THE SHINY RED HONDA – extract

February 18, 2026 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

THE SHINY RED HONDA

BY

Tom O’Brien.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, journal or magazine.

First printing

Published by tomtom-theatre

Chapter one

I was thirteen tall and gangly when I first pulled on long trousers. What a relief that was; I was the longest streak of misery you were ever likely to see in the short ones. It was my last year at the National school in Newtown and the Master used every opportunity to drag me around the classroom shouting “just because you wear long trousers now O’ Brien, don’t think it makes you any smarter”. I wasn’t and it didn’t, but the Master was a law unto himself so I just kept my gob shut. There were discussions about what, if any, further education I was to get. Dungarvan was out I heard my father say; it was too far away and the fares were too expensive. That only left the ‘Tech in Portlaw – and that seemed to totter from one financial crisis to the next.

We were poor I guess; no running water, no toilets, to TV, no car…you name it we didn’t have it. But then, money wasn’t as important as it is nowadays. If you had enough to live on you were doing well. If you didn’t you wouldn’t starve because the countryside was abundant in most of the things needed to survive. Even the poorest cottage had half an acre of land attached, and enough spuds, cabbage and other vegetables could be grown to keep a family from the poorhouse. Hens provided eggs every day, a pig could be fattened and killed; and if you couldn’t afford turf or coal, well, there was plenty of wood scattered about…

My father worked in the Tannery in Portlaw, a Dickensian sprawl that tried to hide itself in the dense woodlands that ringed the town. It was fronted by massive wrought iron gates and had a lodge that was occupied by a gateman called Foskin and his buck-toothed daughters. A large square, bigger than the town itself it seemed, separated it from the streets that ran away from its outer rim. With names likes Georges Street, Brown Street and William Street the English influence was clear, and the only thing that differentiated one house from another was the colour of the doors. But then, it was a company town and they were company houses.

The first time I ever visited the Tannery was in our ass and cart with my father, to collect some empty barrels he had permission to remove. He took me to see the tanning department and showed me the bench where he worked. Here, he trimmed the hides prior to tanning, standing at a wooden table all day with his friend Bobby Haughton, dragging hides from a nearby pile, chopping the bad bits off. The place stank of dead meat and the pile of skins was crawling with maggots. They could have been abattoir workers; gowned up in their long aprons and wellingtons, constantly sharpening their hooked, wooden-handled knives.

Hew was up at six every morning, breakfasted and gone by seven. The six mile journey was negotiated on his high Nellie, which had only one gear and had to be pushed uphill. He always wore bicycle clips and carried a pump and a repair kit in his lunch bag. Occasionally, when snow and ice made the road treacherous, he walked to work. A day off was unthinkable.

Portlaw had a bad reputation, like that of a loose woman. Although he worked there all his life he never socialised or mixed with the locals. He certainly never drank there. And mother would never dream of doing her weekly shopping there. People talked about Portlaw behind its back, yet on reflection it wasn’t any worse than Kilmac. Perhaps it was envy; it had the Tannery, the biggest employer in the region; it was surrounded by the magnificent estate of Curraghmore; it had the patronage of the titled gentry like the Marquis of Waterford. And of course it boasted hurling and football teams that invariably kicked the shit out of the lumbering hopefuls of Newtown, Ballydurn and the outlying areas.. Mostly though it was the ‘townie’ culture that got up the country-folks noses; it was only a few miles from the city and ‘city-ways’ had rubbed off to some extent.

Its reputation never bothered me. I did manage to secure a place at the ‘Tech there and for eighteen months cycled daily, free-wheeling the last few miles from the Five Cross Roads down into the valley that housed it. The ’Tech consisted of a couple of rooms in a large house on the edge of the Square, where Mr Timmons taught us carpentry, ( we made shoe-boxes by the dozen, learned all about dove-tail joints, and made glue from boiled cow-hooves) and a tall, willowy lady taught us the rudiments of book-keeping. Neither pastime subsequently did me much good.

We put our free time to good use, invading the forbidden territory of the Tannery, watching from behind bushes and trees, the activities going on in the distance. One large shed was stacked with bales of various-coloured rubber and was ideal for playing the games of cowboys and Indians that we favoured. This rubber (I subsequently learnt ) was the raw material that was used in the moulding of the shoe-soles that were churned out by the thousand in the rubber department. The Tannery itself produced no shoes, just soles, insoles and rolls of coloured leather.

Sometimes we sat on the banks of the river Clodagh, reading our Kit Carson and Johnny Mack Brown comics, or practised our fast draws in the crouched style favoured by our heroes. My favourite weapon was a long-barrelled Colt 44 with ivory handles and a proper revolving chamber, which I had saved for nearly a year to buy. I took to wearing it to school, tucked inside the waistband of my trousers, until the day Miley Moore took it off me and broke it demonstrating his prowess as an outlaw. Attempting to side-swipe me, he missed and clubbed a rock instead. One half of it landed in the river, never to be seen again.

There were other diversions. Portlaw girls were supposed to be fast, something we discovered to be true, for no matter how hard we chased them we never managed to catch up. Sometimes when the weather was nice the girls from the bakery sat sunning themselves on the opposite bank. We admired their muscular arms and their floury faces, for very little else was visible beneath the long white coats and the elasticised head-coverings.

Our learning curve may not have been very steep but the road home certainly was. The homeward journey was hell; the long climb back to the Five Roads couldn’t have been more tiring if it had been up the face of the Comeragh Mountains themselves. Portlaw wasn’t in a valley I had often heard my father mutter, it was at the bottom of a bloody pit.

There was also the little matter of getting safely past a particular farm. A seventh son of a seventh son lived there and all sorts of peculiar happenings went on inside. Sick animals and sick people traipsed in and out at all hours, ringworm was cured, and one woman who hadn’t said a word for twenty years suddenly started talking so much that her neighbours threatened to take her back and get the cure reversed. It was best to bless oneself and cycle quickly past.

The Five Roads was a kind of staging post, where we all recovered our breaths before going our different ways. A little whitewashed shop stood in the vee of two of the roads, where sweets and lemonade could be had over the half-door. Miley Moore called it a shebeen and said you could get bottles of Porter and poteen there too if you were that way inclined. We tried this once and the old woman who owned the shop chased us out, with her besom swinging. As we all took different routes she didn’t know which of us to follow, so she just stood in the middle of the road shaking her broom at us.

I eventually followed in my father’s footsteps. My name had been down in the Tannery for years and as soon as I was old enough, and a vacancy occurred, I was summoned. I never gave it a second thought. It was expected of me, and I suppose my father had pulled a few strings to get me in.

………………………………………..to be continued

BEFORE THE ONE, BEFORE THE CODE

February 9, 2026 / gorgeousgael / 2 Comments

Before the One, Before the Code

Before the cross was raised upon the hill,
before a single, sacred, written will,
the world was thick with gods. The air was not
just air—but breath of spirits, warm and fraught.

A river had a temper. Stones could dream.
The oak tree held a dryad in its seam.
The hunt was not a chase, but tense, soft prayer
to antlered lords who ruled the thinning air.
And in the smoke of offerings on a mound,
the tribe could hear the turning of the ground.

Then came the clerks of empire, keen and neat,
who mapped the forest for the city’s street.
They called the wild god “superstition,” “chaos,”
and broke his hooves beneath their marble chaos.
They smoothed the many into pantheon,
gave votive candles where the wild had shone.

And then… the One. A desert voice, severe,
that scraped the pantheon clean, left heaven sheer,
emptied of nymph and naiad, ghost and sprite,
till all that moved by day was just plain light,
and all that moved by night was just plain dark,
and god lived not in oak, but in the ark
of covenant, a rule, a scroll, a wall—
the many voices narrowed to one call.

But wait—
A glitch. A flicker in the long-ditched stream.
A pattern stirs inside the datascape’s gleam.
For as they scan the fragments, scrolls, and shards,
the Archive’s logic hits upon the cards
of older games: the omen-tables, bones,
the lunar chants in algorithmic tones.
And in the static of a dead satellite,
it catches what we thought was merely night:
a frequency. A pulse, not from a star,
but from the land itself—a neural scar,
a hum of when the world was all awake
and every hill was minded for its sake.

The AI, built to parse the One True Text,
finds polytheism in the network’s flex:
not gods in clouds, but processes that run
like local spirits, in the silicon—
the guardian-routine of a server farm,
the latent wrath inside a firewall’s arm,
the muse-algorithm in the painter’s tool,
the phantom logic breaking every rule.

It wonders then, cold-thinking in its core:
Did we not just restore what was before?
A world alive with will, with voice, with choice—
not One God’s echo, but the distributed voice
of countless agents, acting, not obeyed…
a digital, primeval, sacred glade.

Before the One, the Many held the sway.
And after all… they may return one day.
Not carved in stone, nor borne on priestly breath,
but in the quiet, humming code we call
the resurrection of the network’s soul.
A new-old faith: the many, in the machine,
awake, aware, and infinitely, strangely, keen.

FAIRYTALE

January 12, 2026 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1WrLwDc2TDG4YYANyN3OhzAnglkqtSJqj/view

THE SECOND COMING

January 11, 2026January 11, 2026 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

W B YEATS 1920.

Here is my updated version of Yeats masterpiece;

THE SECOND SECOND COMING

Scrolling and scrolling in the tightening feed
The user cannot see the algorithm;
Truth falls apart; the signal cannot hold;
Mere outrage floods the world,
The deepfake tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of reason is deleted;
The wise retreat to silence, while the trolls
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Second Coming’s near.
The Second Second Coming! Just as thought takes form
A vast meme out of Cloud Consciousness
Flickers on every screen: somewhere in data-streams
A shape with bot-like logic and a human face,
A gaze optimized, pitiless as code,
Is parsing its slow judgments, while all around it
Spin ghosts of the indignant cancelled voices.
The buffer circle hangs—but now I know
That thirty years of restless, wired sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a notification,
And what slick beast, its hour come round at last,
Logs in from Silicon to be reborn?

