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

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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

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

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers

July 15, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

Pecker dunne…part 1

PECKER DUNNE – LAST OF THE TRAVELLERS

Tom O’Brien

A play with music about the travelling musicians of Ireland, mostly concentrating on Pecker Dunne and Margaret Barry. They were both from travelling families, Tinkers, and were marginalised by Irish society. Looked down on, indeed persecuted for their way of life. Both were great singers and musicians, and along with the great Johnny Doran, did more to promote Irish traditional music than almost any other person of our times. Both are dead now and the play is set in a kind of imaginary ‘halting site’, where departed souls are temporarily resident while awaiting transport to somewhere permanent.

Characters

Pecker Dunne………………….40-60 yrs

Margaret Barry……………….30-50 yrs

Guard Sergeant……………….. 40’s

Richard Harris/John Power….50-60yrs

Kathleen……………………………early 20’s

Johnny Doran……………………..late 30’s

Mary…………………………………..mid 20’s

Tinker Man…………………………30-40 yrs

Step-Mother………………………..early 40’s

Farmer…………………………………40’s

Apart from Pecker and Margaret, all the other characters can be played by one male and one female actor if need be.

Some musicians may be required, possibly a banjo/fiddle player and an accordionist.

Margaret Barry has a pronounced Cork accent, even when singing.

PECKER DUNNE – LAST OF THE TRAVELLERS

Tom O’Brien

Scene one

A darkened stage, then a spotlight. PECKER DUNNE appears, carrying a banjo case. The case has Pecker Dunne stencilled across the body. Bearded, he wears a wide black leather belt with silver buckle on his trousers, and could be anywhere between 40/60 years of age. He sings I’M THE LAST OF THE TRAVELLIN PEOPLE (c) Pecker Dunne)

PD: Me name it is Paddy, I’m called Pecker Dunne I walk the road but I never run, I’m the last of the travellin’ people

With me banjo and fiddle I yarn and song, and sing to people who do me no wrong But if others despise me I just move along, and know I’ll find friends in the morning Arah money is money and friends they are friends, And drinking with them is where all money ends But it isn’t on money it’s on them I depend When friends and the guards are against me.

From Belfast to Wexford from Clare to Tralee, a town with a pub is a living for me I haven’t a home but thank God I am free, I’m the last of the travellin’ people

The road isn’t aisy but it’s what I choose, I’m not always a winner but I’l Summer and winter keep travelling I will But the road it is long and I know it will kill The last of the travelling people.

As Pecker finishes the stage lights come up. There is a blank screen as backdrop. Towards the front we see what looks to be a travellers halting site; campfire, cooking utensils etc – the impression being given is that the wagons etc are just out of sight. It should be a hazy, sort of unreal-looking place, with a few people seated at various points. Some of these can be musicians.

PD: Where the bloody hell is this place?

On screen we can now read HAPPY 80^TH BIRTHDAY PECKER.

PD: Birthday? Eighty? What’s goin’ on here?

MARGARET BARRY appears from the mist with her banjo. She sings THE GALWAY SHAWL (traditional)

MB: At Oranmore in the County Galway,
One pleasant evening in the month of May,
I spied a damsel, she was young and handsome
Her beauty fairly took my breath away.

Chorus:
She wore no jewels, nor costly diamonds,
No paint or powder, no, none at all.
But she wore a bonnet with a ribbon on it
And round her shoulder was a Galway Shawl.

We kept on walking, she kept on talking,
‘Till her father’s cottage came into view.
Says she, “Come in, sir, and meet my father,
And play to please him The Foggy Dew.”

She sat me down beside the fire
I could see her father, he was six feet tall.
And soon her mother had the kettle singing
All I could think of was the Galway shawl.

I played The Blackbird and The Stack of Barley
Rodney’s Glory and The Foggy Dew
She sang each note like an Irish linnet.
Whilst the tears stood in her eyes of blue.

‘Twas early, early, all in the morning,
When I hit the road for old Donegal.
She said goodbye, sir, she cried and kissed me,
And my heart remained with that Galway shawl.

PD: God bless all here tonight. Isn’t Margaret great to turn up

for my birthday? Ladies and gentlemen, Margaret Barry.

MB: That’s the first I heard about any birthday, Pecker. I was told

there was a few shillings in it for me.

PD: Ah, g’wan now girl.

MB: Well, seein’ as it’s yourself Pecker. And it’s not as if we’re strangers. Shure, we sung together before.

PD: Aye, we did, a long time ago. A chanter supreme, that’s what you are. It’s me birthday today – apparently. What age do you think I am?

MB: I can still read, boy. (indicates the screen and laughs)

Not as ould as me, anyway.

PD: Sure you’re no age. If you were six months younger I’d run away

with you!

MB: I was born in 1917, boy.

PD: That would make you…ah…

MB: Dead, boy. T’would make me dead. (she looks around) ‘Tis a funny auld place, isn’t it?

PD: Where is it at all? Is it the afterlife – or just another bit of roadside the council forgot to fence off?

MB: The afterlife, boy! (looks around) There’s never anyone around to ask. People just seem to come and go.

PD: You sure it’s not a guard (police)) station? There’s never anyone in them places anymore.

MB: No, they’re always too busy hidin’ behind hedges and the like to give you a ticket for something or other. Don’t talk to me about the guards.

A uniformed Garda Sergeant walks into view.

PD: Well, Lord save us, if it isn’t auld Baldy Tyres himself!

MB: I know that fella! He stopped me wance in Limerick for havin – how did he put it? – a ‘defective rear light on a moving vehicle’. On t’oul caravan, if you don’t mind! The lousy fecker.

