Trevor Laffan

Supporters are the life blood of sports clubs, and we know all about that in this country. Just look at our national football team. They’re not the most successful outfit in the world, but our supporters are up there with the best. They’re generally well behaved and always receive favourable comments from the host countries they visit.

Our world ranking isn’t the most important factor. The main thing is to support the team, respect the opposition and have some fun along the way. The same can be said of our rugby fans. It’s a great attitude to have and we can be justifiably proud of our reputation. Not everyone sees it that way though and sometimes trying to watch a game can get a bit complicated.

I was in a large pub in Cyprus one evening watching Liverpool playing in the Champions League. The place was practically empty when a middle-aged guy, a lady and a young lad came in and sat next to me. There were plenty of available tables, but they sat right beside me. They were watching the Tottenham Hotspur game which was being shown on an adjacent screen and they were obviously Spurs fans.

The dad was an opinionated guy with a strong London accent, and an expert on football – in his own mind anyway. The young lad was texting some friends trying to organise a kick about at the weekend. He asked the dad if Sullivan had one ‘L’ or two. The dad was sure it was one. The son then asked him to spell ‘Aaron’ so he helped him out; “Aran’, are you fick or wot?”

Dad was passing the odd comment on the Liverpool game. He laughed when Mo Salah missed the target and shouted, “18 yards wide” and declared loudly that Liverpool would never win anything with the two ‘deadheads’ Henderson and Milner in the team. (He’s since been proven wrong on that score.)

I was getting a little hot under the collar and I got the impression he was trying to wind me up. It was easy to establish that I was a Liverpool supporter, but it didn’t bother him that his silly comments might be annoying. I left as soon as the match was over, glad to be free of dad.

I went to that same pub on another occasion to watch Ireland playing England in the Six Nations. There were only seven other people in there besides me but when I looked at the TV screens, I was beginning to panic. Skiing was one of them and a Chelsea football game was being shown on the other two.

I approached the guy behind the bar and asked him if they were going to show the rugby match. He told me it wouldn’t be a problem. He grabbed a handful of remote-control units and began a very complicated procedure of switching screens, swopping programmes, and providers until he found what he was looking for. The rugby appeared on one of the screens, the football was back on the other one and the skiing occupied the third.

I was still standing at the counter when suddenly, this elderly guy piped up from behind me and started giving out to the barman. He also had a London accent and had been sitting with his wife watching the Chelsea game. He was annoyed that his viewing was interrupted.

The barman, a Greek Cypriot, explained that the match was almost over, but the old lad was having none of it. He was pointing at me and complaining that I had just walked in off the street and the regular customers were being ignored to facilitate me. He wasn’t a happy camper, and the wife was backing him up.

I got a drink and went over to them to explain that there was no intention on my part to disturb anyone, but they didn’t give me a chance. They just got up and left. If I had known that changing the channels was going to be so disruptive, I wouldn’t have asked in the first place. I would have gone somewhere else.

Contrast that with an experience I had in Killarney recently. Kerry were playing Donegal so the streets were deserted. They take their football seriously down there and people were either gone to the match or were watching it on the telly. Liverpool were playing at the same time and I was struggling to find a place that was showing anything but GAA. I was running out of options when I came across a sports bar that was actually painted green and gold. I figured I was wasting my time, but it was my last hope.

There were five or six televisions showing the Kerry game. Kerry were only slightly ahead of the opposition, so the tension was mounting. There was a good crowd in there and I was afraid to ask about the soccer after my Cyprus episodes. I was cold and wet from roaming the streets, so I decided to stay where I was and have a pint.

Suddenly, a guy called to the barman who immediately changed one of the tellys and Liverpool appeared on the screen. There wasn’t a single complaint.

It was difficult to get to the counter so when I called for a pint it was passed back to me in relays. The money went forward in the same way and my change came back to me. One lad in the chain spilled a tiny drop and another guy told him he was banned from the relay team.

A Corkman in the middle of a bunch of Kerrymen, watching a soccer match while their county was involved in a tight battle with Donegal was made feel very welcome. That doesn’t happen everywhere.

On Monday 21^st February, An Garda Siochana Tweeted, ‘On this day in 1922 the very first recruits joined An Garda Síochána and made their way to Dublin’s RDS to begin their formal training. 100 years on, over 14,000 Gardaí nationwide are dedicated to protecting communities and keeping the people of Ireland safe.’

As I read that, it brought me back to when I started in 1979, a mere fifty-seven years after those guys. Arriving at the gates of the Garda College in Templemore, Co. Tipperary on a cold December day was a shock to the system. There was a security barrier at the entrance with a guard room just inside and it looked anything but welcoming.

There were about ninety of us standing there, suitcases in hand, wondering what the next move was going to be. This strange looking barracks was going to be our home for the next six months. It looked large and imposing and according to John Reynolds, a garda historian, the Garda College was originally constructed as Richmond barracks in 1815 on a fifty-seven-acre site.

When completed, it was one of the largest barracks in Ireland with accommodation for ‘54 officers, 1500 men and 30 horses, a hospital for 80 patients; a bridewell; a fever hospital and a dispensary, ball, news and reading rooms, and a public billiard table’.

