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This old photo – courtesy of Waterford Co. Museum – show locals enjoying their bottles of Guinness in Ciss Kirwan’s pub in Bonmahon Co Waterford, Ireland c 1950.  I grew up not half a dozen miles from Bonmahon, and I think it is my favourite spot in the world. Well it was until we visited LA last year! A seaside village in what is now called The Copper Coast region, it was in its heyday in the 19th C a thriving copper-mining area. Then the copper ran out and all that eventually was left was a warren of mineshafts and a decaying main street where most of the houses had either fallen down or were knocked down. Once the copper had gone most of the people left too.

I t was our mecca in the summer though; we cycled there most Summer Sundays, content to play football and other games on the long sandy beach or climb the pathways to the gently rising cliffs at either end of the village. The river Mahon split it in two and a cumbersome old metal bridge also provided further opportunites to clamber  between the struts and girders hidden beneath the  tarmac and cement laid on top of them.

As we got older we took our transistor radios with us and listened to the velvet tones of Brian Hyland as we sat on the rocks overlooking the bay.  I only met you just a couple of days ago/I only met you and I want your lovin’ so Jeannie come lately, you may have come lately/ But you’re the one for me. Or Susan Maughan.  I want to be Bobby’s girl, I want to be Bobby’s girl/ That’s the most important thing to me/ And if I was Bobby’s girl, if I was Bobby’s girl/ What a happy faithful girl I’d Be.Of course it wouldn’t be long before the girls appeared, insinuating themselves between us. I am sure it was all planned where they would sit, but at the time we didn’t have sense enough to cop on, thus many an opportunity of a bit of innocent canoodling was missed. Part of the enjoyment was going to Ciss Kirwan’s and stuffing ourselves with bottles of Cidona and bags of Tayto crisps.

Yes, glory days.

OLD ACQUAINTANCE

I see they have sent him down – again

A two stretch this time

I sold a typewriter for him once

And got six months for my trouble

(he got three, but swore it was my idea)

Then there was the time he

Asked me to burn his house down

‘Two hundred quid’ he said ‘easy money’

‘The insurance won’t twig it’

(when I declined, he did the job himself)

After that we lost contact for several years

He removed his wife and daughters to another town,

Where he was just as big a bastard – to them –

And to the world in general

Drinking, gambling, big-mouthing and beating,

Mostly his wife,

Till she put a slit near his throat

With a carving knife

Left to his own devices

He hung misery about him like a shroud;

He went to Knock for a week

And returned a changed man

Flowers from Interflora, presents for the girls,

Flannel for everyone else.

She relented of course.

They don’t speak much about him in the town now

A nudge and a wink

When his wife appears;

‘She must have known what was going on…

Doing that with his girls….

And she had him back!’

IRISH AMERICAN POST – QUESTION & ANSWER SESSION

What are some of your inspirations for your plays and books? Are they of a biographical nature?

Of course my writing is autobiographical to some degree. I don’t think a writer can write without putting something of himself into his work, be it novels, plays, short stories or whatever. But I also think reading plays a big part; to write well I think you have to read well. By that I mean read the best writers, both contemporary and historical, and try and figure out how they did it.  I love Ernest Hemingway for example; I think he was the greatest writer of the 20^th century and have read everything he wrote – many times. I am always finding something new in his works. Ernest was a very conscientious writer; he wrote every morning for 4 or 5 hours without fail; he was also a very proud writer, and when he found his writing powers fading at the age of 60 he blew his brains out with a shotgun rather than carry on. That’s how much writing meant to him

When did you realize that you wanted to write as a profession?

I had always been a bit of a closet writer throughout my life, writing bits and pieces sporadically –  then discarding them as rubbish. It wasn’t until about 20 years ago that I decided to give it a proper go. I was in my mid forties then; I would write for a couple of hours every night after work in our attic – I floored it and made it into my writing den – and found that the discipline of regular writing improved my work tremendously.  I also maintained that it kept me out of the pub – it didn’t! – but the writing bug had got hold of me by now and I was putting time aside for it. Gradually the quality improved – I found that you have to write all the bad stuff before you get to the good stuff – and I eventually saw some of my material getting published or performed.

Did you go to university for writing or was it a self-taught discipline?Rye Harbour

Continue reading →

When I began writing – twenty five years ago now – one of the most touted pieces of advice was to keep a diary. I duly took note, and for the next few years diligently logged everything that took my fancy. It wasn’t very time consuming, maybe 25-20 mins every evening. However after a few years the novelty wore off and in time the diaries were completely forgotten, only re-surfacing recently when I was having a bit of a tidy-up. What did I deem worthy of inclusion in those far-off days?   The first entry is headed ‘Dreams Only In The Front’, and I recall being impressed with some woman writer  who suggested that dreams are the fount of all good writing, and  that we writers should keep a diary of all our dreams. Here is the first one I logged, dated 27/1/91;  I am travelling as a pillion passenger with the PM John Major on his motor bike. His jacket bothers me, the way it keeps flapping about as we move. He keeps losing me and has to keep coming back for me. We stop while he carries out some adjustments to the bike; he does some calculations with his pen on the wallpaper in the room we are in, then he signs his work ‘J Major PM was here’. We meet an old woman who asks me a profound question. I answer Mr Simpson. She thinks I said ‘Mrs Simpson’, which is the correct answer. She is impressed. Here is another one, dated 23/4/9; I am part of an audience watching a concert.We are being entertained by a black gymnast who is doing cartwheels across the stage. At the interval Alan Plater comes on stage to give a talk. He is loudly cheered by the writing fraternity- whom I vaguely know. Then he comes amongst us selling copies of his book ‘ANY OLD IRON’ for £5.99. Crazy stuff!

Flicking through at random here are some other entries; Funerals; the first thing O’Leary looked at was the deaths column in his daily paper. There was usually someone who had passed away in the vicinity, to whose funeral he could go to. Was he a professional mourner? 5/6/91 Watched the film Billy Liar again on TV. Even after all these years it was still fresh and hilariously funny. I felt the ending was a cop-out though; he should have been allowed to go off to London with Julie Christie. Otherwise all his dreams were for nothing. And one of the last ones; 20/7/97 Dicko. How can I describe him? Hilariously decadent. His stories take some beating; he has only one subject – SEX. How about Bridget the blow-up doll! I am definitely going to write a story about him -TRAVELS WITH BRIDGET!  (In fact I did write that story. Must see if I can find it again)

I must trawl through these diaries again. I am sure there is a book in them.

Happy writing!

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all are welcome. Please pass on to your friends

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