GS: Well now, what have we here? The Pecker Dunne and Margaret Barry. When did you pair hitch up together? Or is that too delicate a question?

PD: Since when did the matter of delicacy ever bother you? Or any Guard for that matter.

GS: I was only doin’ me job.

MB: That’s what Cromwell said at Drogheda.

PD: And a lot more places besides. I wonder now if Guards are descendants of Roundheads?

MB: (aside) He have the head of one, anyhow

GS: What was that? (he is walking about, looking at things) You know, you can’t park here anymore.

PD: A bit of auld waste ground, on the side of the road – where’s the harm?

PS: Ah now, it’s not as simple as that. Not like it used to be in the old days. There’s the health and safety issue to be considered for a start…

MB: Health and safety, boy? What’s that when it’s at home? We parked here in 1930, when I was thirteen years old, and we’ve been parking here on and off ever since.

PS: Not for the past twenty years you haven’t. There’s new laws these days, official halting sites, proper…

PD: He’s talkin’ about all these new EU laws, girl. Ah, shure it’s all changed since you…since you…(pause) It’s the new United States of Europe. We’re all only satellites now, being told what to do be some mush in Brussels.

MB: Is that a fact? I’m well out of it then.

PS: Be that as it may. I know you Pecker, and I know what will happen if I give you permission to stay here. There’ll be a swarm of you here before you can say ‘Ballybunion’.

PD: It’s me birthday. I’m entitled to ask a few friends round for me birthday.

PS: Have ye any horses? I don’t want any horses roamin’ the road – or the farmer’s fields for that matter.

PD: Prags? What would a traveller want with a prag these days? The only thing I travel with these days – apart from me four be four – is this. (he waves his banjo case)

PS: I’ll be keeping a close eye on all of you. I don’t want any trouble now. ( he heads off)

MB: He won’t go far, boy. He’ll be peeping from behind some hedge.

Pecker and Margaret sing DANNY FARRELL (by Pete St John)

I knew Danny Farrell when his football was a can
With his hand-me-downs and Welliers and his sandwiches of bran
But now that pavement peasant is a full grown bitter man
With all the trials and troubles of his travelling people’s clan

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

I knew Danny Farrell when he joined the National School
He was lousy at the Gaelic, they’d call him amadán – a fool
He was brilliant in the toss school by trading objects in the pawn
By the time he was an adult all his charming ways had gone

I knew Danny Farrell when we queued up for the dole
And he tried to hide the loss of pride that eats away the soul
But mending pots and kettles is a trade lost in the past
“There’s no hand-out here for tinkers” was the answer when he asked

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

I still know Danny Farrell, saw him just there yesterday
Taking methylated spirits with some wino’s on the quay
Oh, he’s forty going on eighty, with his eyes of hope bereft
And he told me this for certain, there’s not many of us left

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

Lights fade, then Spotlight on Margaret Barry

MB: I was born on the first of January 1917 in the city of Cork. Peter Street. Me mother was seventeen years married to me father when she died. I was about twelve then. She was a beautiful woman; I don’t think there was a lovelier woman to be got in Cork. Lovely black hair, you know. She used to wear it in a plait right around her head, and all got up in a big bun at the back, with a big hairpin stuck in it. She got double pneumonia and it killed her. I remember her calling me to her bedside in the hospital and saying ‘Margaret, my Margaret’. I never got over her dying. Never. Me father re-married, but I couldn’t get on with them, so I set off on me own when I was sixteen and settled in the North of the country. I sang through the fairs. And the markets. And I had very enjoyable times. And more times it wasn’t so nice because there was wind and rain, and I’d get wet coming back on me bicycle from somewhere. But I enjoyed every minute of it. Me heart was delighted when I went through the fairs and could keep on singing all the time. But as soon as ever I’d finish up at some fair or a market I’d actually go to some house. I used to always be hired. They knew me that well. Around Castleblaney, Monaghan, Crossmaglen, Armagh, and all these places. And they used always come along for me and say ‘we’d like for you to come up to the house some night, and play a few tunes and sing a few songs’. And there I was, I used to go to the house at eight o clock in the evening and from then until maybe seven in the morning I’d keep on playing for them and singing. I’d get a rest about twelve o clock and get something to ate. And then off I’d go again. I’d play some half sets, and if there was room enough in the place they’d take away the furniture, and they’d dance away the night. It would just be a sociable thing; it wouldn’t be a wedding or a wake or anything like that, it was the way they were around them parts, the way they enjoyed themselves. They loved that kind of life you see, the dancing and the craic. It was what they called a house ceili. And naturally enough, it was never without drink. (shakes her head) All gone now, boy.

Margaret sings THE FLOWER OF SWEET STRABANE (traditional)

MB: If I were King of Ireland and all things at my will
I’d roam through all creations new fortunes to find still
And the fortune I would seek the most you all must understand
Is to win the heart of Martha, the flower of sweet Strabane

Her cheeks they are a rosy red, her hair golden brown
And o’er her lily white shoulders it carelessly falls down
She’s one of the loveliest creatures of the whole creation planned
And my heart is captivated by the flower of sweet Strabane

If I had you lovely Martha away in Innisowen
Or in some lonesome valley in the wild woods of Tyrone
I would use my whole endeavour and I’d try to work my plan
For to gain my prize and feast my eyes on the flower of sweet Strabane

Oh, I’ll go o’er the Lagan down by the steam ships tall
I’m sailing for Amerikay across the briny foam
My boat is bound for Liverpool down by the Isle of Man
So I’ll say farewell, God bless you, my flower of sweet Strabane