By 1909 Richmond barracks had been vacated, and Templemore town council was informed by the War Office that there was ‘no prospect of troops being quartered there in the near future’. However, the outbreak of World War 1 in August 1914 brought a reversal of this policy, and between October 1914 and March 1915, Richmond became a prisoner of war camp, holding over 2,300 German soldiers who had been captured on the western front.

The two barrack squares were divided into four huge cages, complete with searchlights, barbed wire and sentry towers. I didn’t know that at the time, but it does explain why I felt like a prisoner as soon as I went under the barrier.

We were herded into a large hall where different people took it in turns to shout at us. We got lots of instructions, orders and insults and at some stage in the proceedings, we were attested. We stood together and took an oath to serve and protect and signed on with the State for the next thirty years. I was now part of something big and these people were my new colleagues.

We were shown to our accommodation, a large room with a high ceiling, divided down the middle by a timber partition with three beds on each side. It reminded me of an old hospital ward. The partition was about seven foot high and didn’t reach the ceiling, so it was easy to have a conversation with the guy’s next door. Easy to throw things over too and not always in a helpful way.

The first night was quiet. We kept to ourselves as we adjusted to the new surroundings and sussed each other out. At 11pm I was startled when a bugle sounded over the intercom system. This was our signal to turn out the lights and get to bed. I hadn’t been told to go to bed since my early childhood, but this was my new life.

I didn’t sleep much. There were too many strange sounds and I remember thinking at one point that I might have made a terrible mistake. I was doubting whether I would stick it out for six months but thankfully that feeling didn’t last long.

There was another surprise in store for us the next morning when the bugle sounded again over the speaker. It was only 7am but time to get up. The tannoy was operated by the guys in the guard room. Their function was to ensure the security of the facility and monitor who came and went so there was always someone there.

One guy in particular must have thought he was working for a pirate radio station. He often played music in the early hours of the morning over the tannoy and in between songs he would tell stories about his life. When we were more established, it wasn’t unusual for speakers to be broken by flying boots trying to shut him up.

After a shower, it was time to head to the mess hall for breakfast. Queueing for food was another new experience and we soon realised there were advantages to being near the top of the queue. The sooner you got to the food, the better.

Some got up as soon as the bugle sounded and went straight for the grub to get the best of it. Others who left it to the last miniute, got the concrete eggs and porridge that resembled wallpaper paste.

After breakfast, we got into our uniforms and lined up outside the classrooms for a quick inspection. Making sure the shoes were polished, the uniform was clean, and hair was neat and tidy. Then it was time for lectures, including police studies, self-defence, swimming and life-saving lessons, drill and gym work. In the evening, there were supervised study periods and after that we were free to leave the centre and go down-town.

We had to sign out in the guardroom and sign back in no later than 11pm. A trip to the Templemore Arms for a pint or two was a welcome taste of freedom as long as you weren’t late getting back. Tricky sometimes too, with the sergeant in the guard room on the lookout for cases of insobriety.

On Sunday mornings, we marched to 10am mass in the town in full uniform whether we liked it or not. The metal studs on our boots let everyone know we were coming. Vivid memories still after all these years.

Trevor Laffan has received the ‘Irelands Leading Columnist Award’ for his outstanding contribution to journalism. It’s not true but it has a nice ring to it, and it seems there is a way to make it happen. Apparently, all I have to do is pay for a page of advertising with Public Sector Magazine and in return, I will get an award.

I discovered this after Eir announced on Twitter recently, that they had won the ‘Excellence in Customer Services Management Award,’ awarded by @PublicSectorIRL 2021 Excellence in Business Awards. They received their award from Public Sector Magazine, but the news raised some questions about the nomination and selection process.

On RTE’s Liveline programme, Joe Duffy was inundated with listeners anxious to talk about their negative experiences of dealing with Eir Customer Service and the majority of callers were astonished to hear they won something.

When I checked the magazine’s website to find out how I could qualify, I found this message “We’ll be back soon! We’re currently updating our website and will return shortly. Thank you for your patience.”

Well, patience is one thing you would need when dealing with Eir as I discovered a few years ago. I signed up for a package that included broadband, three mobile phones, a landline and Sky Sports. That decision will probably go down in this family’s history as one of the worst I have ever made. I think I may have suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after the experience.

My story began in 2016, when I heard that fibre optic broadband was coming to my area. In October that year, a young lady called to my door from Eir. They used to be called Eircom but changed the name to Eir because, well I don’t really know why. I’m pretty sure it’s the same service and the same people. Anyway, the young lady was happy to announce that the new top of the range broadband would be available within a few weeks. I was excited.

She told me to ring Eir to order it, so I did. I went through the usual routine, picked one of the four options, pressed the hash key, picked one of the next four options and pressed the star key, picked the option that most suited my needs, and waited for an eternity before finally talking to a human.

I told the voice about my meeting with the young lady, and I advised her I was now ready to sign up. Well, that was great news for the lady in Eircom, now called Eir, and she was happy to assist me, but I had to wait ten days. I explained that I would be out of the country by then so if she could just make a little note on my account that I wanted it set up, I would be very grateful.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible. She told me I would have to ring up personally on day ten to book the broadband. As soon as I returned, I made another call to Eircom, now called Eir, and went through the familiar routine of choosing options, pressing hash keys and waiting patiently. I eventually spoke to a lady, told her my story and off she went to make sure the service was still available, and happily it was.