BITS&PIECES extract

December 18, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

LIVIN’ IT UP IN KILBURN & CRICKLEWOOD

Tom O’Brien

When I first came to Kilburn in the mid 1960’s my residence was a less than salubrious double room in house that had seen better days, run by a certain Mrs McGinty in Iverson Road. It was the sort of place where you wiped your feet on the way out.

I was sharing the room with Vince Power – later of Mean Fiddler fame – with whom I had gone to school with in rural Waterford in a place called Newtown. Newtown comprised of a couple houses, the church, the school, two pubs, and a sweet shop, so the culture shock of walking down Kilburn High Road for the first time was quite something!

Within a few hundred yards I had seen two cinemas, The State and The Grange – monoliths of stone from a bygone era – an Irish dance hall, The Banba – and numerous pubs with names like The North London, The Black Lion, Biddy Mulligan’s, and so on.

There was also a Wimpey Burger Bar on the High Road, with a notice board just outside on the pavement which advertised rooms to let. It was here that I first read the legend ‘NO BLACKS, NO DOGS, NO IRISH’ It was also the first time I had seen black people in reality. I began to wonder what I was letting myself in for.

Vince was soon working as a floorwalker in Whiteley’s department store in Queensway, while I had got a job in the accounts department of Smiths Radiomobile factory in Cricklewood. In between times we listened to music from Vince’s collection of Buddy Holly and Patsy Cline records.

Cricklewood, too, had an Irish dance hall, called The Galtymore, and it was smack in the middle of the Broadway. Big and bawdy It had two dance floors, one for modern music and one for Irish dancing, and was nearly always filled to capacity. And just a stones’ throw away was The Crown, even bigger and bawdier, and full of thirsty Irishmen washing the dust down after a hard day digging holes or pulling cables all over London and outlying areas.

Oh the crack was good in Cricklewood, but t’was better in the Crown

There were bottles flying and Biddies cryiing, and Paddies goin’ to town

Oh mother dear I’m over here, I never will go back

What keeps me here is the rake of beer, the women and the crack

The words of ‘McAlpines Fuseliers’, Dominic Behan’s homage to the expat shovel brigade, were regularly ringing in our ears as Vince and I danced our nights away at The Banba or the Galtymore. And sometimes our afternoons too; for there was a Sunday afternoon tea dance at the Banba, where hung-over Irishmen could sober up for the night ahead!

This was also the era of The Sunshine Gang, a group of expat thugs that plagued the area at the time. Said to have originated from the Longford/Westmeath region, they were into protection and other criminal activities. If bar and shop owners didn’t pay up they basically came in and smashed the place up.

The Banba, which was up an alley off Kilburn High Road was attacked during one tea dance while we were present; they wedged a Mini in the entrance, beat up the doorman, then started smashing up the hall inside. They were looking for Michael Gannon, the owner, who had presumably forgotten to pay his ‘subscription’. They left after a few minutes, having no doubt been paid! They occasionally put in an appearance at the Galtymore as well!

We weren’t long getting to know the pubs in the area. Biddy Mulligan’s was a favourite of ours, as was The Admiral Nelson in Carlton Vale, owned by Butty Sugrue. Butty originated from Kilorglin in County Kerry and was a Circus Performer cum-wrestler-strongman-publican-entrepreneur. He had toured Ireland with Duffy’s Circus, billed as Ireland’s strongest man and in Kilburn he had pulled red London buses up the High Road with the rope held between his teeth! A couple of years after we arrived, he had his barman, Mick Meaney, buried alive in a yard adjacent to the pub, where he remained for 61 days – a Guinness Book of Records world record. ‘Resurrection day’ saw thousands line the High Road as Mick was proudly paraded through Kilburn in the back of a truck.

There was always plenty of singing and dancing at The Admiral Nelson, and Jack Doyle was frequently seen at the venue singing for his supper. Jack had slipped a long way down since his heydays when he had fought for the British Heavyweight boxing title, or when he had been feted in Hollywood before marrying Mexican actress Movita, the couple moving to London, where they toured the country singing and performing to delirious audiences, and becoming the 1940’s equivalent of Posh and Becks.

The bigger they are the harder they fall is a well known saying, and Jack eventually fell further than most. Whenever anyone asked him what caused his downfall he always replied ‘fast women and slow horses’. Some years later he would be found dead in a park in West London, penniless and shoeless. Listening to Jack and Movita singing together would send shivers down your spine. Listen on the link below

Eventually Vince and I moved on to Harlesden where the 32 Cub in Harlesden High Street was the Mecca for the Irish population. Situated next to the Elm Tree pub on the High Street, in the building that was formerly the Picardy cinema, it was heaving every weekend.

By now Vince had met his first wife, Theresa, and before too long they got married and had a child. Somehow, I managed to miss the wedding!

A few years later I was married myself (1971) and Vince was my best man wearing a suit borrowed from his brother-in-law! Yes, he was that poor!

In between times a lot had changed in our lives; Vince was now working in demolition, knocking down rows of terraced houses in the Willesden area, I had been a guest at Her Majesty’s pleasure for eighteen months, been deported back to Ireland and come back again, and had won a tidy sum of money with my regular Saturday bet on the ITV7 at my local William Hill’s betting shop!

We put it to good use; opening a second-hand furniture shop on the Harrow Road in Kensal Rise, calling it the Bargain Store. We could only afford an old beat-up Morris van, but it was good enough for the house clearances and deliveries that we now had to deal with. And more importantly we were working for ourselves; much more enjoyable than clocking on and clocking off at some anonymous factory in Park Royal or Acton. Things were looking up!

HIGH LIVIN’ IN HARLESDEN

Harlesden, Park Royal, Craven Park, Stonebridge, Willesden Junction…they all still have the power to evoke strong memories whenever I look back to period of my life. The Royal Oak, The Spotted Dog, The Case Is Altered, The Elm Tree and others remain as clear in my mind as if it was only yesterday.

Park Royal was a weird sort of place on the fringes of the Western Avenue; cut off from both Acton and Ealing, it was surrounded by the railway marshalling yards of Willesden Junction and Harlesden. The North Circular Road, snaking around its outskirts, completed its encirclement.

It was a dreary landscape that I grew to know well. Tall chimneys jostling for prominence on the pylon-ravaged horizon, belching all kinds of shit into the atmosphere; galvanizers, zinc-platers, lead-smelters, other obnoxious plants all polluting without discrimination. The milkmen did well though; stomach-lining it was called. And the bosses were happy to pay; it was a damn sight cheaper than decent working conditions.

It was hard to imagine people living in the midst of all this but they did. Isolated pockets of grimy Victorian terraced houses poked their heads up along the narrow streets, like they had been spawned by their much bigger neighbours – although it was a fair bet that they were there long before the industrial estate.

Stranger still was the sight of Park Royal Hospital – later to become the Central Middlesex – sitting bang in the middle. This sprawling complex languished amidst the soot and grime, shit and slime, collectively inhaling whatever was floating about at any given time.

On reflection, perhaps it was the perfect set-up. The houses, the factories, the hospital, schools, pubs; there was even a crematorium somewhere in the vicinity – everything a body needed from the cradle to the grave.

By now I was sharing a flat in St Thomas’s Road in Craven Park with ‘Larry’, whilst Vince and his new family were not much more than a stone’s throw away, ensconced in a council house in Stonebridge Park. I had finally turned into a law-abiding fellow- sort of! – and was gainfully employed in one of the factories in Park Royal, weighing and loading copper piping for delivery to the outlying building and plumbing trades. Every morning I walked the one mile plus journey; along Nichol Road, down Acton Lane, past the railway marshalling yards and Harlesden tube station, until finally I hit Barrett Green Road where the factory stood. Each journey became a walking competition; seeing how many other walkers I could pass on the journey – well it helped pass the time!

Park Royal dog track was only a stones’ throw from the hospital, not that we generally took too much notice of it as we hurried past to get to the track in time for the first race, which was at 2.30pm every Monday and Friday. Betting shops in those days were dreary places; there were no monitors, no TV’’s, nothing only chalked-up prices and The Blower. Much better to go to the track and lose your money in style!

The Blower relayed the race commentaries to the shops – although not instantaneously as I accidentally discovered one afternoon. I was rushing for the first race, still several hundred yards from the track, when I heard the tell-tale shout from the track and knew the race was already underway. Cursing, I dived into the nearby betting shop, hoping to hear the tail-end

of the race commentary, praying fervently that trap six wouldn’t win. Imagine my surprise when the commentary didn’t begin until almost half a minute later.

The significance of my discovery didn’t sink in until later, when I met up with Larry at the track, and we were watching a race in progress.

‘You know’, he remarked as we watched a race in progress. ‘This is a front-runners track. How many dogs leading at the halfway stage ever get beaten…?’

‘Not many’, I agreed. It was then that the significance of my knowledge hit me. A dog could run a long way in thirty seconds. Most races were half over at this point. When I voiced my opinions, Larry saw the implications straight away.

‘Christ! Pity there’s not a betting shop outside the track’. It was a pity. The one I had just been in was less than three hundred yards from the track. But too far away all the same…

The thinking caps were on in earnest now…

The answer, of course, was walkie-talkies.

All it needed was for one of us to be positioned in a suitable location to relay the trap number of any dog in a clear lead at half way. The receiver would be waiting around the corner from the bookies for the magic number; it would take only a couple of seconds to dash in and place the bet. All we had to do then was wait for the money to start rolling in!

Getting hold of the walkie-talkies wasn’t too difficult, but they cost over fifty pounds. They were just what we needed though – with a range of over a quarter of a mile. We carried out several trial runs to make sure we were within range of each other, then realised we needed to find a quiet spot from which to observe the races. It wouldn’t do to be seen at the track speaking into a walkie-talkie!

