselves in hot water with the authorities and being shunned by the neighbours. It’s easy to cause offence now.

Who could have predicted that a game of golf followed by a meal, would qualify as a national scandal? Or who could have known that gathering to pay tribute to a retiring colleague would have the management of our national broadcaster hauled in to the Dail to answer questions about why it was arranged and who was responsible for it?

A receptionist working in RTE for forty years suddenly found herself hitting the headlines on the very day she was retiring. Any hope she may have had of slipping out quietly was well and truly scuppered and through no fault of her own.

Any group of people gathered in a public space these days is given the evil eye. A few youngsters running down Patrick Street made it onto the national airwaves after a video was uploaded to social media by a witness who saw gardai trying to disperse a crowd of young people. On Monday morning some of them were interviewed on the Claire Byrne Show on RTE radio. They were defiant.

In their opinion, they were entitled to be out meeting their friends for a few drinks and entitled to be having fun instead of being at home getting stressed out. They were fed up with the Covid-19 restrictions, they said.

The public was outraged, yet during my working life, that was normal behaviour on Friday and Saturday nights in the city centre. Many hundreds of people spilled out of the pubs and clubs onto Washington Street, the Grand Parade and Patrick Street every weekend. Many got involved in assaults, got sick, urinated on the footpaths, and broke things. It was par for the course and the only people who appeared to be bothered were the working gardai who had to deal with it.

I was walking into town recently and there were some teenagers walking ahead of me and they were chatting amongst themselves. There was an older guy coming towards them with a mask on and he suddenly challenged the young lads in an aggressive manner.

I couldn’t hear precisely what was being said because of his mask and the distance between us but it seemed he was chastising them for not wearing masks. To be fair to them they didn’t say a word to the guy, and just kept walking.

It’s hard to blame him though because we don’t know what’s going on in his life. He could be very worried about getting sick and this behaviour might be completely out of character for him, but that’s Covid for you. It’s having an effect on us all and in many cases, it’s turning us against each other.

We crave normality. We want the pandemic to go away, we want to socialise and be with our friends. We want the pubs and restaurants to open, we want to meet up for Christmas, we want to attend Mass, funerals, and weddings. We want people to stop dying from Covid-19 and we want to be able to travel and go on holidays like we always did.

We’ve had a tough year and we’ve done well but our collective resolve is waning. The good news is a vaccine is on the way and hopefully the nightmare will end soon. Until then, let’s all hang in there.

• 

I’m glad social media wasn’t a thing during my working life. I would not have coped well with having a phone shoved in my face by drunken revellers in the early hours of a Saturday or Sunday morning in the city centre. The job was difficult enough without having wannabe film stars trying to get attention for themselves on Facebook, WhatsApp or Instagram.

Posting photos and videos on social media is easily done and no evidence or proof is required to support the images. Making judgements based solely on these images is dangerous but the desire for clicks often outweighs the need for facts.

Adam Sage, had a story in The Times about a dustman in Paris who was sacked after he was photographed asleep in a street in the Capital but earned cult status after claiming wrongful dismissal. Adama Cissé, 37, enjoyed sympathy in the media, praise from internet users and an invitation to apply for a new job with Paris council.

Mr Cissé’s rise to fame began when he took off his shoes, lay down by a shop window in central Paris and nodded off for 20 minutes in the yellow and green overalls used by the city’s refuse collectors.

A passer-by took a photo of him and posted it on Twitter with the accompanying message: “This is what local taxes paid by Parisians are used for, to pay refuse collectors to snooze. You can understand why Paris is so disgusting.”

Amid a heated debate over claims that the French capital was dirtier than any other in Europe, the comment was seized upon by Mr Cissé’s employer, a private company that had a contract with Paris council to collect the city’s rubbish. The firm alleged that Mr Cissé had fallen asleep when he was supposed to be working and had delayed his round.

The refuse collector sued his former employer for wrongful dismissal. He told the employment tribunal that the dustcart had been running ahead of the scheduled timetable and he had decided to have a 20-minute pause. Mr Cissé said he was entitled to nod off during this time. “I finished the round on time,” he added.

A spokesman for Paris’s council said it supported Mr Cissé and invited him to apply for a post with the city’s refuse collection department and said he would join a French public sector whose staff enjoy almost total protection against dismissal, however many naps they take.

I’m glad things worked out for Mr. Cisse because that could have been me. Back in the early eighties, I was on duty one Saturday night in Blarney. I was in the patrol car on my own for the night and the shift finished at 6am on Sunday morning. It had been a long night and when I pulled up outside the garda station to finish up, I was feeling the pinch.

I struggled to keep my eyes open, so I decided it would be safer to grab forty winks before getting into my own car for the drive to Cobh. It turned out to be a bit longer than that though and I slept soundly until someone tapped on the window of the patrol car on the way to an early Mass and woke me up.