Just as I was about to sign up, she told me that as soon as I placed the order, my Internet would be disconnected until the new broadband was hooked up which would take a minimum of five working days, excluding weekends.

As we were heading into a Bank Holiday weekend, that disconnection period would be longer so, I decided to postpone it until after the long weekend. When I got back onto Eircom, now called Eir, I got through to a very pleasant young man and he listened patiently as I told my tale once more.

He checked that the broadband was still available in my area, and it was, and it should be connected in less than the five days. But there was a new problem. The portal in my area was now full and there was no room for any new customers, so he told me to try again in a week.

A week later I called back and spoke to another young lady. I repeated the entire story once more and I told her that I was ready to go if there was some room in the portal for me. I didn’t want much, I wasn’t going to be greedy, I just needed a tiny bit.

Well, good news. There was room, but because of a huge demand for the new service, I would have to wait for two weeks, and I would be without the Internet for that period. So, the nice lady suggested that I should wait until the New Year when the demand would be reduced, and I would be able to get the service quicker.

So, that’s what I did. I waited for the new year and eventually got connected. But that wasn’t the end of the story. Things got very complicated after that, and I lost count of the number of calls I made to customer care. Each call meant retelling my story to a new representative and another hour of explanations and promises that the problem would be resolved, but it wasn’t. Bills were sent to us for things we didn’t sign up for and phones were disconnected.

They reduced my wife to tears and I eventually reached the stage where I couldn’t take any more. I contacted the Communications Regulator (Com Reg). They took up my complaint and shortly after that, the matter was resolved. So, I reckon, if any awards are being handed out, the Communications Regulator should get one.

I joined An Garda Siochana in 1979 without putting too much thought into it. It was more of a whim, but it worked out ok in the end. Although not long after walking through the gates of the Garda College in Templemore, a few doubts did creep into my mind when I found myself in a large hall, watching a guy giving a demonstration on how to make a bed.

I wasn’t very experienced in the bed making department, but I still wondered if it was really necessary to be getting lessons. These days, it’s a lot simpler, you simply straighten out a duvet but back then, we had no such luxury. We had grey, hairy woollen blankets with a top sheet and a bottom sheet, and every morning they had to be folded and stacked on the bed – military style.

The blankets had a couple of lines running horizontally across each one and when they were folded, the line had to run along the fold, and it had to be straight. The blankets were then stacked on top of one another, and the folded sheets went on top of them, followed by the pillow. That pile was inspected at some stage during the day by a qualified bed inspector and there would be consequences for any breaches of the folding etiquette.

We joked about this but looking back on it now, I can see the thinking behind it. It was all part of the discipline process we were being introduced to, like marching, saluting and uniform inspections. Making the bed first thing in the morning sets the tone for the rest of the day and it’s a habit I’ve retained all my life. Unfortunately, it never extended to the younger members of my household.

Contrary to what some commentators suggest, An Garda Siochana is a disciplined organisation. The rules and regulations are laid out in the Garda Siochana Code which is a tome we all received when we came through the gates of the Garda College and retained until we handed it back on retirement.

This rule book guided us throughout our service but like every organisation, we had our black sheep too. Some broke the rules as evidenced by the revelations in Crimes & Confessions, a three-part series on RTÉ One which aired recently.

The RTE promotional piece described this programme as a ground-breaking three-part true-crime series looking at three of the most notorious miscarriages of justice cases from the 1970s and 1980’s and draws links between them. It promised to shine a light on rumours of a Garda Heavy Gang, the existence of which has been denied for over forty years.

I watched the three episodes and found them difficult viewing. Having spent over thirty-five years working in An Garda Siochana made it all the more uncomfortable. The stories of coerced statements of admission, beatings and abuse were hard to listen to. The alleged behaviour of those gardai cannot under any circumstances be condoned.

Listening to those stories brought about a range of emotions. I was embarrassed at first but then I got angry. I was angry at the investigators. Not only for what they allegedly did to those unfortunate people, but also for what they have done to the reputation of an organisation I was proud to be a part of.

I was aware of the existence of the murder squad, and I had heard the term ‘Heavy Gang’ but I didn’t know anybody attached to it. I never saw them in action either so I can’t offer any clarification on the tactics they used. The programme referred to interrogators, a special group within the Murder Squad known as the ‘Heavy Gang’, who allegedly assaulted and threatened suspects to obtain confessions. I don’t know how many of them are still alive today, but it would be interesting to hear from them or from anyone else who could shed light on the activities of this group.

They may have been few in number, the figure of twenty has been mentioned, but they have caused a lot of hurt. Not only to the injured parties and their families, but also to the decent members, past and present, of An Garda Siochana who performed their duty with distinction. They now find themselves under a cloud of suspicion, guilty by association, because of the deeds of a few. And they were only a few.

The RTE series, makes it difficult to deny the existence of a ‘Heavy Gang.’ The condemnation and the criticism that followed the airing of the programme has to be taken on the chin by An Garda Siochana and they must ensure nothing like that ever happens again. On a more positive note, there have been many changes since then.