POTEEN – a short story

April 18, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

POTEEN by Tom O’Brien
I was weaned on country music, Elvis and large dollops of raw West-of-Ireland poteen. The indiscriminate lighting of matches in the vicinity of
Hickeystown could have had a disastrous effect on the population had anybody
but known it. Fortunately, no one gave it a second thought.
Poteen is the elixir that drives men mad and makes greyhounds run faster.
It is also useful for easing rheumy joints in cattle, horses and other beasts of
burden. Its madness- inducing properties were confirmed many years ago when
my grandfather had a vision. In the vision he saw gold; large quantities of it, on
top of Tory hill, an ugly limestone carbuncle that did its best to hide
Hickeystown from the rest of civilization.
Two days of feverish digging – aided and abetted by most of the ablebodied men in the village – produced nothing except two rusty bicycle wheels,
a dead sheep and a dozen bottles of poteen. Long afterwards it emerged that the
poteen was grandfather’s. He had forgotten where he had buried it and dreamed
up the scheme in an effort to locate it.
However, by that time the harm was done; madmen and poteen were
synonymous.
That it made greyhounds run faster was undoubtedly true. I witnessed it
many times with my own eyes. My uncle Jack kept a couple of them for a
pastime, and when he wanted them to run faster at the flapping tracks he
frequented, he always laced their water with a drop beforehand. This worked
well for a long time before someone figured out his secret. In the end every
dog was running so fast that- as he himself put it – they were meeting
themselves coming back before they got there. He settled for a couple of Jack
Russells after that.
Being illegal, it fell to the Gardai to discourage its manufacture. They
knew who was making it of course – indeed they were occasional customers
17
themselves – and periodically they would make a sweep of the outlying areas.
When you saw them heading for the hills, wellies slung over their shoulders, an
axe in their hands, you knew the hunt was on. This mode of dressing was
particularly noticeable in the weeks leading up to Christmas
Uncle Jack and my father chopped down trees for a living, and if they
supplemented their wages with the manufacture of a little ‘moonshine’, sure what
was the harm? Like all good traditions it had been handed down through the
generations; making it was just as natural as going to Mass on Sunday. The back
of Tory hill was the ideal location for their activities; a forestry plantation,
remote, and with plenty of spring water gurgling its way downwards from a
spring on the top.
Many is the day I spent there, reducing the trees to manageable sizes with
the aid of a chainsaw, hauling the logs down to the roadside with the aid of a
horse. Here, they were removed to the nearby chipboard factory by more horsepower – a lorry mounted with a hydraulic grab. In time I learned how to operate
the grab – and how to make poteen.
I am not going to reveal how it is made – some rituals are sacred –
suffice to say that it involves the use of a propane burner, a worm (a copper
tube coiled in a certain way), running water, and , of course, the ingredients.
When the concoction is bubbling merrily it has to be watched and nurtured,
and regularly monitored as to the timing and the proportions of the ingredients
added. (Uncle Jack once got his calculations wrong and several bottles
concealed in the saddlebag on his bicycle exploded as he was passing the
Garda station. Luckily it was closed at the time).
However, finding spots inaccessible to the Gardai became more difficult
as time went by. There were only a finite number of places that could be
utilized, and they would eventually run out. The use of decoy stills was
successful for a while, but as well as the extra costs involved it was a timeconsuming diversion. Eventually the day arrived when the Gardai marched past
the decoys. The days of poteen-making on Tory hill were over.
Which brings me to the music. (ah, I hear you say, I wondered when he’d
18
get round to the music). Country music, rock-n-roll and poteen, a potent mix
when ‘played’ by dad and uncle Jack in their band ‘The Moonshiners’.
The band, too, was a tradition. The brainchild of my grandfather, it
originally comprised of a fiddler, an accordionist and a bodhran player, and
was guaranteed to liven up wakes, weddings and other social diversions.
It still did that, but had added a guitarist and drummer to its ranks, and
had become electric instead of acoustic. This new ensemble needed a place to
practice, and when the parish priest offered them the now-defunct Temperance
Hall they were delighted. Afterwards they discovered that it wasn’t entirely
generosity that had prompted the offer; the church was the only building in the
village with walls thick enough to keep out the sound and practice
night saw a big attendance at evening devotions. The hall was also only four
doors away from the Garda station and that, too, tended to close early on
rehearsal nights.
It was the discovery of an underground stream beneath the cellars of the
hall that gave uncle Jack the idea. Now that Tory hill was redundant a new
venue was needed for making the poteen – and where better than right under
the noses of the Gardai? They could search the countryside high and low and
they would find nothing. They did too, but for the next five years all their
efforts were in vain.
Practice nights were still rigidly adhered to, but now the music that blared
from behind the locked doors was usually pre-recorded, while my father and
uncle were busy in the cellars. Their activities would probably still be
undiscovered to this day if it wasn’t for the fire. The cause of the fire is still a
mystery; a foraging wild animal knocking over the burner perhaps? but it
gutted the hall, destroying everything inside. What hadn’t burnt melted in the
intense heat generated by the potent mixtures in the cellar. A heady alcoholic
cloud hung over the village for the best part of a day, leaving nobody in any
doubt as to what had been going on.
19
The Garda Sergeant took it in good spirit (I know, a pun) considering
everything, but there wasn’t much else he could do when all the evidence had
been destroyed. Still, nobody was surprised when he was moved to a new post
shortly afterwards.
Father and Uncle Jack decided to quit while they were ahead, and they
put what money they had saved into a fish farm. They are cleaning up these
days selling fresh mussels to the best restaurants in Dublin and Cork.
And me? These days I front the band. We are still called ‘The
Moonshiners’, though I guess our brand of heavy rock would have grandfather
rolling in his grave if he could hear us. Still, it’s a living.
And I still make the poteen. Oh, not the illegal sort, but a carefully
blended, beautifully bottled concoction that is made under license in the now
re-built Temperance Hall.
The next time you stop off at Shannon Airport pop into the duty-free and
buy a bottle.
It is called Uisce Beatha – Water Of Life.

