Memoir of an Irish male in the 70`s

“Are you up here in Dublin looking for a permanent job?” “Of course, Mr. Campion” “Then why is that?” “I wanted to broaden my horizons and see a bit of the world, so to speak, as Shercock is a very small place.” “I see.” responded Mr. Campion “In my experience you sons of country publicans usually end up going back to the family trade, leaving us Dublin employers in the lurch” he said, with a quizzical look directed at me. I knew that the success of the interview was resting on a knife edge and that he was surmising in his head whether he should employ me or not. With that there was a polite knock on the sitting room door. Mr. Campion admitted a tall, well dressed gentleman, carrying a leather portfolio case, with a familial greeting and handshake. “Good to see you Bob, how have you been keeping? How`s the family? How`s trade been recently?” enquired the man, who turned out to be a travelling sales representative for Jameson whiskey. “Everybody’s well, thanks George and trade is ticking over nicely. I’m interviewing this young man for a bar vacancy, a son of Francie MacEntee from Shercock, Co. Cavan who’s on your patch, isn’t that so?” Bob enquired. “I have known this young man’s father for twenty years or more, a well-established family in the Cavan licensed pub trade.” affirmed the Jameson’s representative. “Noel, would you be so kind as to step outside, close the door behind you and wait in the hallway until I go back out for you in a few minutes?” “Off course, that’s no problem whatsoever” I said in my politest voice. I will never be privy to what was discussed in Bob’s sitting room but at a guess it centred around the good character of my family, as I got the job. In June of 1970,

I headed off to Dublin with a good barman’s reference from my publican father, outlining that I had always worked in the family business and making no mention of my secondary school education. My ambition was to earn some decent money and to meet girls, no further ambition beyond that. I was able to register straight away with the Barmen’s Union obtained a Senior Barman’s card with no difficulty whatsoever. This ensured that I could earn top wages straight away. Campion`s in Ballgriffen, North County Dublin operated a pub, lounge and basic grocery, together with a very well maintained eighteen hole pitch and putt course out the back of the premises. My uniform was a long white starched apron, white shirt and black bow tie. Midday trade was mostly centred around serving Ploughmen’s Lunches to passing businessmen and building labourers. Once my emergency tax was refunded, I was able to purchase a brand new push bike which enabled me to cycle the five miles back to my digs near Whitehall church for my late afternoon shift break.

The summer flew by in a flash and I was comfortably ensconced as a barman when my mother reminded me that I had to start looking for a permanent job. Very little movement was coming from my end, so my parents ended up in making up my mind for me. A letter addressed to me from the Institute of Chartered Accountants in Ireland instructed me to attend for interview at the offices of Swain Brown and Co., DÒlier Street, Dublin the following week. Life as an articled clerk lay before me at the princely weekly wage of £5. Indentured slavery it turned out to be, as it did not even cover my weekly rent.

Mr. Campion of course felt both let down and vindicated in his original suspicion of my motives and I had to make up a cock and bull story about having to return home, due to my father’s sudden serious illness. In truth, I felt very bad about letting him down and I had no enthusiasm in leaving his employ whatsoever. Accountancy work was tough going and I also had to attend the College of Commerce in Rathmines for four nights study a week. The head of our accountancy firm was also the managing director of the Adelphi and Carlton Dublin cinemas. The Adelphi had recently been rebuilt with multiple screens, Dolby surround sound systems, and plush seating, including Pull-man seating for five star luxury. The Carlton, with 2,000 seats, was the largest cinema in Ireland and regularly featured live music acts, including the Beatles. Part of my duties was to audit the weekly film takings for both cinemas, as 60% or 70% of the gross takings were returned to the film distributors in London, such as EMI, Warner Brothers and MGM. The cinema made most of its own profits from inflated prices of popcorn, sweets and fizzy drinks.

I made sure that my work in the Adelphi was finished in time for the first afternoon screening on Fridays. The front of house staff, particularly the commissioners, faithfully kept an eye out in case my boss caught me mooching off from work but, in truth, I think he was fully aware of what was going on. On Friday nights, especially as I regularly had no money, I used to make my way up to the Carlton manager’s office for a chat and to take advantage of his hospitality, including whiskey produced from his desk drawer. With his permission, I then proceeded to watch the late night film shows, Hammer House of Horror movies being a regular feature.

The Dublin jackeens were often time more entertaining than the actual film, with cries of Jaysus, will ye look at the fangs on yer man, hèel bleeding suck yer wan dry. It was simple, innocent fun. We had to conduct Audits of our client businesses through-out the country, on an Annual basis. This was the only time of the year that I had extra money in my pockets, as our Clients paid both our travelling and living expenses. In common with those before me, I tried to pad my expenses, so that I would have a little surplus cash. I was referred to as the bag carrier which included ticking and totting long ledger figures, counting and verifying stock, by either checking the levels in pub spirit bottles, or climbing over and counting bags of fertiliser, in Agriculture Co-Operatives storage depots.

Flat accommodation was shared with my brother Sean and his friend,Tex, both students at University College Dublin (UCD). Subsidisation was provided by my parents and it was my brother’s responsibility to keep me on a short leash, by doling out money to me for lunches, bus fares and such like. Our two room flat on Grosvenor Square, off Leinster Road, Rathmines had only a three bar electric fire for heating which gobbled up money at the meter. A shopping trip to the Army and Navy surplus store, off Capel Street, provided two full length RAF greatcoats for my brother and me, used when pillion riding his Honda 175 motorcycle - bought new with the proceeds of his summer construction work with our uncle Jim in Chicago - and as an extra bed blanket on freezing winter nights. I used to travel home, 60 miles away, with him on the back of his bike at weekends for resupply. Our landlord lived next door, a big thick civic guard from Kerry. We had to share a common bathroom with other flats and one Saturday morning I decided to treat myself to a bath. The actual bath was covered with layers of brown scum, built up gradually over the years. I went next door and thought that I would shame the landlady into cleaning it. No chance, she just handed me out some rubber gloves and a packet of Vim cleaning power. I scrubbed away on my knees for what seemed an eternity and in the end, I just gave up and had a shower, as usual.