I can only imagine what would have happened if camera phones existed then. My photo would probably have been plastered across social media and I would have been tried and convicted for sleeping on duty. The fact that I was on my own time wouldn’t have been considered and I would have ended up like the French dustman.

A camera of a different kind caused problems for an Italian policeman who found himself in hot water after being spotted clocking on for work in his underpants during an undercover operation in Rome. Tom Kington wrote that the police officer lived in an apartment above his office and shuffled down the stairs in his slippers to clock in before returning upstairs to get dressed.

The 58 year-old policeman became a symbol of Italy’s legendary workshy civil servants when a hidden camera spotted him in his T-shirt and underpants. But an Italian court ruled that putting on a uniform is part of the working day and acquitted him. His lawyer claimed that punching the clock could legitimately take place before an officer put his trousers on.

“Donning a uniform was considered part of the working day and could therefore happen after clocking in,” said the lawyer.

The policeman opened a repair shop for domestic appliances after losing his job. His newfound celebrity status meant he frequently had to park far from the store and sneak in the back way to avoid being mobbed by journalists.

He said he would try to get his job back and thanked the court for clearing him. “It’s the end of a nightmare — it has been four years of torture by media.”

That got me thinking again of my Blarney days. I often stayed overnight in the station when changing from a late shift to an early one. Finishing at 10pm and starting again at 6am the following morning was tough. Driving 40 miniutes each way to get home and back didn’t allow much time for sleep so it made sense to get the head down in the station.

I never opened the station in my jocks though but that court case in Italy has given me an idea. I just need to remember how many nights I slept in the garda station during my seven years there. Then, once I figure out the time it took me to get dressed every morning, I can make out a claim for the money I’m owed by the State.

Maybe I should ask that Italian policeman to act as my consultant.

• 

It has just been announced that the Scottish comedian, Billy Connolly is to be honoured with a one-hour TV special to mark his retirement from stand-up comedy. According to the promo, his A-list fans will share their memories of Billy, send personal messages and pick their all-time highlights and Billy will react to their choices.

They promise it will make us laugh and may even make us cry and they say it will be a fitting send-off for a stand-up megastar. It probably will but I’m not sure I want to see it because I think it will be difficult to watch. I don’t know the man and I’ve never met him, but I’ve followed him since the seventies, and I feel like we’re buddies.

Billy revealed that he will no longer be doing stand-up due to the escalation of his Parkinson’s disease. The 77-year-old comedian made the comments while talking to Sky News, saying: ‘I’m finished with stand-up – it was lovely, and it was lovely being good at it. It was the first thing I was ever good at.’

If you’re not familiar with him, then you have been missing out. Billy started out as a folk singer who told a few yarns in between songs but as he says himself, as time went on the songs got shorter and the yarns got longer. He ended up in comedy by default.

He is arguably one of the greatest story tellers of all time and one of the few people who can give me a real belly laugh but he’s not everyone’s cup of tea. He’s different. His appearance is like nothing you’ve seen before, and he has a quirky dress sense. He swears a lot too but for many of his followers, his swearing isn’t offensive, it’s just funny.

He has an unusual style, constantly moving about the stage, with arms and legs going in all directions. He usually starts telling a story about one thing and goes off on a tangent about something else for a while before coming back to finish his original story.  

Phil Coulter is one of his oldest friends and produced some of his earlier records but when he worked with Connolly in the early days, he told him he needed to finish one story before moving on to another or they would never finish an album. We know how that worked out.

I first came across him in Scotland in the late seventies when I was visiting my brother in law in Fife. Pat and I were sitting in the front room one day when he told me he had a cassette tape of a comedian that he thought I might enjoy.

Before I go any further, I should explain for the benefit of anyone under fifty, that back in the 1970’s we played cassette tapes on recorders for entertainment. It wasn’t always straightforward either because the tapes were troublesome and young people should be very grateful they no longer have to use them. They regularly took on a life of their own.

Every house had a drawer for storing tapes and it wasn’t unusual to open the drawer and find a tangled brown mess looking back at you. Fixing a mangled tape required a pencil and some patience while winding it back into the cassette. This even sounds strange to me now and I lived through it.

So anyway, Pat played this tape of Billy Connolly and to be honest, I didn’t understand much of it at first. Billy is from the heart of Glasgow, so his accent at that time was very strong. It has mellowed over the years as he became more widely known and maybe he deliberately toned it down for the sake of his international audiences but initially I had difficulty getting to grips with it. As soon as I got it though, I became a life-long fan.

Billy is 77 now, and still has a mane of long scraggy grey hair and matching beard. He still swears a lot too but it’s his talent for taking ordinary every-day activities and turning them on their head to make them funny is what sets him apart.