END.

STREET CORNER – a short play

April 15, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

STREET CORNER

Tom O’Brien

Characters

Shirl….teens

Jan…..teens

Al……teens

Kev…teens

NWM ….40’s

Period 1980’s

A street somewhere in London. ( Location can be changed if desired) Empty shop with FOR SALE sign. Garage attached to end of shop with door missing. Strewn with rubbish inside. Pavement – and presumably road – runs away to right of stage.. Another road runs at right angles to left of stage. The actors are free to stand, sit, or move within the setting as the action progresses. SHIRL, JAN and AL are on stage at curtain rise.

SHIRL: You go.

AL: No, you go.

SHIRL: No-o, you go.

AL: You go.

JAN: Bleedin’ hell! I’ll go

SHIRL: Alright. Get me a coke. Diet.

AL: Yeah. The same.

JAN: (not moving) Well Then?

AL: Well what?

JAN: Money like. It costs ya know.

AL: (hands her a fiver) Get ‘em out of that.

SHIRL: ‘Ere! Where’d you get a fiver? You was skint earlier

AL: Sold a computer game, didn’t I?

SHIRL: (suspicious) ‘Oo to?

AL: Fat Annie

SHIRL: She closes early Thursdays

AL: She didn’t today. Ask Kev.

Jan has moved away at this point. Shirl shouts after her.

SHIRL: Jan! Make mine a lilt instead (To Al) Where is Kev anyway? We said six.

AL: He’ll be here.

SHIRL: Is it true he fancies Nadine?

AL: Nadine who?

SHIRL: The Nadine. The one who told you to sod off at the party.

AL: She never.

SHIRL: She wouldn’t be seen dead with him anyway. She likes a good time.

AL: What are you doing here then?

SHIRL: Who says I’m goin’ with Kev?

AL: Aren’t you?

KEV saunters up at this point.

KEV: Alright?

AL: Alright.

SHIRL: You’re late.

KEV: Me mum’s sick. I had to do the housework.

SHIRL: That’s a laugh!

KEV: Okay, I was robbing a bank.

SHIRL: They’re closed, stupid.

KEV: A launderette then. Will that do?

Jan returns with the drinks at this point.

JAN: You’re late.

KEV: She already said that.

JAN: Well, you are.

Kev watches her handing out the drinks.

KEV: Where’s mine?

JAN: You weren’t here.

KEV: I’m here now.

SHIRL: Come on, Jan, we’ll get another.

After they go, Kev gets out his cigarettes out and they light up. Al offers his coke.

AL: You get it?

KEV: Yeah. Fifteen squids. You already got a fiver, so if I give you another that makes us quits. Right? ( he hands over a fiver)

AL: (trying to work it out) Yeah, yeah. (pause) And she called you a thicko!

KEV: Who did?

AL: Her. That Nadine.

KEV: (laughs) Plankton head

AL: Plankton?

KEV: That’s what they called her at school. Plankton head. Y’know… seaweed? Her hair?

AL: (vague) Oh, right

Shirl and Jan return. Shirl hands a coke to Kev

SHIRL: Don’t say I never give you nuffing.

She shoves the change in Kev’s pocket. He takes it out and counts it.

SHIRL: It’s all there.

JAN: Guess what?

KEV: You’re pregnant.

JAN: Don’t be stupid. Someone nicked all the lead of the church hall roof last night.

SHIRL: Yeah. Old what’s-is-name, the neighbourhood watch bloke, was sayin’ in the shop…

JAN: I thought roofs was all slates?

KEV: Flashing.

JAN: You what?

KEV: The flashing. The bits that go round the edges. They’re lead.

SHIRL: Clever, ain’t ya!

JAN: What’s anyone want to nick that for?

AL: Scrap metal. There’s money in scrap metal.

SHIRL: Yeah? Anyway, he reckons they’re bound to catch whoever done it. They found a knife up there…

Al drops his coke.

AL: Shit! (he picks it up) Sod this. Who wants a beer?

JAN: I thought we was goin’ to the pictures?

KEV: Plenty of time yet. (pause) Comin’ Al?

They move away. Jan takes a mirror from her purse and studies her face.

JAN: Which on d’ya fancy then, Shirl?

SHIRL: Which one d’you fancy?

JAN: You first.

SHIRL: No, you.

JAN: Kev’s nice.

SHIRL: You fancy him?

JAN: Yeah.

SHIRL: I know. Let’s toss (searches her bag) You got ten pee?

Jan hands her ten pee.

SHIRL: Best of three, right? (she tosses)

JAN: Heads.

Jan gives a squeal of delight when she wins. She loses the next two and makes a face.

JAN: Your hair is nice. Where’d you get it done?

SHIRL: Me sister’s. I nearly died. I’m stiin’ there with all this gunk on my head and he comes in. You know, TONY, her fella? And she goes ‘you’re drunk’, and he goes’ you’re ugly but I’ll be sober later’. Then she goes, ‘you pig’., and he goes…

JAN: And was he?

SHIRL: Was he what?