In the flat, we existed on either baked beans on toast, tinned spaghetti on toast or scrambled eggs on toast. I got to know most of the city centre Chinese restaurants, as they served up cut price lunches, probably the heated up left overs from the night before. Both my brother Sean and our flat mate Tex were University College Dublin (UCD) students: electrical engineering and journalism. Sean was involved with a group called the "Civil Chems", a group of students who ran Thursday night dances in The Television Club, a dance hall at the top of Harcourt Street, reputed to be owned by Eamon Andrews. It also had a recording studio on the premises. My delegated job was to visit flatland around the Rathmines, Rathgar, Ranelagh and South Circular Road areas on my bike with concession passes: entitling people to be admitted at reduced prices to the dance before a certain time. My reward was just a free past for myself. More slave wages but I didn’t really mind, as brother was in charge of the purse. The Television Club bands were classier than those hear in the National and Ierene Dance halls on Parnell Square, such as The Indians, The Miami, Brendan Boyer and Dickie Rock. The women were classier as well.

Sloopy`s, a new night club, was opening in Fleet Street, close to our office and some free passes were dropped in with us, as a promotional incentive. Being stony broke; I pounced upon one and ended up that Friday night meeting a flaming redhead, named Brenda, from Palmerston, who was employed across the road by the Electricity Supply Board (ESB), Fleet Street office. I always had a secret passion for redheads and we got on like a house on fire. Brenda had a charming freckled face that lit up when she smiled. Her lips were fully shaped, luscious and sensuous and I longed to kiss her passionately. Her crescent shaped eyes framed her beautiful hazel green eyes which intrigued me. She was an eclectic dresser with her own sense of style, broadly in the gypsy fashion – long, emerald green swirling skirt, laced cream top and brown riding boots. Her flowing red curled hair was held back by a dancers head scarf. As a result of a definite mutual attraction, a romance soon developed between us. Such venues as Zhivago, the Ace of Clubs and the Revolution were soon added to our favoured circuit of nightclubs.

Sloopy`s was more suited as a mid week venue that attracted a crowd in their 20`s. It consisted of several different floors with DJs playing different music on each floor. Strobe lights of violet, red and yellow colours mixed with creeping floor fog, generated by smoke machines. Curved imitation leather couches lined dark alcove corners that facilitated smooching couples. The Ace of Clubs and the Revolution Club were both located off Parnell Square. They occasionally featured up and coming live bands, followed by DJs playing albums into the early hours. They were down seedy lanes and not places to hang around for ones own good. They were mostly weekend venues and the men were particularly inebriated, coming in after pub closures, so they could be a bit rough at times. Zhivago Night Club, located off Baggot Street, was a more sophisticated venue, mostly haunted my middle aged married married on the prowl. It had an upmarket wine bar, with upmarket prices to match. Females were very elegantly dressed and definitely on the prowl for an eligible match. Music was more middle of the road and suited to long smooching sets. Lots of private booths facilitated “conversation” and “proposals”. Dinner jacketed bouncers put up with no messing or nonsense, often barring troublesome offenders.

There was one occasion on which I was able to treat Brenda to a proper night out, as I had purchased two Abbey Theatre tickets to a Sean O’Casey play, “The Plough and the Stars.” We had arranged to meet at 7.45 pm. outside the Theatre. I had not been forewarned that there was an impromptu after work drinks session to mark a colleagues going away occasion. The few pints flowed, due to the boss’s rare generosity and went easily to my head. I got on my bike and wobbled unsteadily to Rathmines, running into parked cars on the way. I was tired and thought that forty winks would freshen me up for the romantic evening ahead. I woke up seeing stars, darkest night with a sharp sting in my jaw. It was 9.30 pm. and Brenda was standing over me, her temper glowing in the dark, she was livid. I was mortified: what an awful waste of such a rare treat for us both. To my absolute relief, my flat mate Tex., had gone home for Christmas UCD break to his parents in Navan and had forgotten a bottle of Poitin that he had hidden at the side of the press in the kitchen. With aplomb, I set to making hot toddies for us both with Poitin, boiling water and Mi. Wadi. Squash. We were both as merry as tinkers in no time and normal relationships had been resumed between us.

However, in time Brenda, while sympathetic to my pecuniary plight, must have been fed up that I was always short of readies. Moaning about my being constantly broke and feeling sorry for myself was no answer, as far as she was concerned. “Will you get off your backside and do something if you are so unhappy about your job, you’re an adult and can make your own decisions, you’re mammy doesn’t have to be making them for you?” “OK, if you are so smart, what do you suggest?” I threw back at her. “Well, now that you come to mention it, the ESB are recruiting clerical officers at the moment and you would breeze through the process, if you got your act together” “Right, you’re on”. Taking up the immediate challenge. “What the hell have I to lose?” said I. The Aptitude Test and Interview went smoothly, as Brenda had a friend in ESB human resources and she helped to school me through the interview process. Breaking my Article Clerk contract presented no real obstacle for me, although my folks at home were not initially best pleased.

An ESB colleague, Kevin from Kilkee, Co. Clare, introduced me to the pastime and pleasure of sea angling pursuits. We used to bring all our angling tackle out to Dun Laoghaire and Bray on the 48A public bus. Catches, such as conger eel, mackerel and plaice, provided regular sport for us. Kevin brought me down to his parents home, located on the Silver Strand, overlooking Kilkee Bay, where we fished for and caught ten foot conger eels off the Pollock holes, located along the rocks. They were so vicious, we had to kill them with hurling sticks when caught. We were lucky to get on friendly terms with the light house keepers, at the end of Dun Laoghaire pier and they often invited us indoor to share a warming cup of tea when the weather turned nasty. Kevin`s uncle lived in Bray and loaned us a rowing boat when the mackerel were swarming in the harbour. Just a ripple across the water would make me seasick, a condition not improved by Kevin`s mention of greasy bacon sandwiches. While my ESB wages were very good , unfortunately, the work was mind numbingly tedious and job satisfaction was absolute zero. Without any mental stimulation or job satisfaction, I was back to a dead end once more. Coupled with my lack of enthusiasm for the job, I got into a damaging pattern of running up a series of Friday absences, after late Thursday nights outs with Kevin on the town. This accumulation of black marks resulted in my being invited to resign, before in effect I was fired, thus preserving a reasonable work reference.

