An Irishman abroad

The Ballincollig Mangler

The Ballincollig Mangler - Friday 1st to Sunday 3rd October

(“Christy Moore Live in concert – A dream at long last realised”)

Thursday 30th September – 23:30.
“Why don’t you take the train to the airport in the morning? We can give you a lift back from Charleroi airport on the Sunday. We’re leaving on Saturday but we’ll be coming back on the same flight as you guys.”

It hadn’t even occurred to me that what Janet suggested was an option. This made life much simpler. Apart from avoiding the morning hell of rush hour traffic on the ring of Brussels, this meant that I was therefore absolved of all responsible driving duties for the weekend.
This was good for two reasons:
1 – I had injured my foot playing football a few days previous and changing gears was proving to be a bit difficult for me and
2 – It meant that I could enter into the swing of things by having a few extra beers on the Thursday evening, in spite of the early start (the train departed at 06:42) safe in the knowledge that I could sleep on the 2 hour train journey from Antwerp to the airport over the limit or not.

Charleroi airport - or “Brussels South” as those comedians at Ryanair like to call it, lies about 50km south of Brussels. Yes, Frank Ryan – Charleroi is most definitely south of Brussels, but where do you start to draw the line? Surely 50 km is taking the piss a bit. It wouldn’t surprise me if Ryanair are in talks With the Wallonian government - “Relocate the city of Brussels or…. Foxtrot Oscar!!”

So that was it decided then. Knowing that I wouldn’t have to drive the next morning, I celebrated Glasgow Rangers success at qualifying for the UEFA cup group stage by penalty shoot-out. Not that I celebrated by partaking in a penalty shoot out you understand. Rangers WON by penalty shoot-out. I on the other hand celebrated in the time-honoured tradition of enjoying a few beers.

As I sipped on the celebratory drinks, my mind kept coming back to what lay ahead, for this weekend was to be something just a wee bit special - this weekend I was heading with my flat mate - not that he’s flat in shape – I just mean that we share a flat/apartment - Colin aka PopTart; to the south west of Ireland in rebel county itself, Cork. Chris and Janet were to be joining us on the Saturday as well.

Not only was it to be Colin’s first trip home in a year and a half, we were also going to watch the Great Man himself perform live on stage. Yep – after listening to his music for over 15 years and wanting to see him perform live for just as long, I was at long last going to see Christy Moore perform live in the flesh.
As if that wasn’t enough, the special guest for the evening was to be Christy Moore’s younger brother and fantastic performer in his own right, Luka Bloom. The two of them on stage at the same time. This is something that happens only very rarely.

On top of this, Christy was going to be joined by Declan Sinnot, a great guitarist renowned for his work as producer and arranger with Sinead Lohan, Frances Black and Mary Black, and as lead guitarist with Horslips and Moving Hearts a band that included such Irish musical heavyweights as Christy himself, Donal Lunny and Davey Spillane.

This was going to be something else.

So as we sat there in The Dubliner pub in Antwerp on the Thursday evening, listening to Christy, skulling Coronas, we talked excitedly getting into the mood for the next 72 hours and whatever they would throw at us. We closed the pub around 04:00, went home and packed, before catching a quick one hour “power nap” to prepare us for the trip that lay in store.

“Set your alarm for a quarter to six” said Colin as he went to bed.
“Make sure you set yours as well! Don’t just be relying on me!”
“Aye – no problem”

Getting into bed, I looked at the time on my phone.
04:41 read the display.
I set my alarm for 05:45, switched the light off and went out like a light myself as I went to sleep almost immediately, not caring at all that I was looking at getting myself through the following day on about an hour’s sleep – after all there was always the train and plane to sleep on.

****
Friday 1st October – stupid o’clock in the morning
“Jonny get up – its half past six!!”
“OK – let the weekend commence!” I said as I leapt out of bed far faster than I would have on any other Friday morning, had I been going to work.
“But we’re late!!”
Shit! It hadn’t dawned on me that we had actually slept in. My alarm had been ringing for 45 minutes and I hadn’t even so much as budged an inch from my slumber.
“Fuck it – I’ll have to drive us there” I said, realising that this was not how things were supposed to happen.

Two quick showers later (one each, separately, I feel the need to stress) we headed out into the still-dark morning to the car. As we were getting into the car, Colin exclaimed “Shit! I’ve left me wallet and passport upstairs!”

I thanked our lucky stars that he had managed to remember then and not sometime much later. As I checked my pockets for my own wallet and passport, I also wondered with some trepidation if there was anything else that we might have left behind.