I had the pleasure of seeing him perform live in Connolly Hall in Cork many years ago and during that visit he came to Cobh for a walkabout. My sister, Deb, was out walking her baby and she took a seat in a local viewing spot overlooking the harbour. She was there for a while when this tall man with a load of hair sat down beside her and started chatting. She soon realised that she was talking to Billy Connolly.

Afterwards, she said he was a really nice guy and very down to earth. And that’s the thing you hear very often about the man. A friend of mine met him in a hotel in Dubai years ago and he said the same thing, they just had a regular chat.

He was diagnosed with prostate cancer a few years back and had surgery for that and now he is battling Parkinson’s disease. I saw him on a BBC documentary recently and his slow movement was in complete contrast to his normal manic behaviour as the Parkinson’s was obviously getting a grip on him. He has retained his speech and his sense of humour though.

While filming the documentary, he was forced to take regular breaks because the effort was draining him. It’s sad to think of him ending his showbiz days this way but he doesn’t want the disease to define him, so I prefer to remember him for his humour.

Of his beloved hometown, he said the great thing about Glasgow is that if there is ever a nuclear attack it’ll look exactly the same afterwards.

• 

I was listening to a doctor on Morning Ireland recently and he was suggesting that hospitals would struggle with bed space for patients if the second surge in Covid-19 continues on its current path. When it was put to him that the HSE has insisted they would have sufficient bed capacity to cope, he gave a sigh.

He went on to explain that while the HSE was technically correct, they would only cope if they turned post-operative recovery rooms and other spaces designed for different purposes, into general ward space. I got the impression the HSE were playing with words.

Politicians do this all the time. They answer questions in such a way as to convince us they are on top of their game. They use a form of words to disguise the real issue and provide an answer that sounds convincing and then move on to the next topic. That happens everywhere because I experienced it in An Garda Siochana too.

The shortage of manpower in that organisation has been an issue for decades. Back in the eighties, the then Minister for Justice Gerry Collins promised more gardai for Cork after calls for extra resources. It was a never-ending call and it still continues today.

Sean O’Riordan reported in the Irish Examiner some time ago that the Garda Representative Association (GRA) complained that single-officer patrols, which regularly occur in stations such as Douglas, Ballincollig and Blarney, are “a health and safety issue.”

On one night, according to the GRA, just a single patrol car containing two gardaí was operating in the city centre at a time when thousands of people were spilling out of nightclubs.

More recently, Independent councillor Kenneth O’Flynn said he was deeply disturbed by media reports about an increase in violence in the city centre and Fine Gael senator Jerry Buttimer said there was a “perception that Cork is becoming a lawless city.” I wouldn’t go as far as to say it’s lawless, but I would imagine the gardai would welcome extra resources. Show me a police force that wouldn’t.

But it’s more difficult to make a case for extra gardai or more hospital beds if those running the show won’t admit there is an issue in the first place.

For example, there was an incident in Cork many years ago in the early hours of the morning as revellers were heading home after a night out in the city centre. A person was injured after a nasty assault and it attracted some media attention. It was suggested publicly that only a handful of gardai were on duty that night and the city generally lacked an adequate police presence at the weekends when the pubs and clubs were closing.

A senior garda officer, long since retired, was interviewed on local radio the following day and he rejected those claims. He insisted there were sufficient resources on duty the previous night and mentioned a specific number.

It sounded so convincing that it ended the conversation about resources and his account was accepted. Nothing to see here. The problem though, was that while he wasn’t lying, he was certainly playing with the figures.

The Cork City Garda Division covers a large area. It stretches from Ballincollig to Gurranabraher and from Carrigaline to Mayfield and includes every station in between. That amounts to a considerable number of gardai and many of those would have been on duty that night, so he was technically correct. The reality was somewhat different.

The actual number of gardai on outdoor duty in the city centre on that particular night was about six. That wouldn’t have been unusual and there were times when that number would have been even less. I know, because for a few of those years, I was responsible for deploying them.

Part of my responsibility in those days was to prepare the duty detail for the working gardai on my shift. It was never easy trying to cover all the positions because of the shortage of manpower. It was the miracle of the loaves and fishes’ kind of stuff.

People were required to fill many positions; patrol cars, personnel carrier, motor bike, the custody suite in the Bridewell, the communication centre in Anglesea St, the courts, prisoner escorts and more. And that was before anything out of the ordinary happened like a murder or some other serious incident which would further drain resources.

Gardai also needed time to deal with their paperwork and there was always lots of that. When you considered the people on annual leave, sick leave, and on training courses etc., it wasn’t unusual to be unable to provide a garda to walk the beat in the city centre. In fact, it was a regular occurrence.

I remember one occasion, after I had briefed the garda members for duty, they went off about their business. I was alone in the briefing room when I was challenged as to why there was nobody on the beat. The senior officer wanted gardai to be visible in the city centre.