The video recording of interviews in garda stations now provides protection for prisoners and suspects. The rules and regulations governing the treatment of persons in custody in garda stations have completely changed too with designated officers in place with specific responsibility for their safety.

It’s still not a perfect organisation but it is vastly different to the one I joined in 1979. The events depicted in the programme happened over forty years ago and those involved have long since retired or are deceased. It’s up to others to determine what should happen in relation to those allegations.

Since then, thousands of men and women have served An Garda Siochana well. Many paid the ultimate sacrifice by giving their lives in the service of the State. I was proud to wear the uniform and fortunate to have encountered some exceptional men and women during my time. I experienced many courageous and heroic deeds performed by my colleagues and witnessed some amazing displays of humanity along the way too.

That should also be remembered.

I read recently that an eleven-year-old wheelchair user made an appeal to dog owners to clean up after their dogs. He said no matter how careful he is, he often ends up with dog poo on his wheels on the way to school. Then he has to get his mother to push him the rest of the way and that upsets him.

Closer to home, my wife took our grandchild out for a walk last week. It was her maiden voyage with the pram, and she wasn’t gone long but by the time she arrived back, one of the wheels was covered in dog muck.

The following day, I collected two of my grandsons for school. I drove into their estate and pulled up outside the house at 8.30am. As the two lads ran out the front door, I grabbed the smaller guy just before he stepped into a pile of dog poo that had been deposited at their entrance. They don’t own a dog.

The fact that it hadn’t been washed away by the rain during the night meant it had arrived there sometime earlier that morning so there are two possible explanations.

The first one is that someone had walked a dog there and allowed it to defecate outside someone else’s door and didn’t bother cleaning it up. And the second one is that someone had left the dog out first thing in the morning with the intention of allowing it to wander the estate until it found a suitable location to empty its bowel. That person obviously didn’t care where it happened as long as it wasn’t outside their own front door.

Both scenarios are unacceptable but far from unusual. Unfortunately, too many dog owners have little or no respect for their neighbours or the environment. That ‘couldn’t care less’ attitude is very prevalent and I don’t know how we can fix it. There are regulations and laws relating to the control of dogs and there are punishments for owners who refuse to abide by them, but they’re not enforced.

Appealing to their better nature doesn’t work either. The Irish Examiner reported last year that the City Council had launched a campaign to win hearts and minds of dog owners and sought to identify “habitual abusers” to encourage them to take responsibility for cleaning up after their dog. It was a carrot and stick approach focused on encouragement and education and it maybe was worth a shot, but it was a wasted effort.

Enforcement isn’t working either. Fines haven’t been issued in years because, we’re told, it’s too complicated. That’s evidenced by the fact that not a single dog fouling fine was issued in Cork City between 2017 and 2020 and just two were issued in 2021. A pretty dismal record.

Dog fouling is not a new problem. Politicians will tell you they constantly hear complaints from their constituents about it. Claire Byrne, of the Green Party said, “It’s coming up on the doors, we see it ourselves all the time, and I think it’s getting worse rather than better.” Cork’s Labour local area representative, Peter Horgan, has called for new legislation to tackle it. Given the poor record of the local authority to get results, you’d have to wonder if there is a genuine will on behalf of any of them to really get to grips with it.

They’ve been hearing about it for a while. In January 1967, fifty-five years ago, a letter writer to the Evening Echo questioned why Fitzgerald Park, a small, beautiful park, allowed dogs to foul up all the pathways. In 1968, the following year, the Evening Echo published a letter of complaint written by a disappointed visitor to Cork.

It was the third visit of the writer and his wife to Cork, and they usually stayed in Well Road, which they described as one of the most picturesque parts of the county. He said while the residents were improving their property, the Council seemed to have forgotten about the area. The roads were filthy, having been fouled by cattle and uncontrolled dogs and it was almost impossible to walk from the Cross to the Well Road after dark for fear of walking through the mess.

“Recently, wearing sandals, my feet were in a disgusting state by the time I reached home. I will again be over here for a few weeks next year, as I love the quiet and solitude of the countryside and would like to retire here in a few years’ time, but if the city is not looked after by the Council, in five years’ time, when I hope to settle here, one will not have a road or pavement to walk on.”

That was very prophetic of the writer. I don’t know if he did manage to retire here but if he did, he was probably disappointed to see that as far as dog fouling is concerned, he was spot on.

But it’s not only a problem in this jurisdiction. In 1975, the Evening Echo reported that London was working on the problem of what to do about dogs that ‘do things’ on the sidewalk. They had a novel idea and introduced street inspectors who walked around their respective areas citing people whose dogs had fouled the footpaths.

These inspectors identified, with less technology than is available today, that most of the offences occurred between 7.30 and 8.30 in the morning and at sunset in the evening. That was forty-seven years ago yet, we still employ dog wardens to work from 9am to 5pm and then wonder why there are so few prosecutions.

Peter Horgan wants high-visibility enforcement, which is very laudable, but it won’t make a blind bit of difference unless the enforcers follow the same roster as the dogs.