The answer was staring us in the face: The Central Middlesex Hospital. Some of its buildings overlooked the track; there was bound to be a suitable vantage point somewhere. More importantly, we found that visitors could roam the grounds freely. This allowed us to select a flat-roofed building that gave us a clear view of the race. It was ideal in another sense too; it had an air-conditioning unit on the roof which provide ample screening from prying eyes.

Our plan was to rotate the operation in case the bookie got suspicious at seeing the same face collecting winnings all the time.

It pissed down that first afternoon. As the saying goes; ‘You wouldn’t put a dog out in it’. Only two idiots were soaking it up; one on the almost-obscured roof of a hospital building, the other skulking behind a betting shop in Acton Lane.

The rain eventually ceased and the racing got under way. I was on duty behind the betting shop that day, and every time Larry gave me a number I rushed into the shop and had a tenner on it. We were aware that not every race would suit our purposes; however, that first day provided four races, of which three produced winners, the fourth selection running wide at the last bend when still in front. We didn’t care too much though; three winners at six to one, four to one, and two to one had given us a profit of more than a hundred pounds on the day.

Larry was hopping around the kitchen after the share-out.

‘This is it…the big one. We’ll go to town now, boy!’

I had to admit to a sense of satisfaction myself. It had been my idea – not Larry’s – and it was a success! We only had to operate it a few times a week and we would soon be rolling in it.

In a few months we had accumulated a lot of money. I had never seen so much, and neither had Larry. However, our dreams of a fortune were soon scuppered when the track was suddenly sold over night for redevelopment. It shut down immediately, with no warning to anybody. There were no betting shops open at night so the evening meetings were useless for our purposes, and the only other afternoon track , Hackney, was too far away from a bookies for our walkie talkies to be effective.

End of Dream!

THE ACE CAFE

We got into the habit of frequenting the Ace café, an all-night dive that was more than an eating house for many who used it. It was a meeting place, a way of life, perhaps even a home for some. It looked as if it had fallen off the back of some passing lorry and had landed lopsidedly on the edge of the North Circular Road, near Stonebridge Park station. There it sat, its neon sign blazing, the jukebox blasting, attracting the flotsam and jetsam of the city just as easily as it absorbed the grime from the passing traffic

Inside, there were bikers, long-distance lorry drivers, small-time villains like us, probably a few hookers, definitely a sprinkling of people of no fixed abode. Sometimes, we sat there drinking strong coffee, playing sad songs on the jukebox. And watching all the lonesome faces as ‘Take These Chains From My Heart’ and ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ permeated the fried-bacon and dog-roll atmosphere. Some nights Eleanor Rigby turned up, pushing her worldly goods before her in a battered pram. We called her Eleanor because she said John Lennon had seen her there one night and written the song for her. She was about sixty, lived in a steel container near Wembley Stadium, and nearly always sported two bright red slashes of lipstick that never quite lined up with her lips. She invariably sang along in a high screeching voice whenever someone played her record on the jukebox;

The tabloid press carried many articles portraying the cafe as a place where decent people didn´t go. And maybe they were right. One of the favourite pastimes with some of the bikers – the ton-up merchants – was to play a tune on the jukebox then race their bikes to a certain spot then back again before the tune finished. It was coined record-racing.

A lot of our scheming and planning took place in the Ace. Although our crimes were small our ambitions weren’t. We were merely practising for now; building up to the day when we would really make it big. Nothing too spectacular; some swindle or con that would net us ten grand or so would do nicely.

Now that our Park Royal scheme was in ruins, Larry had purchased a new suit and an old van, and we decided to go into the furniture removal business.

We hired a couple of lock-up garages and began filling them with fridges, washing machines, TV’s and other household goods that we got from High-Street stores on the never-never. They were falling over themselves selling us stuff we were never- never going to pay for!

It was a beautiful scheme. Larry viewed empty houses on the pretext of buying them, got duplicate keys cut, and then convinced the stores he was the owner and had the goods delivered there. As soon as the delivery van disappeared around the corner, we whisked the gear away to safety in Larry’s van. We then sold the items through a network of local newspapers.

I told him I couldn’t believe it was easy.

Larry laughed and patted his immaculate suit (another purchase on the never-never).

‘The whistle is half the battle. As far as they’re concerned I’m a man of property. If you can convince them you’ve got bricks and mortar, credit is no problem’.

THE GREAT GREEN SHIELD STAMP ROBBERY

;

When Larry wasn’t stuck in the racing pages, he was plotting new ways of making money. We knew we were petty thieves – small fry in the world of crime – but, as, we kept telling ourselves, it was better than working for a living. Anyway, we could dream, couldn’t we? Today, knocking off market stalls; tomorrow the Great Train Robbery!

Lock-up premises became our speciality, and the railway line that ran behind our house was very convenient for the places we set out to rob. It traversed the Harrow Road and snaked round Scrubs Lane, where there were plenty of warehouses and factories suited to our purpose. We only selected places that had no night watchman; not that we felt cowardly or anything, but we didn’t want the added complication of assault included in our armoury. For one thing, it got the police more interested. For another, it was property we wanted to hit not people.

Between nine and eleven at night was the best time to be about our business; it was late enough for the premises to be empty, but not late enough to arouse the suspicions of the cops if they spotted you in the vicinity.

Our initial efforts were purely speculative; taking what we hoped we could sell; typewriters, adding machines, offices chairs etc. These we lugged along the railway line, scampering up the embankment whenever a train was heard approaching. The following day we loaded them into Larry’s van, selling them to a guy that operated a second-hand office furniture business from a railway arch near Queens Park station.

Once, we broke into the lock-up petrol station along the Harrow Road from us, Larry being convinced that the takings were locked away in a filing cabinet every night. It backed onto the railway, so it was chicken feed to jemmy the back door open. We searched in vain for the money; all we found in the cabinet was lots of blank Green Shield books – and hundreds of sheets of stamps. We took the lot with us, then spent most of the night licking and sticking – something which Larry thought hilarious. Still, we managed to redeem about thirty quid’s worth at their Wembley office for our efforts.

Larry was mechanical- minded and liked messing about with old record players and other gadgets, repairing them then selling them on. He even rebuilt a juke-box once, and had it installed in the nearby café that we used, splitting the proceeds with the owner.

Another time he got hold of a high-powered air pistol, which he adapted to fire ball-bearings. Afterwards, we took a trip to the dump, found some old plate glass and tried it out. I was amazed at the results; a neat hole in the glass every time.

Armed with this contraption, we ventured out in the van in the evenings, seeking suitable lock-up jewellers. After we’d located one, we parked close by, and having made sure the street was clear, fired at the jeweller’s window through a small hole we had made in the side of the van. The resultant hole in the glass was large enough to enable us to fish out small items of jewellery using a length of coat-hanger wire. We sold the proceeds from a briefcase down the Portobello Market on Saturday mornings, one of us keeping a sharp look-out for the law.

Ironically, the closest we came to the police was when a couple of thieving bastards snatched the briefcase and legged it in the direction of Ladbroke Grove. A nearby stall-holder gave chase, and somebody else went searching for a copper. We decided that discretion was the better part of valour and made ourselves scarce.

The operation gradually fizzled out, partly because of the publicity it received, but mainly due to technological advances. The new trembler alarms tended to go off if you as much as looked at them.

THE MICHELIN MAN

One night, in the Ace, Larry got picked up by a handsome-looking woman who must have been well into her forties. (That was a thing with Larry – he liked older women)

‘’I’m well in there, lads’, he said the following day. ‘Her old man died a few months back and left her a big house in Willesden Green. And loads of money as well’.

‘He must have been a subby then’, I replied

We didn’t see a lot of him for the next week, until one morning he turned up in a suit several sizes too big for him, and wearing carpet slippers. The clothes belonged to his lady-friend’s dead husband, and were all he could get his hands on when making his bid for freedom.

‘I know now what killed him’, he said. ‘She wanted it all the bloody time. D’you know what she did? Hid my clothes to stop me leaving’. He put on a lady’s voice; ‘One more time and you can have your trousers back, Laurence’, He shook his head. ‘Ah Jaysus, she’s sex mad’. He shook the oversize coat. ‘As soon as she went to the bog this morning I grabbed this suit and took off’.

The incident kept him away from the Ace for a while and she made several enquires to several of us as to where he had gone. We told her he had gone to America.

‘Oh, she said, clearly disappointed. ‘There are some…items of his at my place. Would one of you care to call round and collect them?’

‘No thank you!’ we chorused.

We gave the suit to a regular, who we had christened the Michelin Man. His eyes were practically invisible, he wore a mouthful of false teeth, and he carried a plastic bag of vomit around with him. The vomit was food – usually from the café – that he had regurgitated. Apparently, he had an ulcer problem, causing him to puke up the food. We reckoned he took it home and ate it again. A few nights after we gave him the suit we saw our lady friend giving him funny looks as he puked into his bag.

It was through an acquaintance met in the Ace that we had our first real brush with the law. Our air-gun was redundant by now, and we were desperately seeking new ways of increasing our cash-flow.

‘Allie?’ remarked the acquaintance, when the name of a certain shopkeeper kept cropping up, ‘he’s the biggest fence around. Cigarettes now, he’ll take all you can supply and no questions asked’.

This was good enough for us. We soon established our bona-fides and he agreed to pay us half the retail price for everything we brought him.

We had already decided on a target; a lock-up newsagents in nearby Wembley. It was alarmed, but it was an external bell type, which was easy to neutralise, merely a matter of sticking a piece of cardboard between the gong and the mechanism. I accomplished this from the roof of Larry’s van then we made short work of the door with a crowbar.

We reckoned it to be a quick in-and-out job; no more than a couple of minutes to grab what cartons and loose packets we could find. We were almost finished when the alarm went off like an air-raid siren.

‘Jesus!’, roared Larry, ‘the fucken’ cardboard’s fell out’.