As we started off on our journey, I looked at the clock in the car. “07:02” read the display. I put on the stereo as I drove off, cursing that I had forgotten to bring any Christy Moore CDs. I hoped that that was the only thing I would end up cursing over the course of the weekend. So we settled for “The Streets – Original Pirate Material” and headed for “Brussels South”.

The journey to the airport proved to be totally uneventful, with us encountering no traffic problems along the way. Surely this wasn’t supposed to happen? We ended up arriving into the airport and checked in for the flight almost two hours before the flight was due to depart at 10:20.

Suitably relaxed, we rewarded ourselves with some breakfast in the new Brasserie that had been thrown together like an afterthought to the bus shelter of a terminal building that is Charleroi airport. Appetites satiated we headed off to the gate to await our flight’s departure.
Let’s face it – there’s not a lot else to do to pass the time in that shitehole of a place.

On time - in fact ahead of schedule in true Ryanair “let’s-get-the-feckers-off-and-load-the-next-ones-on-as-quickly-as-possible” style - the flight departed Brussels South headed for Shannon airport, in the south west of Ireland where we were to be met by Colin’s father and personal chauffeur for the weekend, Jim.

Colin, in his wisdom, had decided to pack a bag that was big enough to hold the fatted calf that was no doubt required for his prodigal return. Noble indeed – but it did mean that he had had to check in his bag in Charleroi. I decided if he was going to swan around the airport with his arms swinging then so would I, and had promptly checked in my comparatively minute bag as well.
After what seemed like an eternity, the luggage started to come out onto the carousel and as these things tend to work out – Colin’s beast of burden reared its ugly head first whilst we ended up waiting on my hold-all, just long enough to make me think that my hold-all hadn’t made the trip. (I’m sure the bastards do that on purpose!)

After going through customs we were greeted by Colin’s Dad, who had made the 90 mile drive up from Colin’s home town of Ballincolligg, situated a few short kilometres from the centre of Cork. First things first, we stopped of for lunch at Bunratty Castle, nearby Shannon airport.

This doesn’t mean that Jim had some medieval banquet prepared for us in the grand hall of the castle, complete with jesters and buxom serving wenches, but rather a pub called “Durty Nelly’s”, which was so close to the castle itself, it looked like some extension that had been added on by medieval cowboy builders.

With a Folk Park and several craft shops thrown in for good measure, the area resembles something like a medieval theme park. Durty Nelly's pub, whilst ruining any good photograph of the castle, came complete with sawdust-covered floor, way too much American police force memorabilia and all the obligatory junk and tack that you would expect from a Plastic Paddy pub in outer Mongolia, trying to create the “Irish drinking experience.” Not something you’d expect to see in Ireland itself.

Like we Irish all get drunk in a rubbish dump.

But give credit where it’s due, the pub provided us with some excellent food and an even more excellent pint of Carlsberg, as well as a chance to marvel at the Vikings, followed by the Normans at their ability to pick such a location, to build a castle, ensuring that the tourists that land in and leave from Shannon airport can get rid of a few Euros before continuing on their journeys.

Castles in Ireland are a dime a dozen and I’m not being facetious when I say that. They are everywhere and as a native, it is easy to become quite blasé about them and their proliferation throughout the emerald isle. This should not be the case. We only have to look at the small child-like wonder our North American cousins have for them and their history. Not to mention that they come complete with craft shops selling Irish wool sweaters with 25 percent off the recommended retail price as one particularly chirpy lady (aren’t they always?) announced to her group as she came walking into the bar to join her friends.

Refreshed and ready for action we left the pub surrounded by chattering North Americans; specifically of the Canadian variety; as they discussed amongst themselves their purchases of genuine Irish wool sweaters, Guinness items and postcards, whilst they munched on some chowder.

You gotta love them. But you gotta love their money a lot more.

Back on the road again, we started the trek to Ballincollig, our base for the weekend.

Now to most of the people that will read this (and haven’t switched off already), a distance of 90 miles may not seem like a particularly huge distance to travel, what with today’s modern transport and road systems. But Ireland doesn’t operate like that.

The roads wind through the country side, and save for some stretches of dual carriageway, it can be quite difficult to get past slow moving traffic. Something Ireland has a large proliferation of; what with overloaded lorries, ancient tractors, knackered Hi-ace vans, tourists, lost sheep, hitchhikers, cyclists, young girls power walking, perilous bends and roads so narrow you’d wonder how two cars can pass by each other when they meet.

“Another coat of paint and that would have been a head on collision” was an expression that my father was often heard to use through gritted teeth as we travelled recklessly from A to B in his car. “For the love of God Harry, SLOW DOWN!” was more apt to come out of my mother’s mouth, whilst recently consumed meals would come out of my brothers’ with alarming synchronicity; whilst I stood up on the back seat pointing at cars exclaiming “Look Daddy – there’s another Mini!!” would further add to the road trip concerto so often played out in our family’s car.