Keeping my down at heel situation hidden from my parents, I once more turned to the bar trade for

work. A refurbished pub in the north inner city were looking for staff and I was given a trial job. It was run by a father and two sons. All went well until I was asked to collect all the beer slops and put them in a muslin covered enamel bucket for overnight storage. The next morning I was instructed to unscrew the nut from a false beer barrel and pour in the slops. This barrel was linked to a dummy Guinness tap and when it was busy at night, I had to use a quarter glass from that source and three quarter contents from the real Guinness tap. "I hear that you won’t do your job, as instructed by my son. Is that right Noel?" enquired the pub owner. "I was brought up by decent people, I will not facilitate this deceit" I responded bravely, although my heart was in my mouth. A stand-off between us then ensued. "I note that your Social Welfare cards carry ESB impress stamps. How can that be if you claim to be a full time barman?" He had caught me out. "If you ever breath a word about this incident to anyone, then I will report you to the Barman’s Union and you will be struck off their books straight away. Remember Its your word against mine, after all”.

Once again I got my cards and I found myself out on the street without a job or prospects. I had been sharing a one room bedsitter in Belvedere Place, off Mount joy Square with a male night telephonist, named John. He was an unusual man to say the least, aged about forty. He was in the habit of applying pale face powder before going out to work. However, odd as he was, he was very decent to me, especially when I got behind in my rent. At one stage I even resorted to breaking the lock on the public phone in the hallway, opposite our door, in order to buy some groceries. I was scraping bottom at this stage, there was no doubt. The shop across the road were also very good to me, allowing me to carry some tick on their books which I always honoured.

Relationships between Brenda and me were as good as ever, but I have to admit it was a bit one sided, as she was seeking a long term commitment, while I was only a callow immature youth, not long out of the nest and still a fledgling. Plans for a camping holiday had been made by us some months previously, travelling via the Larne/Stranraer Ferry and then hitch hiking between Glasgow and Edinburgh. My conscience dictated that I should let Brenda know before the trip that it would be our last time together, as I was going to break up with her. Oh boy, that was the very worst thing to do, talk about being stupid. Of course the holiday turned out to be a nightmare, talk about getting the cold back side. Flaming redheads can just as easily become ice maidens, if given enough motivation. Just to add insult to injury, I ran out of money and had to borrow from her and it took me some time after our return to pay her back, so this prolonged the agony.

Waking up late in the day in my flat, I answered insistent door knocking, only to find my two flustered parents standing on the door step. They were on their way back through Dublin from a trip to family friends in England. “Do you know what day this is, Noel?” asked my obviously flustered mother. “No, not really, why – should I” I responded, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “For God’s sake, you have an interview with the bank in about four hours’ time” she exclaimed in a higher vocal register. I just looked at her with a blank face, as the import of what said had said was still seeping into my recumbent brain. I had forgotten all about the job application sent away months ago. “Have you a proper suit, fresh white shirt, shoes – a proper ensemble suitable for the interview?” enquired my mother. Again, I just stared at her with an open mouth. My dishevelled appearance must have been more elegant than any sentence that I could scramble out. “Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph” she cried “Your father and I have not the money on us to sort you out. Francie what can we do?” “Well maybe Aidan McChesney down in Arnott`s menswear might be able to help us out” said my father helpfully. My mother had shopped in Arnott`s, on Henry Street, for years and Aidan was from our home town and was in charge of the menswear department. “No problem, Mrs. MacEntee, I’m delighted to be of assistance, just whatever amount of money you like, you can pay me back any-time” said Aidan, to the eternal gratitude of our family. A quick short back and sides followed, so suitably suited and booted, I made it to 8 Burlington Road, in good time for the job interview. “You’re on your own now, son, we’ve got you this far, the rest is now up to you. Good luck.” said my father, giving me a manly hug and a slap on the back.

With his words of advice still ringing in my ears, my Guardian Angel must have steered me successfully through the interview, as I was shortly called for the Aptitude Test which turned out to be a breeze. So that is how my forty year banking career got off to a precarious beginning. So, on the 18th September 1972, I climbed the front steps and approached the impressive bronze inlaid double doors of the head office of the Provincial Bank of Ireland (now Allied Irish Banks), 5 College Street, Dublin, opposite Trinity College side railings, to take up my appointed banking position. For new entrants, the actual appointment location of their position was at the sole discretion of the bank. I could have been sent to Cork or Donegal, no appeal being allowed. As it turned out my first three permanent jobs in Dublin were all located within a five hundred yard radius of each other. By this time, I was well settled in Dublin, so I was as pleased as punch to be still working in the familiar city centre.

The tall metal, polished glass and brass gilded inner double doors opened into an impressive banking hall. Marbled columns, ceilings that rose into the gods, capped with two impressive mythical maidens kneeling and holding up a highly decorated, ornate clock. Scrolling deep grained mahogany counters, lined each side of the mosaic tiled floor. A uniformed porter brought me into Mr Widger, the deputy manager’s office, who in turn brought me along a deeply carpeted corridor, to the inner sanctum of Mr Eric Craven, the distinguished looking senior branch manager, seated majestically behind an elegant leather tooled desk. “You are most welcome, Mr MacEntee, congratulations and best wishes on what we hope will be a long and mutually beneficial career with the bank.” “Thank you sir, I am delighted with my appointment and I look forward to becoming a member of your banking staff.” “I understand that you have some previous accounting and clerical experience, so this should help you fit in quickly with our team. Of course you will be expertly guided and given both hands-on and centralised training. “Yes sir, thank you sir”. “You may call me either Manager or Mr Craven”. “Of course sir Manager”. “Just one other point of mention before you go Mr MacEntee, I wish to compliment you on your sartorial elegance but note that sandals have no part of a bank official’s proper ensemble” “Of course yes sir, I will purchase a new pair of shoes at lunch break, sir” “Very good, you can go now out with our Mr Widger and he will show you around.” “Thank you sir, I mean Manager Mr Craven”. Stumbling and mumbling to myself, I found my personage standing on the other side of a closed door in the long corridor, with a bright red face, looking down at my socks peeping out from my infamous sandals. “Don’t worry Noel, we all feel awkward on our first day, come along with me and I will give you the five cent tour and introduce you around.” Mr Widger said, to my great relief. So I followed him around sheepishly, as I was introduced to various heads of departments and my new working colleagues. Best of all, he brought me down stairs to the staff canteen where I was treated to a slap up breakfast. Over time, the canteen staff were to make a pet of me and prepare my favourite food, even if it were not on the menu.