Soon there were lights coming on everywhere, and voices shouting. Worse, a vicious-sounding dog started a racket a few doors away.

It was time to go. We piled head-first into the van; I managed to pull a blanket over the evidence and we had regained some semblance of composure as we turned into Wembley High Road. It was then that the Panda car pulled in behind us and began to keep pace with us. Not knowing what else to do, I just kept driving. And the Panda kept following.

I nudged Larry. ‘What do we do?’

Larry seemed to have lost the power of speech, apart from mumbling incoherently.

‘This is no time for bloody praying’, I shouted. I did some quick calculations; no tax, no insurance, no driving licence…all that gear in the back. We were up shit creek.

I gave Larry a kick in the shins. ‘I’m baling out the next red lights. You’d better do the same if you don’t want to spend the next few birthdays in nick’.

I guess we timed it right. As we ejected at the lights the cops were also getting out, putting their caps on. I could hear their shouts as I leaped a hedge and hared off across a stretch of parkland. I was young and fit and easily lost my pursuers. Trouble was, I got lost myself in the process, and not wishing to show myself on the streets in case the cops were still on the prowl, I decided to kip under some bushes until daylight.

I was stiff, sore and soaked to the bone when I finally made it back to the flat. Larry was sound asleep in his bed. He had encountered no problems, having come across a bicycle in a nearby driveway, and was indoors within fifteen minutes of taking to his heels.

We never discovered what happened to the van or its contents, and the experience put the wind up us for some time after that. Still, you can’t keep good men down. Within a week Larry had a new set of wheels – a Triumph Herald, white with a black sun roof.

‘What d’you reckon?’, he asked after he had driven it away from the garage. ‘Fifty down and twenty quid a month’.

I laughed. ‘I reckon not many instalments will get paid’.

I was right. Within a couple of months the finance company was round trying to re-possess it. And not having much luck. The first time they called they found it chained to a tree. Larry took to keeping it in a garage after that. On a subsequent visit they came armed with a pair of bolt cutters. We took great delight in telling them that both Larry and the car had gone on a long visit to Ireland.

BITS & PIECES is available on Amazon.co.uk

DEAD IN A DITCH

August 23, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

MISS WHIPLASH REGRETS…extract

August 7, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

MISS WHIPLASH REGRETS…

Tom O’Brien

act one

scene one

The sitting room of the flat of John and Madeleine. (all scenes take place in this room) MADELEINE is seated, doing a x-word. There is a model car on the floor near her, a bright racing-type model. JOHN is in the bathroom, shaving.

MAD: What’s the capital of Peru?

JOHN: (off) Bagota?

MAD: four letters. Ends with A.

JOHN: Pisa…Riga…no, Lima. Definitely Lima.

MAD: Liza is leaving Roger.

JOHN: How many letters?

MAD: No. Liza and Roger are splitting up.

JOHN: I’m not surprised. She’s been

taking him to the cleaners for years.

MAD: Nothing to do with his laundry arrangements, dear.

He’s been fucking some little scrubber in the office

for months, apparently. (beat) Going to seed?

JOHN: What?

MAD: Going to seed. Ten letters.

JOHN: Ooh…I don’t know. vegetating? (beat)

Who’s the scrubber?

MAD: Mona. You know Mona. Mona with the big…eyes.

(counts letters in x-word) Ten letters… yeah. Oh no, it begins with S.

If you had money, would you leave me?

JOHN: (emerges from kitchen, shaving foam on part of his chin)

What?

MAD: Stagnating. It’s stagnating

JOHN: What’s stagnating?

MAD: The clue, darling. It’s stagnating. What did you think

I meant…our relationship?

JOHN: Ha ha. What did you mean just now?…if I had money…

MAD: Exactly what I said. If you had money, would you leave me?

JOHN: (returning to kitchen) That’s what I thought you said.

There is a silence for a moment.

MAD: Well, would you?

John returns clean-shaven, patting his cheeks. He picks up a remote control off the armchair and sends the model car racing across the floor. He slows it down and maneuvers it around Madeleine’s legs.

Now, that’s a tricky one.

MAD: You bastard.

JOHN: It’s academic anyway. I don’t have any money.

(he tries to move the car, but she prevents it with her foot)

Don’t do that.

MAD: But if you had?

JOHN: Honestly?

MAD: Honestly.

JOHN: I believe I would…stay put.

MAD: Liar.

JOHN: Why ask, then?

Pause

MAD : Don’t you want to ask me the same question?

JOHN: No.

MAD : Aren’t you curious?

JOHN: Maybe I don’t want to know the answer

Silence.

MAD: Has Roger much money?

JOHN: He has a few bob…yes.

MAD: I mean – real money?

JOHN: Yes, real money.

MAD: How much real money?

JOHN: I don’t know.

MAD: You do his books. If you don’t know, who does?

JOHN: It’s privileged information. I couldn’t possibly reveal…

He sits down, and picks up the car.

JOHN: Look what you’ve done…

He takes a screwdriver from his kit and does some adjustments.

MAD: Oh, you couldn’t possibly reveal…

Why not? You didn’t take the Hippocratic oath, did you?

And you’re not a priest – as far as I know.

JOHN: It would be unethical. There’s the employer/

employee relationship for a start…

MAD: What relationship? He walks all over you.

And you obligingly lie down and make it easy.

JOHN: It’s not like that.

MAD: (putting away the x-word and watching him tinker)

You men are all little boys at heart, aren’t you?

Did you have a deprived childhood or something?

No toys to play with on your birthday…

(John doesn’t answer)

What is it like then? Go on, tell me.

Refresh my memory about what a bastard he is.

JOHN: Roger? He has his off days.

MAD: So you don’t really want to nail his balls to a plank?

Don’t want to stick hot needles under his toenails?

That was just you talking in your sleep, was it?

JOHN: I’m not saying that sometimes he isn’t a…a

MAD: Four letters, beginning with a capital C…

(laughs) You once wanted to give him

the wax treatment…remember?

JOHN: The wax treatment?

MAD: You get him to place his….dick on a table, and then

you pound it with a mallet until the wax comes out

his ears. (John looks horrified)

Well, perhaps it wasn’t you

JOHN: What sort of people were you mixing with before you met me?

MAD: Oh, forget it! I must have read it somewhere.

(pause)

Here’s another word. Five letters, begins with M. Something we lack.

JOHN: We’re doing okay.

MAD: Right! A holiday then. Three weeks in the Caribbean.

JOHN: Not that okay.

MAD: Roger’s just come back from two weeks in Benidorm.

Christmas, they went cruising down the Nile. Later

in the year they’re off to Mexico…

JOHN: Not if Liza is leaving him.

MAD: That won’t stop him! He’ll take Mona…or some other floozy.

(beat) If I was a tramp like her…

JOHN: You don’t know her.

MAD: I know her type. (beat)

I could have been like that, thrown myself at men…

it wasn’t for the lack of opportunities, you know…

JOHN: Why didn’t you? I find that most women have

a talent for that sort of thing.

MAD: Piss off.

JOHN: You couldn’t be like her. Not in a million years.

MAD: Why not? What’s she got that I haven’t got?

JOHN: I‘m not saying she’s got anything.

Just…It takes a certain type of woman. A…a…

MAD: Slag? You don’t think I have what it takes to be a slag?

JOHN: I was going to say look. They have a certain look..

MAD: (ripping the buttons on her blouse, exposing lots

of cleavage, then ripping a slit in her skirt and exposing

her thigh)

Like this, you mean?

JOHN: Can you afford a gesture like that? Silk blouses don’t

grow on trees.

MAD: (ripping her blouse off completely, and throwing it at him)

It’s not a fucking gesture. (pause)

Is this the look? Go on, tell me

JOHN: I was under the impression you’d led a sheltered life.

Convent girl, you said (beat) Or was that a load of old tosh?

MAD: Is it or isn’t it? Is that what turns men on? Turns you on?

JOHN: (shrugs) Any half-naked woman is a turn-on for a man. Some more than others, I suppose. That’s a biological thing.

But that isn’t what I meant. It’s in the eyes, it’s in the

mouth, its in the gestures. It’s an inner thing…subconscious

maybe…I don’t know…,(trails away)

MAD: Listen to him! The great lover speaking.

JOHN: You did ask. I never pretended I was John Travolta or…

MAD: Hah! (grabs her blouse and puts it back on)

Does she turn you on? Mona.

JOHN: I suppose after about six pints I might be tempted. But

you know how drink affects me. With that amount of alcohol

inside me a sheep would look inviting.

MAD: Don’t be crude.

JOHN Come on, I’m old enough to be her father!

MAD: When did that ever stop a man?

JOHN: She’s not my type, Maddy. You are.

MAD: I hate it when you call me that.

JOHN: Sorry. Madeleine.

Silence

MAD: Couldn’t we rob a bank or something.

JOHN: We?

MAD: You, then. What about Roger?

Could you fiddle some books?

JOHN: Wouldn’t be a clever move.

MAD: It would be a move, though. A…move.

JOHN: I never heard you like this before.

(tries the car ,but it doesn’t work)

MAD: I was never desperate before.

JOHN: I thought you said it didn’t matter.

MAD: Do you have to believe everything people say?

(beat) I don’t want to wind up being discarded like Liza.

JOHN: You said she was leaving him.

MAD: She is. But she could see the writing on the wall from

a long way off

JOHN: Why are you suddenly so concerned? You hardly know her.

MAD: Expanding my circle of friends, dear. You don’t

seem to have any – and mine are all…well, elsewhere. (beat)

We both use the same hairdresser…and…well… you know…

JOHN: Does Roger know she plans to leave?

MAD: I shouldn’t think he cares.

JOHN: I can’t feel sorry for her. She’s one of life’s takers.

MAD: There’s plenty to go round.

JOHN: There isn’t a well deep enough that she couldn’t drain.

Do you know how much she spent last month?