When I was stationed in Cyprus with the United Nations in 2014, I was shown something really interesting in the Buffer Zone. It was little chapel in the area of no-man’s-land that separates the divided island. The Agia Marina Chapel was built in the 12^th Century and is located near the village of Deryneia, in a small valley they say once looked like a piece of Paradise. I think it still does.

You could easily miss this place but its relevance to the community is immense. Underneath it, there is a holy well where sick children were once bathed, hoping to be cured of various illnesses. Outside, next to the chapel, is the ‘palloura’, a thorn bush, which looks more like a small tree than a bush. That’s where pieces of clothing from sick children were hung in the hope they would get better.

I say ‘were’ but that practice still goes on today. Even though the area is controlled by the United Nations and is officially out of bounds to civilians, the locals regularly gain entry to keep up this tradition.

I always admired that tree whenever I passed it and often stopped to look at the pieces of cloth and wondered about the story behind each one. I think it’s a lovely tradition and it’s only recently I discovered we had something similar going on here in Ireland. I don’t know if it still exists but to begin with, we have to back in time to the days of St. Brigid.

The Feast of St. Brigid is celebrated on the 1st. February every year and I have to admit, I knew nothing about her, apart from the cross she’s associated with.

I remember as children in primary school, we were given reeds or rushes or something and we were shown how to make this cross. You know the one I’m talking about. It was a standard bearer in RTE for years and there was a time when every house in the country had one hanging up somewhere within the four walls. They were considered to be a good luck charm just like the horseshoe.

Some people still hang them over the door or elsewhere around the home to bring good luck and also to protect the occupants from fire and hunger. In the old days, the crosses were replaced at the end of the year with new ones and the old ones were burned in the fire. In some cases, people with thatched roofs put their old crosses under the thatch and it was said you could tell the age of the cottage by the number of crosses in the roof.

Apparently, the cross was originally designed by St Brigid as she sat by the sick bed of a dying pagan, it may even have been her father, soothing him with stories about her faith and her unwavering trust in God. While telling the story of Christ on the Cross, she picked up some rushes from the ground and made a cross from them to illustrate her point.

She was a formidable young lady who eventually became the patron saint of babies, blacksmiths, boatmen, cattle farmers, children whose parents are not married, children whose mothers are mistreated by the children’s fathers, dairymaids, dairy workers, fugitives, Ireland, Leinster, mariners, midwives, milkmaids, nuns, poets, the poor, poultry farmers, poultry raisers, printing presses, sailors, scholars, travellers, and watermen. Not a bad CV.

Brigid was born in Dundalk, Co. Louth in 450 AD, to one of Ireland’s first Christians, a woman who had apparently been baptised by Saint Patrick himself. Her father was a wealthy pagan farmer, and she spent her earlier life cooking, cleaning, washing and tending the animals on the farm. She showed signs of generosity, compassion and holiness form a young age and regularly annoyed her father by giving away their food to those in need.

Her father was running out of patience, so as soon as Brigid reached eighteen years of age, he set out to find a husband for her. She had other ideas though and decided she wanted to devote her life to taking care of the poor, sick and elderly instead.

She built a small convent next to an oak tree to begin with, and that eventually grew into a monastery. As her community grew so did her reputation for healing the sick. People came from far and wide in search of a cure. They would often tie a piece of clothing belonging to a sick person to the tree in the hope of securing a miracle and she is reputed to have performed a few which resulted in her ultimately reaching sainthood.

The Feast of St. Brigid was declared in her honour and tradition has it that on that day, people would leave small pieces of cloth or ribbons on their windowsills, so that as St Brigid crossed through the country on the eve of her feast, she would touch them endowing them with special curative properties to ward off illness and pain in both humans and animals. They were kept safely throughout the year and used for healing or incorporated into clothing to offer protection to the wearer.

As word of Saint Brigid’s kindness, generosity and talent for healing spread, the King went to see her. She asked him if he would gift her as much land as her cloak would cover. Laughing at Brigid’s small cloak, the King agreed, but when Brigid’s four sisters took the cloak and began turning in circles with it, it grew and spread in all directions until it covered the whole of Leinster.

That’s where ‘Brat Bride Ort’ (Brigid’s cloak be upon you) comes from. The blessing invokes the protection of Brigid’s cloak. So, for the week that’s in it, Brat Bride Ort.



• 

It looks like we are going to be paying more for our drink. The Government’s minimum alcohol pricing strategy came into force this month which put an end to low-cost wines and cheap slabs of beer. So now there is a minimum price below which alcohol can’t be sold.

Campaigners have said that minimum unit pricing of alcohol will save lives, cut hospitalisations and bring societal benefits as well as savings for the Exchequer. Minister for Health Stephen Donnelly agrees and said the measure is designed to reduce the harm caused by the misuse of alcohol and will delay young people beginning to consume it.

Others suggest this plan could revive the smuggling trade and there is a precedent for that. During the Prohibition era in America in the 1930’s, the Government tried to reduce the consumption of alcohol, but it led to a massive underground operation instead. It introduced the ‘speakeasy’, which operated like our shebeens, and business boomed.

Many argue that alcohol consumption rose to record levels during Prohibition and a rise in hospitalisations from alcohol related illnesses. Alcohol poisoning was common because the hooch produced in hidden stills was frequently tainted with impurities. Many died but some say this wasn’t always accidental either.