Jim was obviously a man who didn’t allow these sort of things to distract him, as he tore through the beautiful countryside at breakneck speeds. Another problem with road travel in Ireland is that any journey from A to B, involves going through every single town and village on the way.
Indeed the by-pass is quite a recent phenomenon, but thanks to the generosity of the EU, and a strong economy, we are starting to see more and more of these wondrous constructions in Ireland but it’s going to be some time before we reach a stage where wonderfully named towns like “Croom”, “Rath” and the exotically named “Buttevant” no longer take their place in an itinerary, and I for one, think that that’s no bad thing (except of course when I want to be somewhere fast).

As we made our way along the N20 at a fairly fast rate, we were overtaken by another car, who then proceeded to overtake a couple of other vehicles with blatant disregard for oncoming traffic.

Jim went in hot pursuit.

At this stage I should explain that Colin’s Father is a police man. So – with distinct lack of sirens, flashing lights or anything remotely resembling Starsky and Hutch’s Gran Torino – we made our pursuit in Jim’s Audi. Not that I thought that this would be a problem, giving what I’d already witnessed of Jim’s driving. After a few kilometres (yes – the metric system is in full flow in the Republic of Ireland), we came up to some extensive road works with a traffic flow in operation – i.e. – some bored looking guy with a sign that read “STOP” on one side and “GO” on the other.

With both our cars having to stop, Jim used the opportunity to “have a word” with the driver of the other car. After showing his ID card, the driver wound down the window and received a gentle bollocking from the undercover cop. Despite our offers to help, there was no need for a “shakedown” and the perp was allowed to continue on his journey – all be it at a much more relaxed pace. Which of course was a bit of a problem for us, as this meant we were not able to overtake him and continue on our speedy way, resigned to following him at a legal pace ourselves, practically all the way to our destination.

Upon nearing Ballincolligg, I was given the scenic tour taking in the village of Blarney, famous for Castle Blarney. Yes another bloody castle – although this one has a unique tale associated with it - one surrounding the kissing of the “Blarney Stone”.

Once you get to the top level, the scenery is awesome. The castle overlooks beautiful landscaping, flowers, and an array of trees. You can see the Blarney house and gardens from there. The top level is where you can kiss the ‘Blarney Stone’.

The stone is believed to be half of the “Stone of Scone” which originally belonged to Scotland. Scottish Kings were crowned over the stone, because it was believed to have special powers. One of the stories says that an old woman cast a spell on the stone to reward a king who had saved her from drowning. Kissing the stone while under the spell gave the king the ability to talk sweetly. He was able to talk anyone into doing things.
The stone was given to Cormac McCarthy by Robert the Bruce in 1314 in return for his support in a battle.
Queen Elizabeth I wanted the Irish chiefs to agree to hold their own lands under title from her. Cormac Teige McCarthy, the Lord of Blarney, handled her every Royal wish with clever promises keeping loyalty to the Queen without "giving in".
Elizabeth proclaimed that McCarthy was giving her "a lot of Blarney." This is how the story began that if you kiss the blarney stone you will become a good talker.

I had read about it as a child, enchanted by the thought of kissing a stone with magical powers and intrigued at the strange position you had to get yourself into to kiss the thing.

To kiss the stone you have to lean back into the parapet hole head first. There are bars for you to hang on to. When you kiss the stone, there is someone to hang on to for extra support. When your head is in the parapet hole all you can see is the rock face which you are about to kiss. Considering you’re doing all this six stories up sounded like something that appealed to me.

I had no idea that it was so close to where we would be based for the weekend and immediately hoped that we would get a chance to have a go at it. We decided that we would come back the following afternoon, once the Canadian contingent came over – who for the third time in a year would came over from Belgium to spend a few days in Ireland.

That decided, we continued our tour. Jim pointing out to me an old overgrown graveyard that boasted the shortest and the longest funerals in the world. It sounds like a bit of Irish Blarney if you ask me but apparently this is how this innocuous looking graveyard could lay claim to such a boast:

The shortest funeral occurred when a lady who lived in a small one floored cottage within the graveyard died. (The remains of the house are still there to be seen today). Apparently when she died, her coffin was pushed out of the window and she was buried where it fell.

The longest funeral was for a man who apparently died whilst on an expedition to the Antarctic. His body then made an arduous trip from there to Cork via America, making it the longest funeral the world has ever seen.