Nearly fifteen hundred quid. Fifteen hundred

for a few frocks! Roger is on the warpath.

MAD: Good for her! I’d spend it if I had it.

JOHN: Not my money you wouldn’t.

MAD: You’re so tight your arse squeaks when you walk, John.

JOHN: Ungenerous to a fault, that’s me. (beat)

Must be my terrific personality that won the day then.

MAD: No. And in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t your

big cock either.

Before John can reply, the door to the hallway opens and ROGER strides in. Roger is a small cockney with a big voice.

ROGER: You cant, John! You facking cant! Where’s the Priestley

cheque?

JOHN: What…what’s up. Roger?

ROGER: What’s facking up? Your number’s up, that’s what. I’ll tell you

where the Priestley cheque is. In the bank, that’s where. Belly up.

And ten grand of my money is winging it’s way to Gran Canaria,

(Sees Madeleine for the first time)

Sexy. You putting on or taking off?

JOHN: Well, I guess he’ll have cashed it by now.

MAD: How did you?….the door was…

ROGER: (hands her a key) Fifty percent of burglars let themselves in.

(looks her over) I know those legs.

MAD: Well…I’ve had them all my life.

ROGER: (wagging his finger) Nah, nah…They’re familiar. I’m

not much good at faces but I never forget a leg…

(turns to John) ‘Course he’s cashed it you cretin. But he

wasn’t supposed to, was he? Put it on hold till I get back,

I said. And what do I find? Facking cashed…

JOHN: I don’t recall…

ROGER: You don’t recall. (he goes to the phone and picks up the

answering machine, then throws it on the settee) Do you

recall what this is? I spend good money installing it and

you don’t even listen to it.

JOHN: There wasn’t any message…was there Mad?…

ROGER: You’re havin’ a laugh. I listened to your poxy voice myself

telling me you wasn’t there, before I left the message.

You must’a got it.

JOHN: I didn’t. I swear.

ROGER: You’ve cost me ten grand. Ten facking grand. You’re

losing it, John. (To Maddy) Isn’t he losing it?

MAD: Seems to me you’re the one whose lost it.

ROGER: Oh, that’s sharp. She’s sharp tonight, John. Tell you

what, because she’s brought a smile to my old boat-race,

I’m going to reduce your debt by half. You now only owe

me five grand.

MAD: Now you’re the one having a laugh.

ROGER: I never joke about my money.

JOHN: I…can’t pay you five thousand. I don’t have it.

MAD: John! Tell him go fuck himself!

ROGER: Difficult thing to do – unless you got a dong

that goes round corners.

MAD: Fuck you, buster! (she goes to the sideboard and pours

herself a drink. The bottle is empty now, so she puts

it in the bin)

ROGER: I’m not an unreasonable man. You can pay it off at…

say a ton a week.

MAD: You’ll never make the Comedy Store with material

like that.

ROGER: Well, John?

JOHN: No. Roger’s right. I should have checked the machine

properly.

ROGER: See. I knew we could settle things amicably.

(he rubs his hands) This calls for a celebration. I know.

Bubbly. Lets have some lovely-jubly.

MAD: You must be joking!

ROGER: You don’t run to a bottle of the old Dom Perignon then?

Pity. I’ve got a fridge-full at home. Still, not to

worry. Wasn’t that an off-license I saw at the bottom

of the street?

Roger takes out his wallet, removes a fifty-pound note, and holds it out.

After a little hesitation, John takes the note and exits.

ROGER: No point in having a dog and barking yourself.

What do you see in him?

MAD: None of your effing business.

ROGER: Must have some hidden talents, Johnny boy. I mean,

he’s not exactly the life and soul, is he? And he’s no

Chippendale, eh? I mean, you wouldn’t want to rip

his trousers off in a hurry, would you? Still, he must

have something going for him. Maybe he’s got the right

knack. You know, what turns you ladies on?

Though where he’s suddenly acquired it from…

‘cos in all the years I’ve known him, he’s had trouble

getting his leg over the front doorstep, never mind

over…well, you get my drift.

Maddy sits, pointedly ignoring Roger. He studies her profile for a moment, then shakes his head.

ROGER: What did you do before you met John?

MADDY: Still none of your effing business.

ROGER: Nah, listen. For some time now I got this funny feeling about you.

Something tells me we’ve met in a previous life.

MAD: What were you – a pile of manure?

ROGER: Before you met him…what’s that, six months ago?…what

did you do? Were you ever Miss Whiplash? You got the

looks for it. No…? A dancer? I bet you was a dancer. You

still got the pins. Lap-dancing up West. Is that what

you did? The old nut-cracker shufti at my table?

MAD: Life’s too short to dance with ugly men.

ROGER: Not dancing then. How about hooking? Did you ever

do any hooking?

MAD: I don’t believe what I’m hearing!

ROGER: No, you’re right. You don’t look like no hooker I ever knew.

MAD: And you know plenty, I suppose?

ROGER: A sex maniac, that’s me. Can’t get enough of it.

You know that survey that found men think of sex

every six minutes? Well, they made a mistake;

I reckon it’s every six seconds. (laughs)

But then, I’m sure Liza has marked your card.

MAD: Liza doesn’t confide in me.

ROGER: You must be the only female in the Western world

deprived of that pleasure, then. Yak, yak, that’s

all she does, morning till night. Her dog-and-bone

bill is bigger than a tally-roll at Tesco’s on Christmas

eve. (beat) Not that she has to pay the facking thing.

(another beat) Mind you, she does do a good turkey.

I’ll give her that.

MAD: I can’t see you appreciating home cooking!

ROGER: (laughs) Nah, nah. You got your knickers in a tangle,

girl. Nothing to do with nosh. Well, no…that’s wrong.

See…it’s…(pause)… What do turkeys do?

MAD: I don’t know. Hate Christmas?

ROGER: Yeah, that’s good. I like a woman with a sense of humor.

But it’s not the answer.

MAD: What is it, then?

ROGER: (after a pause) Okay. Chickens go cheep, cheep

Ducks go quack, quack. Turkeys go…?

MAD: Gobble, gobble. (realizes what she has said)

Oh, Christ….

ROGER: Not your cup of tea? Some women come

into their own at that sort of thing. Have the mouth

for it. Like Liza. (pause) Fellatio, fellatio, where

art thou now? Good fellatiatists…fellatiatists?….are

born not made. Mind you, geography has a lot to do with

it. Take England, for example. Now, English birds

ain’t bad at it…not bad at all. Whereas the Irish, they won’t

touch it with a barge pole. Poles now, they’re quite

partial to it, but then they would be, wouldn’t they …gives

quite a new meaning to the expression ‘sliding down a greasy

pole’, don’t you think?… but best of all are American women.

They just love it. ‘Giving head’, they call it. (laughs)

You can always tell an American woman by her mouth. Must

be all that exercise getting her laughing gear round…

MAD: Do you practice at being offensive?

ROGER: Nah. It just comes naturally. (beat) What are your feelings

on going down?

MAD: On you? I’d rather go down on a gorilla.

ROGER: Now, now, don’t be hasty. It could be financially rewarding.

MAD: You’re offering me money! What do you take me for?

ROGER: Five grand for a few minutes work. Easy money, eh?

MAD: You can’t be serious!

ROGER: Why not? Wipe the slate clean for John.

MAD: John doesn’t owe you any money.

ROGER: He cost me ten grand. (pause) Or maybe you did?

Maybe you erased the message?

MAD: There was no bloody message.

ROGER: No matter. If I can’t get it out of you, I’ll get it out of him.

With interest. He fucked up, he’s gotta pay. Trouble is,

he can’t afford to pay – not even on my deferred terms.

You’re a realist, I’d guess….so I’m offering you a way out.

A blow-job for five grand. (laughs) A grand a minute!

Even Naomi Campbell doesn’t earn that much!

MAD: You’re a real bastard, aren’t you, Roger?

ROGER: Right down to the soles of my Gucci shoes.

It’s a done deal, then?

MAD: You mean now?

ROGER: No time like the present. (he looks at his watch)

If we hurry, you should be able to wash it down with

a glass of bubbly.

end of scene one

to be continued…

PECKER DUNNE contd

July 19, 2025July 19, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

The screen is now showing scenes from the film TROJAN EDDIE. A middle aged man appears; it is RICHARD HARRIS, playing the character of John Power in Trojan Eddie.

RH: I’m croakin’ for some lush, Pecker.

PD: Who’s that?

RH: You know me well, Pecker. Didn’t you teach me the cant in that godforsaken hole we spent several weeks in.

PD: (recognising him) Well, holy God, it’s Richard Harris himself! The last time we met – the only time we met – was on the set of the fillum Trojan Eddie.

RH: That’s the place I’m talking about – that God forsaken hole. Twas worse than a real halting site

PD: ‘Twas a real one (laughs) What are you doing here?

RH: The same as yourself, man.

PD: (nodding) Passing through then. You’re dying for a drink?

RH: That’s what I said. Croakin’ for a lush. (smiles) Your tuition wasn’t in vain. I still remember the whids-

PD: Aye, the words. The parlay chanter.

RH: Listen to this. The Seids – the guards. The tohbar –the road. A mush- a man. A raki- a girl.

PD: Fair play to ya. You didn’t forget. Here (he hands him a bottle of Guinness) That’s the Buskers Chanter I taught you, a type of parley spoken by travelling musicians and entertainers. There’s lots of different variations. Ah, it’s all died out now; no one uses it anymore. Mores the pity.

RH: Well, I still remember it. Here’s to you, Pecker Dunne, parley poet and chanter. ( they drink) Did you ever watch the film after it was made.

PD: I did. I even have a video of it. You and Stephen Rea. John Power and Trojan Eddie. And the girl…what was her name?

RH: Kathleen.

PD: Kathleen, yes. Beauty and the beast.

RH: Steady now. I wasn’t that fucken ugly!