Conspiracy theorists accused the Government of deliberately contaminating the pure alcohol that bootleggers needed, by adding kerosene and gasoline to the mix, supposedly to scare people into giving up illegal drinking.

That’s hard to believe, but while reading up on this, I came across a strange tale involving Irishman, Michael Malloy. Originally from Donegal, Malloy made quite a name for himself in New York during Prohibition. He was a homeless alcoholic who survived several attempts to kill him by acquaintances who wanted to claim on his life insurance policy.

They fed him with antifreeze, turpentine, poison, tried to freeze him to death and even ran over him in a car but he survived. His ability to beat death earned him the nickname “Mike the Durable.”

The story began when five conspirators met in a speakeasy in New York City on a cold winter night in 1933. They were down on their luck, like so many others at the time, and looking for a way to make some extra money. One of the men owned the speakeasy which wasn’t making much money and over several rounds of drinks, they came up with a plan.

They would take out an insurance policy on their intended target naming themselves as beneficiaries, then they would kill the victim and collect the cash. One of the men claimed to have done it before and got away with it so they agreed to give it a go. All they needed was a victim. When they saw Michael Malloy passed out from drink at the end of the bar, they knew they had their man.

Malloy lived in New York in the 1920s and 1930s. He was a former firefighter who fell on hard times and ended up doing odd jobs like sweeping alleys and collecting garbage. He was homeless and at night he usually made his way to the speakeasy and drank until he passed out. He often drank himself into oblivion and slept on the floor in the speakeasy. It was on one of those nights while he was unconscious in the corner that the five realised they had their victim.

He was the perfect candidate. He was in his fifties but looked much older because of his lifestyle and they assumed his health couldn’t be good. He was a loner so he wouldn’t be missed by anyone when he was gone either. They devised a simple plan. They would give him an unlimited tab and in no time at all, he would drink himself to death.

Malloy was delighted with his newfound friends and the unlimited credit, and he made full use of it. He drank his loaf off and returned every night for more. He was thriving and when the five conspirators realised the plan wasn’t working fast enough, they upped their game.

They started mixing his drinks with antifreeze. When that had no effect, they tried adding turpentine and rat poison, but he continued drinking as usual. It didn’t knock a feather out of him. They fed him raw oysters soaked in wood alcohol and gave him sandwiches of stale tuna laced with crushed glass and carpet tacks and he devoured the lot. Some said he even put on a little weight.

They decided to try a more direct approach. They waited until he passed out one night, then carried him outside and lay him in the snow. They poured gallons of cold water on his chest and left him there, certain he would freeze to death from the cold. The following night, Molloy appeared back at the speakeasy for his tipple.

For their next attempt, they lay his unconscious body in the street and drove over him in a car. Malloy was carted off to hospital in an ambulance with a few broken bones but no life-threatening injuries. Within three weeks he returned to the bar for more drink.

In desperation, the conspirators made a final attempt. One night after he had passed out, they put a hose in his mouth and connected it to a gas jet. He died within a short time of lobar pneumonia. They had finally succeeded and looked forward to a big pay out, but they never collected a cent.

There were lots of rumours circulating around town and the police got suspicious when they heard stories of “Mike the Durable”. Malloy’s body was exhumed and forensically examined. The cause of death was discovered, and the investigation soon identified the conspirators. One went to prison, while the other four were sent to the electric chair.

• 

On the fifth of December 1979, I entered the Garda College in Templemore, Co. Tipperary, or the Training Centre as it was called then. That was over forty years ago, and I still shiver at the thought of how cold it was in that part of the world. I reckon there are fewer places on this Planet colder than the large open square, also known as the parade ground, in that complex in Wintertime. I should know, I spent enough time marching on it.

Those responsible for training obviously felt that building a resistance to hypothermia was an important aspect in the development of garda recruits. It would certainly explain why the Centre was located in Ireland’s answer to the Arctic Circle. They were very fond of marching too, and maybe they thought the wind chill would encourage us to keep the pace up. Anyway, we did a lot of it in the cold, and we did it without the benefit of hair to keep us warm.

When I walked in the gate on that first day, I had a head of curly hair. Most of the guys – there were no women in our group – had hairstyles representing the style of the time but it wasn’t long before we were all sent to the resident barber. I say barber but I use the term loosely.

He visited the Centre once a week and had a small room near the main gate where he set up his stall. I reckon his electric razor had only one setting but that was ok because one was all he needed. He was a pleasant man, and you could certainly tell him how you wanted your hair cut, but he never gave any indication that he heard the instructions. He did it his way and everybody got the same treatment.

I remember how horrified I was after my first shearing. I even frightened myself when I looked in the mirror. The only consolation was everyone else looked the same. There were lots of pale scalps and shocked expressions wandering around the Centre in a state of disbelief. It wasn’t good for heat retention either, but we got used to it.

For the next thirty-five years I kept my hair short, and I often thought that once I retired, I might allow it to grow again but by then most of it had already fallen out.

The powers-that-be liked to have us out on the square as often as possible. There was so much marching, saluting and standing to attention that I sometimes wondered if we had mistakenly signed on with the Defence Forces and we were actually being prepared to go to the front somewhere. I didn’t fancy my chances against the enemy armed only with a piece of timber and a peaked cap, so I had some concerns.