JAN: Drunk.

SHIRL: I s’pose so. He kissed me when she was out of the room.

JAN: He never! You want to be careful. Married men only want one thing.

SHIRL: They ain’t married, are they. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind. He’s kinda hunky…

Shirl pauses as someone comes in their direction. It’s the Neighbourhood Watch man

SHIRL: Oh-oh. It’s old what’s-is-name

NWM: Well, if it ain’t the terrible twins. Like hanging around empty properties, do you?

JAN: That’s our business.

NWM: And mine. Got to make sure nothing goes on inside, see? No drinking or smoking. No raves.

SHIRL: Raves around this dump! You gott’a be joking!

JAN: What’cha want anyway?

NWM: I’m looking for Al Massey. You know him?

SHIRL: Yeah, we know him.

NWM: Seen him lately? (both shake their heads) If you do see him tell him I want a word. Before the cops do.

JAN: What’s ‘e done, then?

NWM: Why should he have done anything?

JAN: You said….

NWM: Never assume, young lady. Only an ass assumes. I would merely like to know why a knife with the initials AM should be laying on the roof of the church hall. Maybe he can tell me before I mention it to the law.

SHIRL: Don’t they know?

NWM: Not about the knife. Yet.

JAN: Why haven’t you told them?

NWM: His dad and me, we go back a long way. I just can’t believe…(pause) So if you see him tell him I want a word. ( he moves away)

JAN: Wot you reckon. Shirl?

SHIRL: About what?

JAN: Al, was it him on the roof?

SHIRL: Him and Kev, you mean. All for one and one for all, that’s their motto, innit?

JAN: Not with me it ain’t! I’m not sharing…

At this point Kev and Al can be seen returning

SHIRL: They’re coming back. Quick….!

The two girls move up the alley way and disappear behind the garage.

KEV: Where’ve they got to then?

AL: The bog probably. Girls are always in the bog doin’ things to themselves.

They sit beside the garage and open two cans of beer

KEV: We goin’ to the pictures or what?

AL: Or what. Yeah.

KEV: How are we, like, goin’ to pair off?

AL: I don’t know. Wot’cha think?

KEV: Jan’s okay.

AL: Yeah. I know. Let’s toss. ( he produces a coin)

KEV: Heads. (he loses) Oh well…

Al looks down the road. He sees someone in the distance.

AL: What? (listens) Yeah. We got it. Thanks. (to Kev) That was Tony

KEV: I heard. That Shirl’s sister, she gives him a hard time.

AL: Yeah.

KEV: It’s not his fault he can’t get a job.

AL: No.

KEV: Fifty sovs, that’s all he needed.

AL: Yeah. Well, he’s got it now, ain’t he.

KEV: Yeah.

AL: D’you reckon it’s true what Shirl said about the knife?

KEV: I reckon. I s’pose the old bill will be around.

AL: Yeah. What ya think they’ll do?

KEV: (shrugs) A knife is just a knife. They can’t prove anything.

AL: What about fingerprints?

Shirl and Jan have heard enough by now. They come running out.

JAN: And initials. It had your initials on it, stupid. Old what’s-is-name has been round. He said so.

KEV: (hands them beers) Have a beer. All that listening must be thirsty work.

SHIRL: We wasn’t listening.

KEV: What were you doin’ back there – sunbathing?

SHIRL: Very funny! It was only a game. We couldn’t help hearing

AL: A stupid game.

JAN: Not half as stupid as nicking that lead.

AL: We didn’t.

JAN: Pull the other one.

AL: We Didn’t!

JAN: He found your knife.

AL: Not mine.

JAN: It’s got your initials on…

AL: Not my initials. (he takes a knife from his pocket and hands it ot her) That’s my knife

SHIRL: Whose then?

KEV: Maybe it was Tony’s

SHIRL: Don’t be stupid, Kev!

JAN: Shirl. Tony?…Anthony…

SHIRL: Oh shit!

JAN: Wot’s ‘is surname.

SHIRL: I don’t know, do I? ( pause) I think it’s Moran. Stupid…stupid… You knew? (to Kev)

KEV: He told us earlier on. He hid the lead last night and got rid of most of it this morning. What bits were left he said we could have. (he holds up his beer) Cheers Tony!

They are all silent, finishing their drinks.

SHIRL: What will happen now? To Tony, I mean?

AL: He might be lucky. Then again he might not.

KEV: (to Shirl) And all because your sister wanted an expensive birthday present.

Kev finishes his beer and tosses it into the pile in the garage.

KEV: Picture time.

Kev and Al begin to move away.

AL: You comin’ or what?

Shirl and Jan look at each other for a moment, then shrug and follow.

Curtain.

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

March 4, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

Scene 7

Lionel’s grubby flat.

LIONEL:

I had become enchanted with the story Well, the film version anyway. The first song I wrote was WHERE IS LOVE. 1 was in my car, returning from somewhere, and I had to pull over and write it down while it was still fresh in my mind.

You know somethin’? I have never spent more than an hour on any tune. A song should be like a sneeze – spontaneous.

Anyway, 1fled with a mate to a little fishing village near Torremolinos in Spain and rented a little place there, with a maid, for two pounds a week and wrote OLIVER! there.

That little fishing village near Torremolinos… it was like another world. The sun, the sea, the quiet… it all came together, and the songs just poured out of me.

When I came back I hawked it around about a dozen managements and they all turned it down. They said, with it full of orphans and set in a workhouse, it sounded too depressing.