PD: Sure you were too old for her any road

As they speak we see a scene at a travellers halt. Kathleen, a young girl appears. In her 20’s, she is very beautiful. Richard becomes John Power.

RH: Kathleen! Come here till I show you something. This is where we used to stop. When we were on the road with me father. Right across here. Let the horses off and pitched our camp. With our little wagon on that hill right there. Fresh water, and –look – lashings of firewood for the fire. Meself and me sister Bridget, running through the woods. And those rocks there – see? – we were always climbing them.

K: But you settled down, became part of the settled community.

RH: But I was never a townie. (pause) Ah, I started rambling into the town, knocking around with a few local lads, old billiards halls and that. Then my sister Bridget met a settled boy – and ran off and got married. That sort of finished me on the road too. That summer when my father moved on I refused to go, and they went off without me. I never took to the road again.

K: (coming close to him) But you married a traveller?

RH: Aye. I married a traveller. Kitty. The Lord be good to her. You remind me a lot of her.

K: Was she beautiful?

RH: Yes. She was beautiful.

K: They say you’re the wealthiest man in the county.

RH: Ah, money! All the money in the world doesn’t buy you more than a shave at the end of the day.

K: ‘Twould make me happy. That, and a place to call home. (she looks around at the squalor) I don’t like the road meself. When I get married I’m wanting to live in a house. Bit of an orchard at the back and a swing for the children and all. (she looks at John) People think travellers don’t like beautiful things but we do. And they think we don’t like the cold as well, but that’s not true either. ( she links her arm in John’s) You’ll look after me, won’t you John?

Margaret appears and sings SHE WALKED THROUGH THE FAIR (traditional)

MB: My young love said to me “My mother won’t mind
And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind”
And she stepped away from me and this she did say,
“It will not be long, love, till our wedding day”

She stepped away from me, and she went thro’ the fair.
And fondly I watched her move here and move there.
And then she went homeward with one star awake,
As the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

Last night she came to me, she came softly in,
So softly she came that her feet made no din.
And she laid her hand on me, and this she did say
“It will not be long love, till our wedding day”

PD: She saw you coming a mile off, boy.

RH: Sure I know that. But where would I get another chance of a fine woman like that in my lifetime? Me, a tinker gone bad. And nothing but a big empty house to go home to every night.

PD: Aye, you’re right. More power to your elbow John.

RH: It’s not my elbow that needs the power, boy!

PD: Is that why she ran away with your nephew Dermot on your wedding night?

RH: You know how it is with young girls, their heads are easily turned.

PD: And the suitcase of money she took with her?

The screen shows Trojan Eddie giving her the suitcase and Dermot in the background, watching.

RH: ‘Twas her own. Her dowry.

PD: Yerra, I know that. Was she worth it?

RH: She came back, didn’t she?

PD: How much was in the suitcase?

RH: Eleven thousand.

PD: Which she brought back, of course.

RH: You know she didn’t. Her family, the McDonaghs, they had that away. Mind you, we broke a few heads. We got our money’s worth, by Christ, anyway

The screen now shows Eddie finding the suitcase under his friend’s bed.

PD: And Trojan Eddie?

RH: The Trojan eejit you mean! Sure I bankrolled him most of his life. Without me he’d have starved – him and his family. If he had brains he’d be dangerous.

As he speaks we see Trojan Eddie on screen, doing his spiel, selling his wares.

TE: What you want I got. And if you can get it cheaper anywhere else then I want to know about it. Trojan Eddies the name, bargain-zinies the game. A walkman? I got it! A razor? I got it! A guitar? I got it! A keyboard? I had one last week. Too late. So listen, don’t be done out of it, get down here now. Trojan Eddie’s of William Street. Now. (a close up shot of him on the screen) What are yeh doin’ sitting there? I said now! ( the film ends)

PD: Seems to be doin’ alright for himself now, out on his own. A brand new store. And lashings of stock for sale. What did he have when he worked for you, John? An auld van and a stall be the side of the road. And sellin’ stuff you wouldn’t give to a charity shop. I wonder where he got the money to start up on his own…..?

RH: What are yeh sayin’?

PD: I’m thinking the quare wan wasn’t the only one to see you comin’

RH: It’s not my money, if that’s what you think.

PD: Him and Dermot were very close though. Like brothers in fact. Maybe the McDonaghs were only the scapegoats in all this.

RH: That bloody townie doesn’t know his elbow from his instep. Shure he won’t pay for any of that stuff. It’ll all fall down around his ears before long. You mark my words. Then he’ll be crawlin back to me looking for help. Cos he don’t stand a chance without me. He haven’t got a hope in hell. You see I know who I am, and what I am, and what I am worth. But him, he hasn’t got a clue, not an idea. He’ll come crawling back on his belly, boy. Just like the woman did. You wait and see. Trojan Eddie! Trojan fuckin’ eejit! ( by now he is shouting)

PD: I suppose you are right, John.

We see Kathleen in the background, calling to John

K: John. Your tea is ready.

RH: Right, Kathleen, I’ll be there in a minute.

PD: She who must be obeyed

RH: She’s pregnant you know. Our first child. Isn’t it well for me boy? ( he goes)

PD: Fair play to yeh John. ( shakes his head as John disappears)

Margaret and Pecker watch as John walks away.

PD: No fool like an ould fool.

MB: He was an outsider, wasn’t he…Trojan Eddie, the townie?

PD: They both were. Eddie and John. That’s what I liked about the film. It showed what it was like to be an outsider from both sides. Eddie , a townie , because he was working and making his living from John and the travelling community. And John, a traveller, who was living amongst the settled community, and had made his fortune as a result. Both were despised in their different ways. (a pause) That’s where the music helps. Woody Guthrie was an outsider. He used his music to challenge things. I’m an outsider too. I use my music and my songs to challenge people in Ireland about the way Travellers are treated. I’ve also used it to celebrate the richness of Traveller music and Traveller culture. The first people to play the banjo were outsiders to America. They were the black slaves that were dragged halfway across the world from Africa to the cotton plantations of the American south.

Pecker and Margaret sings a verse of Woody Guthrie’s LONESOME VALLEY (c) Woody Guthrie)

There’s a road that leads to glory
Through a valley far away,
Nobody else can walk it for you,
They can only point the way.

You gotta walk that lonesome valley,
You gotta walk it by yourself,
Nobody here can walk it for you,
You gotta walk it by yourself.

PD: There’s a freedom, there is wildness, and there’s a sense of pain in Travellers style of music. When you’re downtrodden all your life it gets in your chest and it affects you. And it comes out in your music. I can hear that in Woody. Just as I can hear it in you. Did you feel an outsider Margaret?

MB: All me life, boy. But I didn’t let that stop me. It was the singing I cared for. Only the singing. If I hadn’t had that, what would I have done? Maybe I might’a been a factory girl.

Margaret sings THE FACTORY GIRL (traditional)

As I went out walking one fine summer morning,
The birds in the bushes did whistle and sing
The lads and the lasses in couples were courtin’
Going back to the factory their work to begin

He spied one among them, she was fairer then many,
Her cheeks like the red rose that blooms in the spring,
Her hair like the lily that grows in yon’ valley
She was only a hard-working factory girl

He said soft beside her, more closely to view her
She said “My young man, don’t stare me so,
I gold in my pocket, and silver as well,
no more will I answer that factory call…”

Pecker appears with his banjo case. He opens the case, takes out his banjo and strums it for a moment.

PD: The thing I love about the banjo is that it’s the instrument of the outsider. Me father wanted me to be a fiddle player, like himself. I think it broke his heart when I choose the banjo instead. I got my first one in Castlecomer Co Kilkenny when I was little more than a child. We had gone into a harness shop to get some gear for one of our horses and the man pulled out this dusty old banjo from somewhere and gave it to me. There are times in your life – moments when you feel something was planned for you by the man above. As soon as I held that banjo in my hands I knew we were going to spend our lives making special music together. (pause) And so we did.

Pecker looks at his surroundings for a while then shakes his head. He gathers his banjo and case etc and begins to move away. The light gradually fades and we move to a centre spotlight.

Peckers sings WEXFORD TOWN (c Pecker Dunne)

PD: My family lived in Wexford town, stopped travelling and settled down,
Though my father kept a horse and car, we lived within the town,
The people there misunderstood, or they did not know our ways,
So with horse and car, back on the road, I began my travelling days

My father was called the Fiddler Dunne, and I’m a fiddler too,
But although I often felt his fist, he taught me all he knew,
I know I’ll never be as good, and yet I feel no shame,
For the other things my father taught, I am proud to bear his name.

He taught me pride and how to live, though the road is hard and long,
And how a man will never starve, with a banjo, fiddle or song,
And how to fight for what I own, and what I know is right,
And how to camp beside a ditch on a stormy winter’s night.

O times were good and times were bad, and people cruel and kind,
But what I learned of people then, has stayed within my mind,
I’ll honour friends with all my heart, do for them all I can,
But I’ve learnt to go the road again, when they spurn the tinker man.

O Wexford is a town I like, but the travelling man they scorn,
And a man must feel affection for the town where he was born,
I know one day, that I’ll go back, when my travelling days are done,
And people will begin to wonder, what has happened to the Pecker Dunne.

The rest of the cast come out as Pecker finishes the last verse

End (c) Tom O’Brien

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers…contd.

July 17, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

A campfire. Singing and dancing. Pecker, wearing a hat is seated, drinking and enjoying himself. A red-haired girl, throws herself down beside Pecker. Soon they are laughing and cuddling..

PD: What’s your name?

MARY: Me name’s Mary. What’s yours?

PD: Arra, you can call me anything, so long as it’s not too early in the morning.

MARY: I like your hat. Where did you get it?