My first duty was to brand the previous day’s paid cheques on customers accounts, through a machine that punched each cheque with tiny pinpricks showing today’s date and the word “PAID”. The most important part of this duty was to make sure that the machine date was changed on a daily basis. Once this had been done, I filed the appropriate paid cheques in each customer’s filing cabinet which would, in time, be matched up with their individual bank statements and dispatched to them by post. Not exactly earth shattering or mentally stimulating work but it was as good a place to start as any, I suppose. True to my word, at lunchtime, and with limited funds, I purchased a pair of shoes down Talbot Street. For some reason, I ended up buying a pair of platform shoes. It must have been the inner rebel within me. I ended up regretting my choice, as I could hardly walk in them afterwards.

With my poor track record of getting up in time for work, my parents insisted that I went into “digs”. A suitable family, the Dixon’s, were found for me at the Sandymount end of Tritonville Road, close to the number 3 bus route. In common with most working class housewives, Mrs Dixon was adept at producing dinners from low cost ingredients. For instance: stuffed heart, skinned skate, Dublin coddle were all meals that I could not digest, being a person with a picky nature. My room mate was a veterinarian student from the country who had an appetite like a horse and regularly picked both his own and my plate clean. He swiftly became Mrs Dixon’s favourite. Life soon settled into a regular pattern. Work and digs for five days, then home to Shercock on Friday evenings, via Tom Roe’s Shercock Sillan coaches, parked beside the National Ballroom, at the top of Parnell Square. The return journey on Monday mornings at 6.30 am., would usually find me asleep in the luggage compartment, at the rear of a minibus, until I was dropped off in Dublin at 8.30 am, outside “Sherry’s Café” in Abbey Street, where I had my breakfast, prior to reporting for work.

I had worked at a bar/hotel beside the CIE (National Bus), Broad stone depot, on Dublin’s north side, prior to taking up my new banking position. A dispute with the manager, resulted in him holding on to the National Insurance cards for nearly nine months. My father eventually had to confront him and threatened him with the Police, before he released the cards. This had the knock on effect of all my nine months back dated insurance stamps being deducted by the bank in one lot from my salary, leaving me with nothing to live on for that month. I was at my wits end: what could I do? I discussed my predicament with my father and, as chance would have it, he went to school with the owner of Rice’s pub on the corner of St. Stephens Green, opposite the Gaiety Theatre. He gave me a letter of introduction to Raymond Rice and I ended up in getting bar work for two evenings a week, to my everlasting relief. I was a total innocent and was totally unaware that it was frequented by a gay clientele. However the tips were great, as I was a floor waiter, although there were accompanied by a few indecent suggestions from time to time, together with some chat up lines, inspired by my shoulder length blond hair. One arduous admirer followed me to the last Ringsend garage bus at 12 midnight but I managed to elude him. The job lasted until the Universities students went home on Summer break, at which time I was once more or less solvent. If the bank had discovered that I was double jobbing, I would have been in trouble, as I was still on probation and it was against their rules of employment.

Bank staff had free access to sports facilities shared with Aer Lingus and Bank of Ireland staff in Knockrabo, Goatstown, a suburb of south Dublin. It comprised soccer and rugby pitches, tennis courts and an old rambling house with a pub, snooker room and function room. I remember some great evenings having sing-songs and bumping up on down on long leather seats loudly singing out the words to Garry Glitter`s glam rock song “Will you kiss me, yeah, will you write my name up on your wall. Yeah”.

Weekends were spent running the family pub at home, something I enjoyed but I felt tied down and unable to enjoy my weekends as I would have desired. Saturday nights were particularly busy in the pub but this made getting to dances in the nearest town of Carrickmacross, Co. Monaghan very difficult indeed, as I was not allowed to drive my fathers car. I must have been bemoaning my plight out loud in the bar one evening to two of our mature female customers who were moved to sympathise with my plight. “Can you drive, Noel?” asked Miss Fisher, a single woman who worked in our local chicken “factory”. “Of course” I responded confidently, based on driving my sisters Austin 1100 up and down our large yard, without her approval. “Well my Morris Minor is parked outside the house and you are welcome to borrow it, if you promise to be careful and not to drink and drive” “Absolutely, I don’t drink (which I didn’t) and you can trust me, I won’t let you down.” I just could not believe my good fortune.

So a regular Saturday pattern followed: In the afternoon, I would call up to the house that she shared, had a brief chat with the two ladies, quietly left a quarter bottle of gin and tonics on the kitchen table and pocketed her car keys. We had petrol pumps, so I fuelled the car up and parked it away from the pub., ready for the off, directly after the pub closure. That Saturday night, I drove off to a dance at the Nuremore Hotel, Carrickmacross and “shifted” a girl from Nobber, Co. Meath and then drove her home. I do not know how I made it back home to Shercock safely that night, due to driving through thick fog, poor headlights and a lack of driving experience in adverse weather conditions – I just hugged the white line and the cats eyes. The thought of my having no driving licence, no insurance, no car tax or being stopped by the Police never once entered my head. My angel guardian must have been looking out for me over all this period, as I drove Miss Fisher’s car for months without incident. Eventually my father caught me out but then agreed to put me on his own insurance policy, seeing that I had proved my worth as a careful driver, if somewhat careless about such minor details as insurances and licences.