They must have worried we would tunnel our way out in the dead of night too because they lined us up on the square every morning to check that we were still there. It was like roll call in a prison. While they had us out there, they checked the length of our hair and the state of our uniforms. If we were guilty of any infringement, we had to call to the office of the Top Man for a dressing down.

I remember on one occasion long after I had left Templemore, I returned to the Centre for a course. I had been in the Force for about eight years by then, but we were still expected to parade once a week with the rest of the recruits. Saluting and standing to attention took a bit of getting used to again because it didn’t exist in the real world.   

It was during this time that the Oberfuhrer responsible for the morning inspection decided my hair was too long. There was no point in arguing because these things were never up for discussion. I was ordered to get a haircut and report to the Top Man the next day for absolution.

At 9am the following morning I found myself standing in the hallway outside his office door which was open. There was a line of young recruits behind me waiting for their sentence to be pronounced for their various misdemeanours. I was first up so when my name was called, I walked in casually and greeted the man behind the desk. I didn’t stand to attention or salute for the simple reason I had been out of the system for so long, I wasn’t familiar with the protocol. There was no disrespect intended.

He obviously appreciated that and realised I wasn’t a recruit, so he just smiled and said,” Hair cut is it?” I told him it was, and he just thanked me, and I left again. As I came out a young lad passed me on his way in. He must have been watching me and decided to take the same approach. Something I’m sure he later regretted.

I was walking down the hall when I heard a loud voice shouting, “What’s the first thing you do when you come in here?” He meant entering the office, but the young lad thought he meant entering the Training Centre, so he meekly replied,” Get a haircut sir?” The Top Man shouted in a louder voice, “No, you don’t, you salute!”  I found it hard to keep a straight face.

It was a strange place, full of weird and wonderful people. We often thought some of our instructors had become institutionalised and had lost touch with reality, but they did their best as they prepared us for life on the outside.

Many of those characters are no longer with us but we remember them fondly. Well, most of them anyway.

• 

‘I’m a Celebrity 2021’ was on our TV screens again recently, but instead of spending a few weeks in the heat of the southern hemisphere, the contestants this time were confined to Gwrych Castle in North Wales where the weather wasn’t so pleasant. In fact, it was so bad at one point, that filming was stopped after Storm Arwen damaged the production area and the celebrities had to be relocated.

I would have been delighted with the break in filming If I had been one of those contestants, but I’m never likely to find myself in that situation for a couple of reasons. In the first place I’m not a celebrity but even if we could find a way round that, I wouldn’t last five minutes in there and I’ll tell you why.

I could tolerate the rough conditions, and the hardship and I might even cope with eating some of the critters but as soon as the first rat made an appearance, I’d be off. I can’t stand the sight of them, even from a distance, and the thought of coming into contact with one makes me heave. No amount of money could tempt me to share a space with a rat never mind letting it crawl all over me and I’m not the only one.

There’s a whole bunch of us and we suffer from a thing called Musophobia, an excessive fear and aversion to rats or mice. Mice don’t bother me, but they say that because rats are traditionally linked with dirt, rot, and serious diseases, some people experience repulsion at the sight of them and I’m one of those.

But there’s another reason I could never go near that show. I have a slight touch of claustrophobia, a fear of enclosed spaces which could pose a few problems for the producers. It’s not severe in so far as I don’t mind small rooms or crowds, but I hate being restricted in tight spaces. An MRI scanner is a good example. I’m broad shouldered so when I’m in that thing, my shoulders touch both sides and my nose almost touches the roof. That makes me uncomfortable and having to stay there for twenty minutes doesn’t help either.

It reminds me of a photograph I saw online of a guy assisting with a cave rescue. He was crawling through a space so tight he had to turn his head sideways to fit through. My chest was tightening just looking at the image so I can’t imagine being comfortable in a locked box full of rats on ‘I’m a Celebrity’, so I’ll give it a miss thank you very much.

While reading up on phobias I came across another little nugget that explained why I have little interest in music. I’ve often wondered about that. It’s not that I don’t appreciate a good song or a good singer, because I do, I just can’t be bothered listening. Garth Brooks, U2 or the Rolling Stones could be playing across the road from me, and I wouldn’t leave my recliner.

The only time I ever went to a concert was when Michael Jackson performed at Páirc Uí Chaoimh in 1988 and that was simply because I was on duty in the stadium that day. I usually have the radio on all day when I’m at home or in the car, and it’s always tuned to talk shows. I rarely listen to music, and I don’t have a CD player or a record player. I’m told vinyl is making a comeback which is great for those with record collections, but I don’t have a single record to my name.

I think I’ve always been like this even though, back in the seventies, in my teenage years, I was known to strum a guitar occasionally using the three-chord trick. Singing was a problem though because I never knew the full words of any song and I still don’t. I know a couple of verses at best and probably the chorus of a few more but that’s it. Even if I wanted to learn a few songs I’d struggle because I can’t make out the lyrics most of the time. I couldn’t be bothered either.

If you’d like to watch me squirm, take me to a pub with live music. I realise I’m in the minority and some of my friends think I’m an odd ball. For years I even agreed with them but now I’ve discovered there may be an explanation for this too.