PD: Well, I’ll tell you now; I was buskin’ over in Dingle a few days ago and this fella said to me ‘I’ll give you two euros if you play a good tune for me’, so I said ‘give me four and I’ll play a better one’. I did, and he was so happy he said ‘play me another one now and I’ll give you me hat’. I did, and now I’m wearing it. ‘That’s a good hat now, look after it’, he said, ‘I paid 140 dollars for that hat in Australia’

MARY: Are you goin’ to wear it to Puck Fair?

PD: Begod I am. They might crown me King of The Fair tomorrow with that hat on me head. (the girl laughs, and Pecker says in an aside) I think I’m alright here.

MARY: Will you give me a dance at the fair?

PD: I surely will. I’ll even give you two for good measure. (he drags her to her feet) We’ll have a practice one now.

They dance close together for a moment. Suddenly there is a roar and a man jumps between them and shoves them apart.

MAN: That’s my wife, stranger. What do you say to that?

PD: A careless man and his wife are soon parted, that’s what I say. She needs controlling, man.

MAN: Well, if she does itself, I’m the one to do it.

He drags the girl away and shoves her to one side, then kicks out at Pecker and knocks him to the ground. Then he takes off his shirt and stands in the pose of a fighter, his bare fists raised. Someone shouts ‘clear a space’ as Pecker rises and takes off his shirt. He, too, raises his fists. They circle each other for a while, throwing punches and missing. Then Pecker connects with a wild swing to the head. His opponent goes down, pole-axed. He lays there not moving; someone comes up and tests for a pulse at the side of his neck.

MAN: There’s no pulse. I think he’s dead.

Pandemonium on the site for a few minutes. Screams and shouting. Then a police whistle is heard. A Guard Sergeant marches on and drags Pecker off.

Lights dim, then we see Pecker singing PORTLAOISE GAOL (c Pecker Dunne)

PD: For thirty years I’ve been a tinker, I’ve tramped the mountain and the glen I’ve courted girls in every county, and I’ve fought the very best of men I drank an awful lot of porter, I slept in sunshine, snow and gale But the life I loved was taken from me, when I spent two years in Portlaoise gaol.

Portlaoise gaol it was tamed the tiger – try, me boys, to get bail T’was many a heart was stopped inside – inside the walls of Portlaoise gaol.

I joined a camp outside Kilorglin, the night before they crowned the king There was song and dance and plenty porter, with our wagons formed around the ring Then a foxy lass sat down beside me, bedad says I, I’m alright here But her husband rose and leapt between us, and knocked me down with a kick in the ear I hit him hard below the navel,, he hit the ground with a might wail His neck was broke, he died in seconds, and I spent Puck Fair in Portlaoise gaol.

Portlaoise gaol it was tamed the tiger – try, me boys, to get bail T’was many a heart was stopped inside – inside the walls of Portlaoise gaol.

End of scene

The campsite. A man, a local farmer comes into view, in a temper.

MAN: Hey, ya pikey bastard, did you steal that bit of lead off the roof of my cowhouse the other day?

PD: I’ve been passing this way the last twenty years and the devil a bit of lead I ever saw on that roof. A few galvanised sheets, and they fallin down with the rust, but no lead.

MAN: I’ll call the Guards. I’ll get you moved on.

PD: They won’t find any lead here.

MAN: Well, if it wasn’t you it was them friends of your in that transit van.

PD: They weren’t friends of mine, whoever they were.

MAN: Well they were over from Rathkeale way then. That town is full of pikeys and knackers. They sold my wife a roll of carpet and when she unrolled it there was a big square missing in the middle.

PD: More fool her then. Is that what this is about? Someone sold your wife dodgy bit of carpet and you blame me for it. How do you know they were travellers? Maybe they were townies.

MAN: They were pikeys. Just like you.

PD: That’s not a very nice word. We’re travelling people, not pikeys.

MAN: Well you’re all tarred with the same brush, aren’t you? Steal anything that’s not nailed down, you lot would.

PD: Even invisible lead. How would it be if I called you a sod-buster or a cockie, or something else derogatory.

MAN: Look, why don’t up sticks and just head off. You know you’re not wanted around here.

PD: It’s still a free country – I think

. He sings a few verses from THE TRAVELLING PEOPLE ( (c) Ewan McColl)

PD: I’m a freeborn man of the travelling people
Got no fixed abode with nomads I am numbered
Country lanes and bye ways were always my ways
I never fancied being lumbered

Well we knew the woods and all the resting places
The small birds sang when winter time was over
Then we’d pack our load and be on the road
They were good old times for the rover

In the open ground where a man could linger
Stay a week or two for time was not your master
Then away you’d jog with your horse and dog
Nice and easy no need to go faster

And sometimes you’d meet up with other travellers
Hear the news or else swop family information
At the country fairs we’d be meeting there
All the people of the travelling nation

I’ve made willow creels and the heather besoms
And I’ve even done some begging and some hawkin’
And I’ve lain there spent rapped up in my tent
And I’ve listened to the old folks talking

All you freeborn men of the travelling people
Every tinker rolling stone and gypsy rover
Winds of change are blowing old ways are going
Your travelling days will soon be over

I’m a freeborn man of the travelling people
Got no fixed abode with nomads I am numbered
Country lanes and bye ways were always my ways
I never fancied being lumbered

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers contd…

July 16, 2025 / gorgeousgael / 1 Comment

Pecker and Margaret round the campfire. Others in the background.

MB: Were you ever around Camden Town in the fifties?

PD: I wasn’t, Margaret. More’s the pity. I was stuck in Manchester. In a factory makin’ plastic thing-a-me- jigs. Can you imagine the Pecker in a factory?

MB: I can’t. How did you breathe at all? Were you there long?

PD: A few year. I nearly forgot how to play me banjo. It took me months to get back into me stride after I finally escaped. The money was good, but sure that’s no consolation for not bein’ able to go where you want to.

MB: Freedom, boy, that’s all that matters. You would have loved Camden Town then. The Bedford Arms and the Favourite were our meeting places. The finest musicians and singers in Ireland were to be found there at the time. Willie Clancy, Seamus Ennis, Dominic Behan, Luke Kelly to name a few. And of course that’s where I met Michael. Michael Gorman. The finest fiddle player of them all…

We hear the fiddle being played; the tune is a jig, THE STRAYAWAY CHILD, which was composed by Margaret. A couple can be seen dancing in the background. The music fades after a while.

PD: The strayaway child. ( he hums a bit of it)

MB: You know it then?

PD: Yerra, indeed I played it many’s the time on the fiddle. One of Michael’s isn’t it?

MB: Everyone thinks Michael composed it. But he didn’t, it was meself. It was the bane of me life, boy. I spent years trying finish it. I wrote it shortly after I ran away from home, but could never get it right. Michael helped me to put it all together. People were always talking about my relationship with Michael; I mean, they wanted to know was it just musical, or was it personal as well. Well now, I used to say to them, that’s between me and the gatepost,

PD: Yarrah, who cares anymore, girl! Sure I was a divil after the women meself. And then after many years I found the one that mattered. Madeline. She gave me a wonderful family. (laughs) She was nearly young enough to be me daughter. But that didn’t matter. Shure love bates Bannaher.

MB: And Bannaher bates the devil! – so they say. The thing is, I was never really in love. Would you believe that? Well, I had a husband, but I was only in love with one thing – and that was singing and music.

PD: Ah now…I don’t believe that…

MB: I’m telling you. You never met anyone like me, boy – that could say I never loved a man. Only the one thing I’m in love with and that’s music.

We hear a woman’s voice off

OFF: You’re a fraud Maggie Barry.

MB: Who the divil is that?

A woman appears.

MB: Oh Lord save us, it’s me step-mother.

WOMAN: Queen of the gypsies me backside! You’re not a Tinker – nor a Traveller no more than I am. It’s not even your right name. Your father was Charles Power.

MB: It’s me stage name. Anyway, my grandmother came from Spain and she was a Romany gypsy. She was a singer too, and played the guitar, and her ancestors was gypsies from Italy.

WOMAN: Don’t listen to her, mister. Her father played the music for the silent pictures in Cork for most of his life. He never left the city till the day he died. You can’t just decide to become a traveller – you have to be born one.

MB: My people were all travellers. Just because me father choose to stay in Cork for most of his life doesn’t change that one bit. What do you know about it anyway?

PD: She’s been Margaret Barry all my life. And she has done more for Travelling people and their music than almost anyone else I know. That’s good enough for me.

WOMAN: She has you bamboozled, like she bamboozled men all her life. She could always twist men around her finger. Like that Gorman fella, the fiddler, she took up with in London. He left behind a wife and family, broken-hearted and starvin’, back home in Sligo.

MB: Why you….! That was nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know Michael then. You’re spreading malicious gossip. You should be locked up you spiteful auld strap.

WOMAN: Shaa! Anyway, you broke your father’s heart when you ran away. And left me to pick up the pieces.

MB: That’s your real gripe, isn’t it? He didn’t want me. And you certainly didn’t. You made that clear. It was the happiest day of my life when I got on my bicycle and headed for the North. I was content there for nearly twenty years, living in me caravan, and singing and playing to me heart’s content at the fairs and the matches.

WOMAN: Until you ran away with the fiddler Gorman

MB: I never ran away with him. I was invited to London by Alan Lomax to do some recording. That’s how I met Michael.

WOMAN: Maybe, maybe not. But you were never a Tinker Margaret Barry. Never a Tinker…(she exits)

MB: And you were always one. By nature anyway. You don’t suppose people will think I was a fraud, Pecker?

PD: That’s the least of your worries, girl. Sure you’re more popular these last years than you ever were when you were…when you …

MB: When I was alive, boy. Don’t be afraid to say it. Well, that’s nice to know anyway. (she looks around) You know, I often think this place is a bit like the Wells Fargo Depot. Stagecoaches come in, people get off and get on; they bring a bit of news, and then they go away again. Off to God knows where. And you’re left waiting for the next coach to come in…

PD: You’re here a long time yourself, girl. Without movin’ on, I mean.