After twelve months working in College Street branch, my bank bosses decided to transfer me to one of their Drogheda branches. I did not, nor could not, object, but it turns out I was fed with with living in digs and looked forward to the freedom of sharing a flat. I ended up sharing a flat with three other bank officials and we made dinner for ourselves there each lunch hour. A great social life soon ensued: I played on the wing for a rugby club based at Butlin`s Mosney holiday camp’s sport grounds, played squash in The Crescent community centre, took up amateur acting with a local troupe and played snooker in a private club beside the bank. My new girl friend, Ann, had a wonderful circle of friends and I soon became an accepted member of this fun loving group. Weekends camping on Achill Island, trips to Ballybunion and the Galway races became part of our itinerary. We fuelled ourselves with free Vesta curries, as one of the lads worked in the factory where they were made, thus freeing up drinking money.

I had little interests in playing sports during my years at Ballyfin, Co. Laois boarding school but I took to playing 3rds rugby with Devlin rugby club with great enthusiasm. Our club consisted mostly of north Dublin farmers, workers from McDonnell’s The Margarine factory in Drogheda which manufactured Flora Margarine, teachers, bank officials and clerical workers from Drogheda. Butlin`s Mosney holiday camp pitches were sand based and playable all winter. We were a great crowd of convivial rugger buggers and we all lived for the weekend home and, especially, away matches with north Leinster teams. The posh Dublin clubs, such as Wesley, looked down their noses on us as country yokels and only ever offered us tea and sandwiches, miserable sods. No matter what happened on the pitch, we were always the best of friends afterwards, after scraping off the muck, we were treated to free pints and a slap-up belly busting feed, then back home by team bus, in the early morning hours, singing bawdy rugby ditties with croaky male voices.

My other newly found passion was play acting with St. Brigid's Drama Group, consisting mostly of teachers. We put on two plays annually and I had the thrill of playing Gar Private in Brian Friel`s Philadelphia Here I Come, along with Hugh Leonard`s DA and Ten Little Indians, to very good reviews. I turned into a complete Thespian, with all the associated pretensions. One of my work assistant managers, Paul, convinced us to take part in his deluded production of The Crying Room for the annual Bankers Drama Festival held at The John Players Theatre, South Circular Road, Dublin. It was based on the controversial Papal proclamation Humane Vitae concerning contraception and human reproduction. Paul was acting as a priest giving a homily on a pulpit to the audience while the rest of us were a motley crew,supposed to be gathering in the crying room of a church. We had no proper set, our performances were totally amateurish, unconvincing and just overall brutal. The festival adjudicator just slagged us off the stage and we went home with our ears burning, never to ever re-appear. We had an active regional bank sports and social group. I learnt to swim for the first time in Gormanston College, Co. Meath’s swimming pool, part of the facilities that we had free access to on Wednesday Summer evenings. Sing-songs followed in a local country pub and bank management were generous about putting their hands in their pockets.

I tried out for the North Leinster AIB Rugby team, by our playing against Navan Rugby club and had a good game until the last fives minutes: catching a high ball close to our line and calling out “MARK” for a free kick when I was hit on both sides by two bruising Navan forwards. I went one way and my right leg went the other way. I screamed out with pain. Carried into the dressing rooms, my knee swelled up like a balloon and the pain throbbed like crazy. I had come with my friend Greg who was determined to stay on for the craic. He helped me to dress and propped up my leg on a low bar stool while feeding me neat brandies for pain relief and to keep me from complaining too much. Much later that night, Greg drove us back to Drogheda in his Mini, spinning it around corners and nearly crashing the car many times. By some miracle we made it home safely and Greg dropped me off outside Ann’s flat. I hobbled up four flights of stairs and received a sympathetic reception from Ann, even though it was nearly 2 am. She took me up to Casualty early the next morning and my leg was x rayed and put into plaster from the hip to the ankle. Later than evening, Ann decided that she would cook us a special curry, as a treat. Her table was all laid out with a linen tablecloth, good cutlery and a nice chilled bottle of Black Tower German white wine. Unfortunately, Ann was using desert rice, not the proper long grain variety, and she could not get the boiled rice particles to separate – it was just a ball of mush. Poor girl, we just laughed but she was mortified nonetheless.

About six weeks later, my plaster cast was removed in the hospital. The Consultant arranged for me to see him in his private consulting rooms for a follow up check-up. Little was I to know at that time, but this esteemed professional was in fact a sexual pervert and the first I knew of it, was when he molested me by dropping his hand down the front of my underpants. Needless to say, I never went back to see him and I now have arthritis in my knee as a reminder. Many years later this man was “outed” but the Hospital Nun’s rewarded him with a fine pension, he transferred all his assets to his wife and he was never convicted of any crime. Back in those days if you mentioned the incident to anyone, they would most likely say either: its only in your own imagination or: you must be queer yourself and you lead him on.

Our Manager at that time, was a Mr Lynch, originally from Cork. A lovely man, he suffered from poor health, was a heavy drinker and basically very unhappy with his posting to Drogheda. He was a fanatical hurling fan and the only one with whom he could passionately debate hurling was with Henry Dudley, a bank official rugby prop forward from Tipperary. We juniors used to accompany them to the Horse and Hounds pub on Narrow West Street for after work drinks. I will always remember our Manager’s standing order instructions to the barman: “A fresh one in front of me and always another one up the spout”. When he got into the rhythm of drinking, he did not wish his flow to be interrupted. This was a cardinal sin in his book. Henry was just about able to keep pace with him, as we juniors just fell to once side after the speed of two or three pints after we left the two men to their reminiscences of Munster hurling.