Eventually, Donald Albery, owner of four West End theatres, took a chance on it. The rest is history…

Lighting changes and we see Lionel, John, Alma, and a few musicians sing/play a medley of songs: WHERE IS LOVE…GOT TO PICK A POCKET OR TWO…REVIEWING THE SITUATION

(add a verse or two of each song)

ALMA:
(singing along)
You’ve outdone yourself this time, Lionel. This is magic.

JOHN:
(grinning)
I told you it would be a hit.

End of scene

Scene 8

Lionel sitting at a table drinking from a glass of whiskey. He looks at the almost empty whiskey bottle. John and Alma are close by.

LIONEL:

(to John) You drinkin’ all my whiskey?

JOHN:

Your whiskey! Who bought and paid for it? Come on, Lionel, you’ve had enough for now.

ALMA:

Yes Lionel. You’ve got a premiere in a few hours. You need to sober up.

LIONEL: Who’s drunk? It would take more than this gnats piss (waves his glass) to get me high (waves about) You got anything stronger? (this to John) You know…the old wacky baccky…or somethin’ stronger…

JOHN:

I don’t do any of that stuff. You know that. Why don’t you ask your other so-called mates.

ALMA:

Lionel! You’re supposed to be escorting me to the show. You need to pull yourself together.

JOHN:

Something’s bothering you. I can see it In your eyes. What is it?

LIONEL:

I’ll tell you what it is, mate. If anything goes wrong on that stage tonight I am going to walk out of the theatre and wander round Trafalgar Square until it’s all over. That’s how wound up I feel.

ALMA:

What can go wrong? That last rehearsal was flawless. Everybody said so.

LIONEL:

I’m a believer that if something can go wrong it will.

JOHN:

A pessimist!

LIONEL:

Yeah. A glass half-empty kinda’ guy…(looks at his empty glass) which reminds me…

Lights dim. Lionel on his own.

LIONEL:

Something did go wrong. (pause) I’m sitting in the stalls in my ‘escape hatch’ when it does. At the start of scene two, one of the scenery bits is supposed to move away a bit to reveal a domestic scene but it doesn’t move far enough, and in my state I saw doom and disaster. I don’t suppose anybody noticed except my self and Sean Kenny the set designer. But I panicked and took off for Trafalgar Square and walked around in a daze until I guessed the show was over. As I got back I could hear this rumbling noise and all this activity outside the theatre. My first thought was ‘my God, they think it was awful’. Then Donald Albery, the owner, spotted me, and grabbed my arm, shouting ‘you have got to go in. They are shouting for you in there. They won’t leave until you go in. There have already been something like twenty five curtain calls. We have a hit. A big hit’

And we had. The biggest hit in the history of the West End musical. It was to run for 2618 performances, more than seven years. And during that time it had also run for more than three years on Broadway….

Many people run on stage shouting ‘it’s a hit…we have a hit’ etc. Lionel is laughing and dancing with everybody. We hear a version of FOOD. GLORIOUS FOOD… ETC,

Lights dim, end of scene

END OF ACT 1

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

March 1, 2025 / gorgeousgael / 1 Comment

scene 2

A single spotlight on Lionel, now in his 50s, standing centre stage. The rest of the stage is dark, creating a sense of isolation. As Lionel speaks, faint projections or shadows of key moments from his life appear in the background (e.g., Joan Littlewood, Alma Cogan, the premiere of Oliver.

LIONEL:
(to the audience)
Twenty -five years. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? But when you look back… (pauses) It’s like staring at a different person. That young bloke, full of fire, thinking he could take on the world. And for a while, he did.

(He steps forward, the spotlight following him.)

LIONEL:
Fings Ain’t Wot They Used to Be. What a title, eh? Joan came up with that. Joan Littlewood. She always had a way with words. Me? I just wrote the tunes. But together… (smiling) We made magic. (pauses as he remembers)

Frank Norman was the geezer who wrote the story. It was his first play. A straight play; no music or nothin’; Frank sent it to Joan and she liked it, but told him it was a musical. She dragged me in to write the songs. ‘A cockney musical, Joan’, I said, ‘you’re ‘avin’ a laugh’. But she wasn’t. ‘Those days are long departed, dear, she said to me, ‘when every actress has roses round her vowels, and every actor wears a butler’s suit and speaks a mouthful of mockney. Oh no, this is the real Mccoy’.

And so Joan and her Theatre Workshop group began rehearsals at the Theatre Royal, Stratford East early in 1959. Some of those who took part are household names today; Yootha Joyce, Barbara Windsor, James Booth, George Sewell….

(He looks off into the distance, as if recalling a memory. A faint projection of Joan Littlewood appears in the background, directing a rehearsal. Then we see her for real at back of the stage ‘encouraging’ Rosey (Barbara Windsor) to sing a more upbeat rendition of WHERE DO LITTLE BIRDS GO)

JOAN:

Come on Barbara, it’s not a funeral march! Put some oomph into it

ROSEY:

Where do little birds go…in the wintertime? / There will be blizzards and snow too…in the wintertime. And the thought of it horrifies me so / where do…where do…where do little birds go?

JOAN:

No…no Barbara! Get those arms and legs moving. Imagine you are going to fly away…

LIONEL:
(calling out)
Easy, Joan. They’re doing their best.

JOAN:
(turning to him)
Their best isn’t good enough, Lionel. Not for this. You wrote something extraordinary—now let’s make it real.

LIONEL:
(smiling)
You’re a tyrant, you know that?

JOAN:
(grinning)
And you’re a genius. Now stop flattering me and get to work.

(They share a laugh, then Joan turns back to the cast, while Lionel watches with admiration.)