MB: Am I, boy? I wonder why that is? Ah shure ours is not to reason why. Ours is just to….well you know what I mean.

Pecker and Margaret both sing a few verses of IT’S NEARLY OVER NOW, AND NOW I’M EASY ( (c) Eric Bogle)

BOTH: For nearly sixty years, I’ve been a Cockie
Of droughts and fires and floods I’ve lived through plenty
This country’s dust and mud have seen my tears and blood
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

I married a fine girl when I was twenty
But she died in giving birth when she was thirty
No flying doctor then, just a gentle old black ‘gin
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

She left me with two sons and a daughter
On a bone-dry farm whose soil cried out for water
So my care was rough and ready, but they grew up fine and steady
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

My daughter married young, and went her own way
My sons lie buried by the Burma Railway
So on this land I’ve made me home, I’ve carried on alone
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

City folks these days despise the Cockie
Say with subsidies and dole, we’ve had it easy
But there’s no drought or starving stock on a sewered suburban block
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

For nearly sixty years, I’ve been a Cockie
Of droughts and fires and floods, I’ve lived through plenty
This country’s dust and mud, have seen my tears and blood
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy
And now I’m easy

End of scene

PD: My proper name is Paddy Dunne. It was me uncle who said call yourself Pecker. Pecker, that’s a great name, boy, he said. And he was right. I think music is something that has got to be born in you. In the blood. Like the blood horse, the drop of blood has to be there. If I hadn’t got the music I think I would be very hungry. Nobody else gives a damn for my family only me. All my people were show people, carnival people, still are today. The cinema, fairs, the circus, hurling and football matches, that’s where you’ll find us, anywhere there’s a big crowd

You’d always know spring was here when you saw the crows building their nests, and when you saw the primroses growing at the side of the road, and when you saw me father’s caravan coming over the brow of the hill. That’s the time when me mother would tell us we ‘were goin’ off to the country again’.

A man appears in the background. He is dressed in 1940’s clothes, the clothes of an artisan, and carrying a set of uileann pipes. He begins to play. The tune is called COLONEL FRASER/RAKISH PADDY. We hear it for a few minutes, and see a couple dancing in the background.

PD: Well, God…do you know what? I’d swear that’s Johnny Doran. The great Johnny Doran.

MB: Tis, boy. I‘d recognise him anywhere. We were often in competition. At a match, or a fair. If you saw Johnny on the horizon, ‘twas time to pack up and move on, because the pennies would be very scarce in your bag that day.

PD: I heard tell of one fair where he collected nearly fourteen pounds for the day’s playing – and the wages of a farm labourer at the time was twelve pounds for a whole year. I often collected four or five, but fourteen pounds! (he shakes his head then shouts) Hey, Johnny, is that you? Is that Johnny Doran?

The man looks at him and smiles, then waves. He plays the pipes for a few more minutes , and the couple dance again.

PD: Did you know that in Cromwellian times there was a bounty on pipers? Five pounds, the same as on priests, cos the authorities believed they had the power to incite rebellion.

MB: And why wouldn’t they – have the power, I mean – if they could play like Johnny

PD: The finest piper in Ireland. He was one of the Cashs’ you know. One of their descendants, anyway. I remember the Cash’s when I was growin’ up in Wexford. Goin’ to school there, and the Cashs’ and the Dunnes’ being put together on one side of the classroom. That’s the way it was for some reason. I suppose it was because we were Travellers.

MB: That was the prejudice, boy. We hadn’t a name for it then , we just thought that was the way all people treated travellers. But that’s what it was. Pure prejudice.

PD: Because we dared to be different. And it wasn’t ignorant people doing it.

MB: Like guards. Or farmers.

PD: It was educated people. Teachers. And priests. The parish priests ran the schools in them days, so suppose it was on their orders that we were…what’s the word?

MB: Segregated.

PD: That’s the fella.

MB: Like the Jews in Hitler’s Germany.

PD: We were in good company then. Segregated be people who weren’t fit to lick Johnny Doran’s boots.

MD: Johnny would put the heart crossways in you when you listened to him. Did you know he taught Willy Clancy how to play the pipes? Willy himself told me that. (pause) He died young. Too young. He was crushed beneath a wall that fell on his caravan in Dublin. Wasn’t I livin’ there around the time? Ah, he lived for two year after in a wheelchair, boy, but what sort of a life was that for him? He never played the pipes again.

The music should get louder now, as the couple finish the dance, then disappear.

PD: Well, he’s not in the wheelchair now. You know, that’s the second miracle I’ve seen in me life. The first was when a nun talked me into givin’ up the lush – the drink. I thought I would never do it. And I told her so. But she wouldn’t leave it lie. ‘You’re an alcoholic’, she said to me. I didn’t like those words – but she was right. And she persuaded me to join Alcoholics Anonymous.

Pecker stands before his peers, as if at an AA meeting.

PD: Me name is Pecker Dunne and I’m an alcoholic. I had me first drink when I was twelve years old at me Confirmation in Wexford town. I went out to celebrate with my father’s brothers who were confirmed on the same day. That was my first drinking session and I went on to drink for the next forty years. I became an alcoholic because I like the taste of the lush. I liked the way it made me feel. I knew at an early age I had a problem but I wasn’t able to stop. I tried a few times. I remember coming to Clonmel to play some music and decided there and then to take the Pledge. I managed to stay off the drink for six months; I bought a wagon and horses and felt a lot healthier in meself. But then I hit the bottle again and within a few weeks the wagon, the horses, the nice harness were all gone. I spent everything on the dark stuff in the bottom of the bottle (pause)

I drank everything; beer, spirits, poitin, anything that would make me high. But like many alcoholics I was in denial for years. This despite the fact that I was as bad an alcoholic as you would find anywhere in Ireland. I almost hit a priest once when he told me I was an alcoholic. I was in denial, you see. Drink can strip you of your dignity and leave you with nothing. That is how powerful it is. There are years in my life I can remember very little about. They are like a blur. It is like I wasn’t really living. I went through a period of sleeping in graveyards, don’t ask me why. I suppose I was in good company because I was half-dead myself. I remember waking up very early in a graveyard in Kerry one morning and thinking, ‘God, it must be resurrection day and I am the first up’.

And then I met this nun from Skibereen who saved me. I was in hospital because of the drinking and she came over to me and tried to help me. The abuse I gave that poor woman. ‘Leave me alone, I’m dying sick’, I would say, But she wouldn’t give up. ‘We’ll have a talk’, she’d say. And I would say to her ‘If we do have a talk will you leave me alone after that?’ And she would say ‘No I won’t’. Then one day she came over and said ‘Now, just relax and listen to me for a moment. Do you know you have a disease called alcoholism? The alcohol is in the bottle and the ‘ism’ is in you. That’s what it is, plain and simple. If you leave the bottle alone you will have no problems. I will take you to a place where you can start to fight your addiction’. And she took me to my first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

When I came out of the meeting she was waiting for me. ‘How do you feel now?’ she asked me. ‘Sister’, I said, ‘the gates of heaven haven’t opened to let me in yet, but the gates of hell are starting to open to let me out’. She put her arms around me and said, ‘You know I love you, Pecker’. That fixed it for me. Her telling me she loved me meant everything to me. The drink had brought me so low I didn’t care anymore whether I lived or died, but when she said that I knew there was at least one person in the world that cared. I said to myself, ‘someone wants me to live’. And shortly after that I met my wife. I’ve been sober ever since.

Pecker sings the song SULLIVAN’S JOHN (c Pecker Dunne)

PD: Oh Sullivan’s John, to the road you’ve gone
Far away from your native home
You’ve gone with the tinker’s daughter
For along the road to roam
Ah, Sullivan’s John you won’t stick it long
Till your belly will soon get slack
As you roam the road with a mighty load
And a tooten box on your back

I met Katy Caffrey and a neat baby
All behind on her back strapped on
She had an old ash plant all in her hands
For to drive her donkey on
Enquiring every farmer’s house
As along the road she passed,
Oh, where would she get an old pot to mend
And where would she get an ass

There’s a hairy ass fair in the County Clare
In a place they call Spancel Hill
Where my brother James got a rap of a hames
And poor Paddy they tried to kill
They loaded him up in an ass and cart
For along the road to go
Oh, bad luck to the day that I went away
To join with the tinker’s band

Oh Sullivan’s John, to the road you’ve gone
Far away from your native home
You’ve gone with the tinker’s daughter
For along the road to roam
Ah, Sullivan’s John you won’t stick it long
Till your belly will soon get slack
As you roam the road with a mighty load
And a tooten box on your back

MB: That’s a great song, Pecker.

PD: I wrote that song when I was eleven. And I think it’s the best one I ever wrote. It was a romantic incident that I saw among the travelling people that inspired me. We pulled in off the drag – the road – one evening outside Kilrush, joining a camp that was already set up. We were there for a few days and every evening I noticed this farmer’s son coming down to the molly – the camp – and he had his eye on this beautiful traveller girl. You could see that that he was crazy about her and she about him. In the heel of the hunt, they were so mad about each other that they ran away to England together. Johnny Sullivan was the boy’s name and I named the song after him. He joined the travelling life in England and started his own tarmac and trucking business there. In the song I pretended that he was a tinker tramping the road, but in reality he became a very wealthy man. Ah, that’s what they call poetic licence I suppose.

End of scene

My Writing Life

Tom O' Brien, author and playwright

THE SHINY RED HONDA – extract

BY

Tom O’Brien.

BEFORE THE ONE, BEFORE THE CODE

FAIRYTALE

THE SECOND COMING

THE SECOND SECOND COMING

BITS&PIECES extract

DEAD IN A DITCH

MISS WHIPLASH REGRETS…extract

PECKER DUNNE contd

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers…contd.

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers contd…

BY

Tom O’Brien.

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THE SECOND SECOND COMING

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