Around that time I had moved into a basement flat with my colleague Leonard. I seemed to fall into a depression, triggered I’m sure by my father’s premature death at aged 60. A series of sick leave absences from work ensued, resulting in an assistant manager, Dave, physically pulling me out of bed one morning when I should have been at work. "Get up you lazy fucker, your for the high jump today, our Manager is waiting in his office to see you". My mind was in a whirl "Am I going to get the sack ?" I panicked "What am I to say, as an excuse that will be believed, I’m in serious trouble, that’s for sure? ". After a semblance of dressing and leaping into the engine revving car, my brain was in overdrive. Standing shame faced in front of my Manager, he asked, looking at to my abysmal personnel file "Well Mr. MacEntee, before I make any comment, what have you to say for yourself on this occasion ?" With tears running down my unwashed face, I stuttered "I have been on new medication recently and all I want to do is sleep all the time", I knew by the look of disbelief on his face that he was not falling for my line but, in fairness to him, he was prepared to give me one final chance."You are to go and see your Doctor immediately and get your medication changed. Then, you have until this coming weekend to move out of that flat and get into new digs, as you are not responsible enough to get yourself out in the mornings for work." I knew by his determined tone and direct stare into my eyes, that I had no option but to comply with his directives. With good fortune, I was able to obtain digs with a lovely family, named Crinion, on the Marsh road, beside the Margarine factory. I soon became included as part of their warm, loving family circle. They had a handicapped son, Eugene, who was the centre of everyday family life.

I even went away on a horse drawn holiday in Kerry with their daughter and two of their other sons. It was highlighted by my first and last taste of Pot, having retched up my guts. I was singularly in charge of the horse and gypsy caravan (the others walking behind) on a steep incline, coming into the sea side village of Foynes, Co. Limerick, when the horse began to gather up speed and I could not get him to slow down. The gypsy caravan’s foot brake was useless and we ended flying through Foynes village at full speed, with cars and a large bus mounting the kerbs to get out of the way of my out of control horse and gypsy caravan. It was a close run thing, as the horse never came to a stop until we were half a mile on the other side of town. I am glad to recall that I had no more close calls at work and, in fact, I ended up being an enterprising and responsible employee, with a much improved service record.

We had a local Italian café owner, Mario, as a customer who had a periodic requirement for “Queen’s Head” sterling currency from time to time. Irish currency could be freely converted to sterling at no cost, at that time in the 1970`s. Rumour had it, that sharp suited Italian gentlemen would then collect and repatriate the funds for Mario back to their Italian home village. As a Cashier, I facilitated Mario and as he was always delighted with my good service, he insisted on providing me with free fish and chips any time that I called to see him on my way home. Many times when I was flat broke, I came to appreciate his free meals. We had our favourite watering holes, usually bank customers pubs, who would hold our post dated cheques until the 25th of the month pay-day, both a good and a bad habit, as our next month’s salary was open spent before we got it. Luckily, there was unlimited overtime to be had at that time.

During the three month bank strike of 1976, I drove my American Aunt Kay around Ireland for a number of weeks. The weather was scorching and remained glorious all Summer long. She, very generously, covered all my expenses and while my colleagues worked in English frozen pea processing plants or on building sites, I had the Life of Reilly. Having given up my flat at the beginning of the strike, I found it very hard to get a place to stay when I came back to work in September. Having been previously friendly with a group of female night telephonists, one of them – Vera, with a thick West of Ireland accent – came to my rescue and provided me with a single room in their house, located directly behind their main bathroom. It was a very delicate arrangement. Vera had a notion of me but I never really reciprocated, unfortunately. She used to ring me up at home, to my parent’s house, at the weekend and struck up a friendship with my mother, who pestered me as to why I was not going out with such a nice girl.

We had been working overtime for weeks at work without a break when a crowd of us from work went on the batter one Friday evening. Unfortunately, we had compulsory overtime the next day – Saturday. I woke up as drunk as I went to bed and Vera poured me into a taxi and told the driver where to drop me off. Everything was swimming in front of my eyes, I was unfit for duty but had no other option, except to be there. I was filming a record of customer cheques when a colleague shoved a bar stool under my bottom, as I was unsteady on my feet. On the pretence of going down to search for achieve records in the basement boiler room, I disappeared for several hours. The heat was lovely and quickly overcame me. I ended up curling up in a foetal position within a large Kellogg box and dropping off to sleep. I awoke with a sudden start to find Henry Dudley kicking the sides of the box and roaring at me over the noise of the burner: “Get up you lazy drunken fucker, you came in to work, not to sleep” I knew then and there that the game was up, so I just signed out and went back to my bed. Unfortunately, I had incurred the wrath of my assistant manager whom we had nick named as “Hunt the Cunt”. He reported me to our Head Office HR Manager and it resulted in my being transferred to Dundalk branch. I was devastated, it was so unfair, after all I had never claimed a penny for my lost Saturday. I had to leave my friends and social life behind me. As it turned out, my romance with Ann had been finished for some time, so I did not have that wrench at least.

Dundalk ended up as a ten year posting for me. I found the townspeople narrow minded and insular looking. My social life never really took off and I was really quite miserable. I shared a flat with two other bank officials, overlooking the Fair Green. My Manager, an old fashioned Royal Bank conservative type, was somewhat scandalised that I was living in that part of town where the tinkers lived, as he said. It suited me nonetheless, despite his disapproval. Each evening my dinner consisted of either: smoked cod and chips, sweet and sour pork or curried chicken, all accompanied with a large bottle of Club orange. No wonder that I piled on the weight over time. The town was nicknamed El Passo, due to the large number of republicans and republican sympathisers living in various Estates around the town. There hardly seemed to be a week went by when we were not forced to close our doors, as another republican prisoner had passed away on the Maze Block blanket protest. The town had a threatening air and was festooned with black flags on electric poles.

What started out as a routine task, one day turned into both a bizarre and frightening incident. My bank had been the sponsor of agricultural animal prizewinners in the annual Royal Dublin Society Spring Show. A farmer in our area was one of the national winner for his prize farrowing sow in the relevant pig judging class. I was asked to accompany a local photographer to visit the farmer, present him (and his sow !) with his winner’s trophy and get a photograph of himself, myself and his large sow and litter for the local newspaper. After we had a glass of whiskey in his sitting room while casually chatting, my photographer received an urgent phone call on his early model, brick size, mobile phone, "Quick, Noel, we have to go now". So, leaving the startled looking farmer behind, we took off on a high speed chase for the border between Co. Louth and Co. Armagh (Northern Ireland). The photographer was on 24 hour call for national press and television. He was tight lipped, eyes firmly fixed on his driving and offered no explanation whatsoever as to what was going on. I had enough sense to determine that something big was up and to keep my mouth firmly shut. He had been alerted to the fact that a body had been located along the roadside, on the line marking the actual border between Ireland north and south.