I’ll let you make up your own minds on this – Fact or Blarney?

After that we drove into the town of Ballincollig itself where I was surprised to see just how big a place it was. “It’s got a population of 25,000 and it is the second largest satellite town in Ireland” Colin proudly informed me. This made it about four times the size of my home town, Ballyclare. I’m not sure why this thought came into my head or even why it mattered, but it did. Are we really that competitive?

Arriving at his family’s house, we were greeted by Colin’s mum who did the greatest thing a mum can do for a son who has been away for a while – put on a pot of tea. A couple of cups washed down with an update on what had been happening in the family and the neighbourhood and we were new men.

Armed with a couple of strong cups of tea inside us, we were ready to tackle the weekend. Starting off with a shower, shave and a few pints in one of Colin’s locals with Colin and his Dad.

A great story teller, Jim kept the conversation flowing with interesting stories from his work and I found out that the man is actually something I would love to be – a published author, having 4 books credited to him and another one on the way (indeed the finished manuscript was in a manila envelope rattling about the back seat of the car along with me). An expert in geneology and a police historian – Jim has written extensive works on a combination of the two.

Perhaps not everyone’s cup of tea, but his research has proved invaluable in court cases and movie productions alike and has certainly provided him with a story or two. After spending a pleasant couple of early evening hours, we then headed on into town for a bite to eat, to a restaurant called Scoozi’s, a popular inexpensive restaurant (see http:// www.scoozis.com).

Colin’s sister Rachel had worked there as a waitress, but she had just left the day before to go study in Germany. As a result Jim was greeted by the manager and we were quickly led to a table where we enjoyed a fine meal washed down with finer wine, the conversation dominated by our mutual love of swing music. After dinner, as we discussed the finer points of the talents of Martin, Davis Jr. and Sinatra, our waitress arrived with the bill – even though we had not asked for it. I thought this a bit off, but it was when we went to pay for the meal at the cash register that I saw the reason for her haste. As we turned the corner in the restaurant, we were faced with a queue of about forty people waiting to be served.

I looked at my watch. It was almost ten pm and here were people waiting to be seated at a table to eat. I could scarcely believe my eyes. This wasn’t the Ireland that I knew. It seems that we would have had to wait as well (I just hadn’t noticed the queue when I walked in) other than the fact that Rachel had worked there. It’s good to have friends in high places!

Jim gave us a lift to our destination for the final stretch of the evening – Washington Street, Cork. Here we said our goodbyes and went on to continue our night with a few mates of Colin’s. It looked a busy enough place with lots of people stood queuing outside to get in the several bars that lined the street. Until I realised that the people outside were not queuing – they were outside smoking.
I hadn’t noticed this before and to be honest I’m amazed at how obedient everyone is where the no-smoking in bars and restaurants law is concerned. As far as I saw, the change to a non-smoking environment has been made with the minimum of fuss. I didn’t see anyone try to light up one single cigarette inside a pub the whole time I was there.
As a non-smoker, the fact that there was smoke in a bar never bothered me before - unless it was perhaps blown directly in my face, but obviously I can’t say that I’m going to miss the clouds of smoke poisoning my lungs and making my hair and clothes smell terrible.

But whilst it provides a nice smoke-free area for people to drink in, it has had a knock on affect, with the bar trade in the Republic of Ireland reduced by 15 percent ironically putting the jobs at risk of those people the ban was trying to help – the hospitality staff. Coupled with the loss in revenue for the tax (estimated to be 81 million euro in Ireland for this year alone), I wondered who will end up footing the cost?

As we stood waiting for Colin’s mates to appear, we had a few beers and surveyed the scene. The bar that we were in was playing my kind of music – plenty of guitars and drums, with Oasis, Red Hot Chilli Peppers and Franz Ferdinand all to be heard. The problem was that there weren’t many females in the place. It wasn’t a gay bar as such, it was just a bar that women didn’t want to go to. We had to get out of the place quick.

So as we watched and waited the only eventful thing to happen was to receive a call from a girl to say that we were finished as a couple, even though I was under the distinct impression that things were already finished. Strange species the female and something I don’t think I’m ever going to get a grasp of - but there was no way it was going to have any affect on my weekend. I was invincible.

Colin’s mates arrived as I was on the phone, so after hanging up, I was introduced to them. Brendan – a tall thin fella that I had briefly met when he came over to Belgium and Aidan – a shorter, stockier guy who had brought his English girlfriend along for the evening (whose name escapes me – sorry!).