A woman was discussing this issue on the radio. She didn’t have much interest in music either and it turns out it’s not uncommon. There is a medical term for it called specific musical anhedonia.

People with anhedonia, lack the typical emotional responses that most people show when listening to music. The inability to derive pleasure from music can stem from a real neurological condition and new research suggests it is rooted in differences in how the brain’s auditory processing and reward centres are connected.

A person with musical anhedonia can listen to an extremely emotionally charged song and not feel anything at all, even if they show normal emotional responses in every other way. Which basically means it’s not my fault; it’s just the way my brain is wired.

I also came across a blog by Carissa Holmes who wrote about ‘Why Some People Don’t Like Music.’ She talks about musical anhedonia being a brain condition that causes people to feel apathetic toward music, and she says about 3-5% of the population experience it.

See, I’m not such an oddball after all. I’m just basically indifferent to music and it’s not my fault. It’s all down to my auditory processing thingies but fear not, I’m happy to march to my own beat.

• 

Few readers of this column will be aware of the responsibility that rests on my shoulders as a columnist of international renown. Oprah Winfrey could turn a book into a bestseller just by mentioning it on her television show and I know how that feels. Being an influencer is a heavy burden to carry but it doesn’t faze me.

I continue to impart my wisdom and provide guidance to the millions of readers of The Echo around the world who pour over my opinions every week and I won’t let you down – but I nearly did.

When I started writing this column in 2016, I didn’t expect to be still at it six years later, yet here we are. I thought I would run out of things to say, and I have to admit, I nearly did on a few occasions during the various lockdowns. Most of what I write about has to do with the normal everyday things we get up to so when we aren’t doing anything, that creates a problem for me.

I keep up to date with world affairs too though as I offer counsel to world leaders. I’m told EU meetings are often delayed to coincide with the publication of Monday’s Echo to allow politicians the opportunity to absorb my wisdom before making important decisions. So don’t be surprised if you see a copy of The Echo tucked under the arms of the powerful as they make their way around Brussels.

It hasn’t gone to my head though. I can easily mingle with the great unwashed too and often gather material from just talking to ordinary people. A simple chat on the high stool can throw up something interesting which is why Covid-19 didn’t do me any favours. My supply line was cut off. The pandemic is still the main topic of conversation, and we’re all fed up with hearing about it, so I thought it was time for some good news for a change as we enter the new year.

It would be nice to welcome 2022 with some positivity and with that in mind, I consulted Nostradamus to see what’s coming down the tracks for us.

Michel de Nostradame was born in France in 1503. He studied medicine and became a physician, treating plague victims throughout France and Italy. It’s believed he had a psychic awakening during that time and began to practice the occult, making predictions of the future, which he published in The Prophecies. Many people believe his predictions have come true.

I tried reading this book but got totally bogged down because he didn’t make it easy. He avoided plain English, preferring instead to write in riddles or quatrains which are mini poems. One of the reasons for writing that way was to protect himself from persecution from the Catholic Church. They considered prophesying to be the work of the devil, but I think it was only the work of an overactive imagination.

Most of the predictions are so vague and confusing that you could make several interpretations from each one. Take this for example; “Earth shaking fire from the centre of the earth will cause tremors around the New City. Two high rocks will war for a long time, and then Arethusa will redden a new river.” Supporters of Nostradamus say that refers to September 11. The New City is a reference to New York and the two high rocks relate to the twin towers but that’s a bit of a stretch for me.

Another prediction said, “Under the opposite Babylonian climate, Great will be without the outpouring.” This apparently translates to mean a climate war will start during 2022. I have no idea how they came to that conclusion, but his prophesy of World War II is a bit more credible; “Beasts ferocious with hunger will cross the rivers, The greater part of the battlefield will be against Hister. Into a cage of iron will the great one be drawn, When the child of Germany observes nothing.”

I got very excited when I saw another one and developed a new found respect for Nostradamus; “There will be a twin year (2020) from which will arise a queen (corona) who will come from the East (China) to spread a plague (virus) in the darkness of night, on a country with 7 hills (Italy) and will transform the twilight of men into dust (death), to destroy and ruin the world. It will be the end of the world economy as you know it.”

That was brilliant but unfortunately it turned out to be an Internet hoax, not Nostradamus words.

I wasn’t making much progress in my quest for positivity, but I was determined to find some sign of encouragement so in a final desperate bid for inspiration, I turned to the stars. My Pisces horoscope for 2022 tells me “The presence of Saturn in the eleventh house of wealth, profit and ambitions at the beginning of the year will increase your income sources. You will get rid of your debt and work towards accumulating wealth.”

“From April, Saturn will transit in its own sign Aquarius which falls in your twelfth house, which is the house of travel, expenses and foreign journeys. You will live far away from your family with an opportunity to go on a foreign trip during this period.”

“From the middle of April there are signs to be careful about your health. Mid-May will cause an increase in your mental tension and there will be controversies and misunderstandings in the life of lovers.”

That’s almost as confusing as the Nostradamus stuff but as far as I can tell, I’m going to get a few bob, go on a holiday, get sick and fight with the wife. So, nothing new for me in the New Year then.