After a crazy dash, we arrived to find camera men, news reporters and photographers casually talking and smoking along the side of the road. I could just about make out a man’s body, lying face down, obviously dumped, partially hidden in a roadside culvert, with his hands and feet tied behind with wire. I was shocked to see congealed blood at the base of his skull, with brain parts exposed.Everyone was awaiting the arrival of the police and security forces but it just seemed so blasé and an everyday occurrence to the media people that were present at this dreadful scene.

Talk among the bye standers centred around a strong rumour that he had obviously been executed by the IRA shooting the hapless victim to the back of his head. I later learnt that he had definitely been identified of falling foul to the Armagh branch of the Provisional IRA as an informer to the British Army and had been tortured and executed by way of a `punishment shooting`, as a warning to others `volunteers` that might otherwise be tempted to squeal to the authorities. What started out as a pig photograph, ended up with the dramatic sight of a humiliating picture of the sad ending of a human life, just like a dead dog in a ditch.

At 6.20 pm. on Friday 19 December 1975, a car bomb exploded outside a licensed premises known as ‘Kay’s Tavern’, or ‘Kay Mulligan’s’. The pub was situated on the south side of Crowe Street in the centre of Dundalk town. The building itself was completely demolished by the explosion, and extensive damage was caused to parked vehicles and neighbouring buildings. From the evidence of eyewitnesses, and the position of the crater in the road caused by the explosion, it appears that the car was parked close to the kerb outside the entrance to Kay’s bar. It was facing towards Roden Place. The explosion obliterated the back end of the vehicle, leaving just the two front wheels with portions of the engine and chassis. This suggests the bomb was located in the boot. At the time of the explosion, Kay’s Tavern was relatively quiet, with just seven customers being served by the proprietor’s son, John McErlean. The proprietor herself, Mrs Kathleen McErlean, was upstairs in her living quarters with daughters Catherine and Alice. Had the pub been busier, the death toll would almost certainly have been higher.

Later that same evening, a gun and bomb attack was carried out at Donnelly’s Bar, Silverbridge, Co. Armagh, in which three people were killed. Police on both sides of the border believed the two attacks were linked. The ensuing Garda investigation into the Dundalk bombing was unable to find sufficient evidence to charge anyone in relation to the attack.

Our bank was just up the street from Kay`s Tavern and our staff often drank there, after work. A colleague of mine`s father was driving by at the time of the explosion and was caught by the after blast. He never fully recovered from his injuries, suffering mostly by way of mental breakdown and post traumatic stress.

As it was, two people were killed: one a customer in the bar, the other a man on the street outside the bar door. More than twenty others were injured. The explosion was of considerable force. A passer-by who was on the opposite side of the street, about twenty yards from the explosion when it occurred, was propelled into the air: he landed inside the railings of the Courthouse, some thirty yards away from where he had been. Inside Kay’s Tavern itself, two men who had been sitting on stools at the bar were propelled through the back wall of the bar and into the toilets, which were in the back yard. Another customer described the explosion as follows: “Just at that I was thrown against a wall. I could feel what felt like waves hitting me. The bar burst into flames immediately… I saw a heavily built man, about 60 years. He was bleeding badly from the head. I grabbed him and headed towards the back of the bar… I made my way to what I thought was the entrance to the toilet. It turned out to be a dead end… We were still close to the bar. Myself and this man turned to go elsewhere and at that the bar exploded. I think this was the spirits exploding. I eventually made my way out to a window at the front of the building. I was taken by one of the firemen.”

The two men who died as a result of the bombing were Hugh Watters, 60 years, married with grown-up children, and Jack Rooney, 62 years, also married with grown-up children. Hugh Watters was a tailor, with premises in nearby Francis Street. He was a regular customer at Kay’s, calling in most evenings after work. He had no extreme political leanings. A witness who entered the bar a few minutes before the explosion recalled that he was sitting on his own at the rear of the bar, and was `in his usual jolly form`. At 6.45 pm. his body was pulled from the burning premises by a fireman and a Garda officer. He was transported to Louth County Hospital, Dundalk, but was pronounced dead on arrival. Jack Rooney was employed as a lorry driver / refuse collector with Dundalk Urban District Council. He did not hold any extreme political views. According to one of his colleagues, they had finished work at about 4 pm. The team went for a pre-Christmas drink in McEneaney’s bar in Jocelyn Street. Jack, the witness and another man then took the lorry to the dump to empty it, returning to the Council yard at around 5.15 pm. Jack and the witness went into the Condel Bar, Roden Place. `Jack bought [another man] and myself a drink, he did not have one himself. This was before he left. I asked him to stay for another drink and he said that he had to walk home, get cleaned up, that he was going to Benny Brady’s on that night. Jack walked out the door at about 6.20 pm. or so, he was quite sober. Jack had left the bar about a minute or less when I heard a very loud explosion.` When Kathleen McErlean came out of her premises following the explosion, she saw Jack Rooney lying on the footpath outside the door of the bar, badly injured. He was removed to the hospital shortly afterwards. Three days later, on 22 December, he died as a result of his injuries.

It would seem that no warnings were received prior to the bomb attack. On the following day, some Belfast newspapers received telephone calls claiming that the Red Hand Commandos had been responsible for the Dundalk bombing and for an attack on Donnelly’s Bar, Silverbridge, Co. Armagh on the same night.