Scene 3

Lional’s flat, papers everywhere. drinks and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Lionel is at the piano, playing a few notes, while ALMA COGAN sits on the couch, scribbling lyrics on a notepad.

LIONEL:
(playing a melody)
What about this? (sings)

We got love, we got laughter,
We got dreams to chase.
No matter what comes after,
We’ll always have this place.

.ALMA:
(thinking)
Hmm. It’s close, (pause) It reminds me a bit of ‘Dreamboat’

LIONEL:

I didn’t write that one, did I?

ALMA:

You’ve written so many you can’t remember! But no, you didn’t. (pause) I think this one needs …more sparkle

LIONEL:
(grinning)
Sparkle? You’re the one with the laugh in your voice, love. Maybe you should sing it.

ALMA:
(playfully hitting his arm)
Cheeky. But seriously, Lionel, this could be huge. It’s got that magic—like Oliver!, but for the pop charts.

LIONEL:
(softly)
You’re my magic, Alma.

(There’s a pause. Alma looks at him, surprised by his sincerity.)

ALMA:
(smiling)
Careful, Lionel. You’ll make me blush.

LIONEL:
(laughing)
Impossible. You’re the queen of cool.

(They share a moment of quiet connection before diving back into the song.)

ALMA:
(scribbling)
What if we change this line? (sings) “We got love, we got laughter, we got nights that last forever…”

LIONEL:
(playing along)
Yes! That’s it. You’ve got it.

(They work together, refining the melody and lyrics. The tension between them is palpable, but they channel it into their creativity.)

ALMA:
(singing)
“We got love, we got laughter, we got dreams to chase. No matter what comes after, we’ll always have this place.”

LIONEL:
(softly)
That’s beautiful, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling)
It’s ours.

(They share a quiet moment, then Alma stands and takes the notepad.)

ALMA:
Let me try it from the top.

(She begins singing the full song, her voice filling the room. Lionel watches, captivated, as the lights dim slightly, focusing on Alma.)

ALMA:
(singing)

Verse 1:
We got love, we got laughter,
We got dreams to chase.
No matter what comes after,
We’ll always have this place.

Chorus:
Through the highs and the lows,
Wherever we go,
We got love, we got love.
In the stars up above,
In the songs that we sing,
We got love, we got love.

Verse 2:
We got nights that last forever,
We got mornings wrapped in gold.
Even if we’re not together,
We’ll have stories to be told.

Chorus:
Through the highs and the lows,
Wherever we go,
We got love, we got love.
In the stars up above,
In the songs that we sing,
We got love, we got love.

(As she finishes, the room falls silent. Lionel looks at her, a mix of admiration and longing in his eyes.)

LIONEL:
(softly)
You’re incredible, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling)
We’re incredible, Lionel.

(They share a smile, but there’s a hint of sadness, as if they both know their time together is fleeting. The lights fade.)

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE

February 28, 2025 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

opening scene of my new play

LIFE AINT WOT ITUSED TO BE

Tom O’Brien

Scene1

Lionel Bart’s flat, late at night. He’s sitting at a piano, scribbling notes. A friend, JOHN GORMAN enters. The flat is cluttered with sheet music and memorabilia, There here is a photo of Lional and John in National Service uniforms on the wall.

JOHN looks at the photo then sings

JOHN:

Stand by your beds, here comes the Vice Marshall,

He’s got lots of rings, but he’s only got one arsehole

Do you remember that?

LIONEL:

How could I forget? (pauses) If we hadn’t been in that same carriage on that train to Padgate to do our National Service, we’d probably never have become friends

JOHN:

Some co-incidence eh!

LIONEL:

Co-incidence my arse! It was fate

JOHN:

(laughing) Remember that bloody Corporal on our first parade? Irish he was, by the name of Buckley. He stood in front of you, eyes burning, the peak of his cap almost touching your face. (dons an army cap and becomes the Corporal)

Where do you come from? (shouting)

LIONEL:

London, Corporal (he stands to attention)

JOHN:

I thought so. You’re a fucking spiv. I can tell by your tie. (He grabs Lionel by his tie and almost chokes him) You’re a fucking spiv. What are you?

LIONAL:

Leave it out, John. Jesus! (he frees himself) I had twelve weeks of that Irish bastard. That was enough. Still, one good thing came out of it; I met you – and we’re still friends after all this time.

They drink some beer and mess around, singing ‘stand by your beds’ again

Lional plays a few notes on the piano.

JOHN:
Jesus , Lionel, it’s almost two in the morning. You must’a been at this for hours.

LIONEL:
(without looking up)
It’s almost there, John. I can feel it. The melody, the words—it’s like they’re just out of reach.

JOHN:
(sitting down)
You’ve been saying that for weeks. What’s so special about this one?

LIONEL:
(smiling faintly)
This one’s different. It’s not just a song. It’s… a story. A boy, alone in the world, searching for something. For family. For home.

JOHN:
(raising an eyebrow)
Sounds heavy.

LIONEL:
(grinning)
Wait till you hear this one…

Lionel claps his hand in a rhythmic beat. He sings a couple of lines:

They changed our local Palais into a bowling alley and

Fings ain’t wot they used to be

The stage lights up. Singers & Dancers appear. Lionel plays the piano

All sing FINGS AINT WOT THEY USED TO BE.