I explained to him that in the absence of a magic wand there wasn’t much I could do about it. He would have been better employed making a case to the powers that be for extra resources.

All our front-line workers have been playing a stormer in recent times. Understaffed and underequipped they battled on and continue to do so. The least they deserve is a bit of honesty from the top.

• 

I was out walking in Cobh last week, when I came across a couple on the quayside, leaning on a railing. They were watching a navy ship preparing for departure. There was lots of activity taking place as the sailors untied ropes, heaved to, raised gang planks and shouted, ‘splice the main sail’ and ‘have at ye me hearties’.

I made up that bit, but you get the picture. They were doing what sailors do to get moving and as I watched the scene unfolding, I wondered if the crew members knew who the spectator was.

The man in question was Adrian Gebruers and while that name might not mean much to people outside Cobh, many will be familiar with his work. He is the Carillonneur attached to Cobh Cathedral. For the uninitiated and musically challenged among us that means he is the guy who plays the tunes on the Cathedral bells. That’s a simplistic description of what he does but there’s nothing simple about playing this instrument. It’s nothing like a regular piano.

Adrian hits the keys with the side of his hand almost as if he is trying to give each one a karate chop. He slides from side to side on his chair to reach the various keys so it’s physically demanding and before he even starts playing, he has to climb a couple of hundred concrete steps just to reach the instrument. This is no mean feat for a man no longer in the first flush of youth.

I approached him and I was delighted to see that both he and his wife are in fine fettle. Adrian has made a significant musical contribution to the town of Cobh over the years and that shouldn’t surprise us because his father before him did the same thing.

Staf Gebruers was originally from Antwerp in Belgium. He came from a musical family and by the age of 16 he was already showing promise. He was conducting his own youth choir by then and went on to study at the Antwerp Conservatoire. In 1922, he was appointed carillonneur of his own parish church and Assistant City Carillonneur of Antwerp Cathedral.

Bishop Robert Browne of Cloyne offered him the position of Carillonneur, Organist and Choirmaster of St Colman’s Cathedral in Cobh, and thankfully, he took up the role in 1924 and he held onto that position for over forty years.

He was a gifted conductor and was director of numerous choirs, including the Irish Naval Service Choir, the Verolme Cork Dockyard Male Voice Choir, and the Cork City Choral Society. But it is probably an unlikely piece of music that the majority of the people of Cobh associate him with.

Laurel and Hardy paid a visit to Cobh in 1953. They were coming to the end of their great careers and the famous comic duo was heading to Cobh to begin a tour of Ireland and the UK for one last fling. On September 9, that year, the liner, SS America, dropped anchor in Cork Harbour that morning and they boarded the tender to come ashore.

It was reported in the Cork Examiner at the time that Stan Laurel gazed in awe at the many thousands of people who had gathered on the quayside to welcome them. They were amazed at the sight of hundreds of boats blowing whistles and fog horns and people screaming. They weren’t expecting it because the trip to Cobh was supposed to be a low-key affair.

As they landed in Cobh, they were blown away when Staf Gebruers, began to play the Laurel and Hardy theme tune, the Cuckoo Song, on the Cathedral bells and the sound boomed out across the town. They were so impressed with the welcome that they insisted on being taken directly to the cathedral to “thank the bell-ringers” for the momentous welcome.

Adrian was only ten years old at the time, but he remembers the day the stars arrived. “When Ollie went to take my father’s hand to thank him, the accumulated emotion of that whole morning seemed to suddenly spill over the poor man and words failed him. Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he engulfed Dad in his not inconsiderable embrace.” Hardy was over 22 stone in weight.

I know how Ollie felt because I was overwhelmed too when I first met the great Staf Gebruers and the memory of that meeting has stayed with me for almost fifty years.

For as long as I can remember, I have been a punctual person. I hate being late for anything, so I always turn up to every appointment long before I need to be there and then hang around until the appropriate time. It’s obsessive and it annoys me but there’s nothing I can do about it.

It makes no difference whether it’s a serious engagement or just meeting someone for a pint, I have to be early. I have never understood where this hatred of being late originated, but I had a revelation recently that may shed some light on it, and it came to me after that chance encounter with Adrian Gebruers.

Back in the late sixties when I was a young lad in primary school, we were encouraged to join a junior version of the Cobh Cathedral Choir. I took myself off to the Cathedral one dark, winters evening to sign up.

I got my times confused and when I arrived, I came face to face with Staf Gebruers, the choir master. He wasn’t impressed with my timekeeping, and he promptly sent me home. That has stuck in my mind and I reckon it’s why I’ve never been late for anything since. It’s all down to Staf; The man who played the Cuckoo Song for Laurel and Hardy.