During that time of severe economic depression, I was charged with going out to knock on doors, as a debt collector on behalf of the bank. I used to visit sprawling council estates, such as Muirhevnamor, where I could have been shot at any time, in hind sight, for my troubles. I was usually alone but, luckily enough, on one particular day I had a colleague driving me when I called to a house where I knew a debtor’s car was parked outside his parent’s house. His mother came to the door and said he wasn’t there. I disagreed, pointing out her son’s car was outside. She disappeared back indoors. I heard a commotion going on the inside hallway. Just with that I heard the sounds of a running heavy boots and a burly man swearing at the top of his voice: “I’ll effing kill you, If I get my hands on you, you bastard, for calling my wife a liar. I It was me who borrowed my son’s car today.” “Quick, start the car and open the door for me” I appealed in panic to my colleague. To my relief, he was quick witted enough and flung open the passenger door, as he drove off, allowing me to grab the roof and swing my body safely inside. It was much too close a shave. On fine days, I reserved a long trip for myself out to the region of Omeath and Carlingford, along the coast line and treated myself to a seafood platter and chowder on bank expenses. I was always assured that at least two or more customers would have repayment money built up, awaiting my call. So long as I returned to the branch with positive results, everyone was happy.

One incident will always live long in my memory. A very well presented young married woman, with her child, called to see me at my branch with the good news that she was going to discharge her husband’s debt in full. She wrote out an Ulster bank personal cheque and asked if I could give her back an extra £250 in cash. I was both delighted and charmed and of course readily agreed to her request. Of course her cheque bounced to high heaven and we were left with an extra debt of £250 on our hands. I had foolishly fallen for her charm. Her scam had been to open new accounts in all the town’s banks and building societies, using a new cheque from each newly opened account, then issue a cheque elsewhere, before the original cheque had cleared. She had perfected the system but I was both mortified and very annoyed for allowing myself to be duped. I contacted a local Police detective and he arranged for us both to call down to see her at her home. She invited us both inside. Of course she denied everything. The detective was an old hand and refused to believe her, as she had previous form. He took to searching her sitting room and soon discovered a cache of bank books and cheque books hidden in her zipped up settee cushions. It did not phase her in the least. She ended up being prosecuted but, of course, we never got a penny back. Just chalked it up to experience – it was a valuable lesson learnt.

The Regional Technical College was founded on a 90 acre campus in 1970 and I was appointed as student officer there by my bank. My duties involved assessing students for loans and paying out the weekly European Social Fund grants to eligible students. By way of an odd quirk, involved our bank porter, Gerry, actually acting as Cashier and doling out the payments in cash to the qualifying recipients. He had a photographic memory and always twigged some smart students attempting to sign and collect payments for other students who were missing from college on the day. He gave them short shrift and sent them away with a flea in his ear. To his great credit, Gerry always balanced the bank`s books and had a blemish free record, neither being short or over in his end of day cash tally.

My American cousin, Neil, from Chicago had come to Ireland in 1978 for a four week visit. He had previously lived in Ireland and had attended secondary school for 3 years, from aged 12. “He could break iron”, as my mother used to say about Neil. A real firebrand, he was now a successful sales representative with an American mid-west steel industry. My uncle Kevin loaned Neil his brand new Ford Cortina, much to my disbelief, but I was delighted to let him chauffeur me around the South of Ireland hot spots, such as Killarney, Ballybunion, Lahinch and Galway for a ten day holiday. After staying in Bed and Breakfasts, Neil would be up out of his bed at Sunrise, gotten washed and shaved and was ready to hit the road, in order to get serious mileage under his belt, just as if he was hitting the American highways and heading out to make contact with his widely spread business customers. He could not appear to be able to switch off. “Lets get the plasma juice (orange), some Java and hit the road, Mac” was his irritating morning refrain, just as I was turning over in my warm bed. Coming around a blind bend one day, we nearly ran into a team of county council workmen who were applying chippings over freshly laid tar. Neil was fuming, as the underside of our uncle’s new car was now coated with a sticky residue of tar and stones. To his credit, Neil located an empty garage service pit in the next town, stripped to his waist and proceeded to peel back the damage with solvent stripper. It took him all afternoon and was a dirty, sweaty job.

We ended up one evening looking for refreshment and entertainment in JD`s famous singing pub on Ballybunion`s main street. A sole guitarist, singer called The Loner Tony was doing his stuff. We noticed two girls listening intently to his music and we chanced our arm and invited ourselves to sit beside them. It turned out they were from Dungannon, Co. Tyrone, had lovely lilting northern accents, and were heading on to the Willie Clancy Memorial Festival in Milton Malbay the following day. We offered Rita and Teresa a lift there and arranged to meet them the following morning. For some reason, we missed them, so we drove on to catch the Tarbert Ferry and found them waiting there to embark. They thought Neil was a bit of a high powered yank and possibly a bit of a chancer but over the next few hours we got chatting and the girls seemed to relax and enjoy our company, as we were enjoying theirs. We ended up in a pub with brilliant traditional music on offer and we enjoyed the craic and the pints over the evening. Around midnight we bumped into a solo Belfast guy at the top end of the street, carrying a guitar, and asked him to play us something, other than diddly eye music. “I’m keeping a low profile” in a strong Belfast account, said our reluctant troubadour. “Ah go on, give it a go, play what ever suits you” we all chimed in chorus. Just with that he exploded into singing and playing Chuck Berry’s “Sweet Little Sixteen” They're really rockin' in Boston In Pittsburgh, Pa. Deep in the heart of Texas And round the 'Frisco Bay All over St. Louis And down in New Orleans All the cats wanna dance with Sweet Little Sixteen We could have been lynched by the traditional fanatics and run out of town. What a scream!

Myself and Rita were getting on like a house and fire but Teresa was not so keen on Neil. We all managed to get accommodation in a local B&B and Rita and I took to courting in the moonlight and canoodling for ages in my uncles car. We agreed to meet up in Donegal on the following week and spend a few days together, as a friend of hers could put us up for free in her holiday cottage. She was a lovely girl but with deep catholic scruples, so there was no serious hanky panky between us. As it turned out, Neil and I were attending my local dance hall in the Nuremore Hotel, Carrickmacross the following Saturday night. The Indians show band were doing their thing to a packed crowd. I asked a tall, dark haired pretty local girl, called Anne, out to dance and we were out on the dance floor together for most of the night. We ended up marrying each other the following year, had two children together and lived as a family for 19 years in Carrickmacross, Kells and Moville. But that is another story and I now draw a line under my life as a single man at the age of 27.