They’ve changed our local palais into a bowling alley and
Fings ain’t wot they used to be
There’s teds wiv drainpipe trousers and debs in coffee houses
And fings ain’t wot they used to be
There used to be trams
Not very quick got you from place to place
But now there’s just jams, half a mile thick
Stay in the human race, I’m walking
They’ve stuck parking meters outside our door to greet us

No, fings ain’t wot they used to be
Monkeys flying around the moon
We’ll be up there wiv ’em soon
Fings ain’t wot they used to be
Once our beer was froffy, but now its froffy coffee
No fings ain’t wot they used to be
It used to be fun

Dad and old Mum paddling down Southend
But now it ain’t done
Never mind chum
Paris is where we spend our outings
Grandma tries to shock us all
Doing knees-up rock ‘n’ roll
Fings ain’t wot they used to be

We used to have stars
Singers who sung A Dixie Melody
They’re buying guitars
Plinkety plunk, backing themselves with three chords only
Once we danced from 12 to three
I’ve got news for Elvis P

Fings ain’t wot they used to be
Did the lot we us to
Fings ain’t wot they used to be

Spotlight back on Lionel and John

LIONEL:

That’s the start of it, John. My meteoric rise, they’re callin’ it. (laughs) They’re ‘avin’ a laff. I’ve been writin’ for fifteen years. Tunes and other stuff. Lots of hits too. What about Tommy Steele…how many have I written for him?…

They both sing a verse of ROCK WITH THE CAVE MEN

Or Cliff Richard….

Both sing a verse of LIVIN’ DOLL

Or Shirley Bassey…

Both sing a verse of AS LONG AS HE NEEDS ME

LIONEL:

Hey! I didn’t know you could sing!

JOHN:

Oh, I can warble a bit. You’re not the only one who can do that.

Lights fade

Scene 2

MIRIAM – by Truman Capote

July 5, 2015 / gorgeousgael / Leave a comment

Miriam ~ A Classic American Short Story by Truman Capote

For several years, Mrs. H. T. Miller lived alone in a pleasant apartment (two rooms with kitchenette) in a remodeled brownstone near the East River. She was a widow: Mr. H. T. Miller had left a reasonable amount of insurance. Her interests were narrow, she had no friends to speak of, and she rarely journeyed farther than the corner grocery. The other people in the house never seemed to notice her: her clothes were matter-of-fact, her hair iron-gray, clipped and casually waved; she did not use cosmetics, her features were plain and inconspicuous, and on her last birthday she was sixty-one. Her activities were seldom spontaneous: she kept the two rooms immaculate, smoked an occasional cigarette, prepared her own meals and tended a canary.

Then she met Miriam. It was snowing that night. Mrs. Miller had finished drying the supper dishes and was thumbing through an afternoon paper when she saw an advertisement of a picture playing at a neighborhood theatre. The title sounded good, so she struggled into her beaver coat, laced her galoshes and left the apartment, leaving one light burning in the foyer: she found nothing more disturbing than a sensation of darkness.

The snow was fine, falling gently, not yet making an impression on the pavement. The wind from the river cut only at street crossings. Mrs. Miller hurried, her head bowed, oblivious as a mole burrowing a blind path. She stopped at a drugstore and bought a package of peppermints.

A long line stretched in front of the box office; she took her place at the end. There would be (a tired voice groaned) a short wait for all seats. Mrs. Miller rummaged in her leather handbag till she collected exactly the correct change for admission. The line seemed to be taking its own time and, looking around for some distractions, she suddenly became conscious of a little girl standing under the edge of the marquee.

Her hair was the longest and strangest Mrs. Miller had ever seen: absolutely silver-white, like an albino’s. It flowed waist-length in smooth, loose lines. She was thin and fragilely constructed. There was a simple, special elegance in the way she stood with her thumbs in the pockets of a tailored plum-velvet coat.

Mrs. Miller felt oddly excited, and when the little girl glanced toward her, she smiled warmly. The little girl walked over and said, “Would you care to do me a favor?”

“I’d be glad to if I can,” said Mrs. Miller.

“Oh, it’s quite easy. I merely want you to buy a ticket for me; they won’t let me in otherwise. Here, I have the money.” And gracefully she handed Mrs. Miller two dimes and a nickel.

They went over to the theatre together. An usherette directed them to a lounge; in twenty minutes the picture would be over.

“I feel just like a genuine criminal,” said Mrs. Miller gaily, as she sat down. “I mean that sort of thing’s against the law, isn’t it? I do hope I haven’t done the wrong thing. You mother knows where you are, dear? I mean she does, doesn’t she?

The little girl said nothing. She unbuttoned her coat and folded it across her lap. Her dress underneath was prim and dark blue. A gold chain dangled about her neck, and her fingers, sensitive and musical looking, toyed with it. Examining her more attentively, Mrs. Miller decided the truly distinctive feature was not her hair, but her eyes; they were hazel, steady, lacking any childlike quality whatsoever and, because of their size, seemed to consume her small face.

Mrs. Miller offered a peppermint. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Miriam,” she said, as though, in some curious way, it were information already familiar.

“Why, isn’t that funny—my name’s Miriam, too. And it’s not a terribly common name either. Now, don’t tell me your last name’s Miller!”

“Just Miriam.”

“But isn’t that funny?”

“Moderately,” said Miriam, and rolled a peppermint on her tongue.

Mrs. Miller flushed and shifted uncomfortably. “You have such a large vocabulary for such a young girl?”

“Do I?”

“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Miller, hastily changing the topic to: “Do you like the movies?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” said Miriam. “I’ve never been before.”

Continue reading →

My Writing Life

Tom O' Brien, author and playwright

SHORT STORY

BITS&PIECES extract

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers…contd.

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers contd…

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers

POTEEN – a short story

STREET CORNER – a short play

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE

MIRIAM – by Truman Capote

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