After a drink we headed across to a big bar across the street which was full of young good looking people and presented Colin with a good hunting ground to try his luck with the ladies. Lady Luck was certainly not shining on him that night as he got blown out more times than a candle at a catholic mass. It would seem that the Irish ladies are a tougher nut to crack compared to what he’s used to. Still, it provided good entertainment for the rest of us although not as much as when I told his friends his nick name in Belgium was PopTart. Oh how we laughed. (Well “we” excluding Colin himself that is).

A bit later we headed on to a nightclub that was absolutely rammed with people. We walked in during what was obviously the rock section with ACDC – “Thunderstruck”, Nirvana – “Smells like Teen Spirit” and Guns and Roses “Sweet Child of Mine” all getting airplay. It was obvious that we weren’t going to be too far away from the “erection section” – the slow set of songs that represents the last chance saloon for those people still not paired up. So with the onset of blind panic, I started to chat to a woman stood to my left leaning against a pillar. She - like me, was watching the writhing sweaty mass of people on the dance floor. She - unlike me was very sober.

Not to be dissuaded, I continued to “talk” to her, but to talk there generally has to be a series of sentences spoken by each party involved. Thanks to a combination of loud music, lots of people talking over the music, very different accents and too much alcohol consumed (on my part at least), talking was not an easy thing to accomplish.

What I did manage to find out from her was that she lived in a town about an hour away from Cork and had headed down to the city on her own because she liked to meet people, but being a guy from Co. Antrim who lived in Belgium and who was in Cork for the weekend, apparently was not enough to keep her attention (or perhaps she realised that there was no point – we could “never be”, what with the distance between us and all that). The conversation dried up almost as quickly as my bottle of beer.

I returned to Colin and just as we were chatting about leaving for food, I noticed Aidan involved in a bit of a discussion with some guy. There was something about the way that they were talking that got me a bit worried, so I mentioned it to PopTart. Just as I did, from out of nowhere, several bouncers arrived and escorted him and a few others out of the club. We followed them out the emergency exit in a sea of bodies, where we were greeted by a police wagon.
“Oh no” – I thought “I’m gonna end up in jail now and not see Christy Moore” but rather strangely, once everyone was out on the street, the bouncers were very polite, as were the police. To this day, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about. Perhaps with Aidan being such a tall fella, he was taken out to ensure he didn’t cause trouble. Which if you knew the guy, is ridiculous – he’s as likely to start a fight in a bar as I am.

Having been “escorted” from the pub we decided to make our way for food and a taxi before the crowds appeared and after stopping off for the rather healthier option of a Subway sandwich, we hailed a taxi in record time.

“Heff yeez hadda lef’ ut tyen meer minoots, yud be fucked byes” the taxi driver said. Which loosely translated means: “If you’d have left it 10 minutes later to hail a taxi, you might have found yourselves in a spot of bother chaps!” The Cork accent is thick and certainly posed me a few problems deciphering it during my stay.

Dropped off at the house, Colin spied a football in his next door neighbour’s garden. Borrowing it for a few minutes we set up a goal in the grassy green across the road and proceeded to have a penalty shoot-out: Republic of Ireland versus Northern Ireland, which I’m sorry to say was won by the Republic, although to be fair – I was carrying my football injury still.

After that it was off to bed to prepare for the next day with a few hours decent sleep. Because after all – tomorrow was CHRISTY MOORE DAY!


Saturday 2nd September –“Christy Moore Day” - 11:30am
Colin had warned me that his mum would have us up early in the morning whether we wanted to or not, but I needn’t have worried – as I got a much needed decent night’s sleep, not surfacing until after eleven.

Showered, dressed and with a bit of Irish breakfast washed down with some more of that strong tea, I was ready to take on the world again. The Ryders had touched down in Shannon and were winging there way to Blarney in their rental car.

Colin had a spot of family duty to attend to, in that his cousin had just given birth to a baby girl, so off he went with his mum to visit the new addition to the clan. Having spent time with the Pop Tart and his dad, I could only fear the worse for the kid but I suppose surely the whole family can’t be like that?

Whilst they took care to that, Colin’s father put on a bit of Tommy Cooper and the two of us watched that, giggling at the antics of the man. It reminded me of watching him as a kid at my grandparents’ house. My Papa found him hilarious whilst my Nana would just roll her eyes and tut, proclaiming “Auch, would you look at that state of that man. Such an old fool!” Like him or love him – he was certainly ahead of his time.

After that we watched the Rat Pack of Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. and Frank Sinatra performing at a benefit gig in Chicago.
Thanks to Robbie Williams covering a lot of the swing classics, this type of music has been undergoing a bit of a revival of late and although I knew some of the songs, I couldn’t profess to being a big fan until Robbie’s CD came out. Now Colin and I can’t stop ourselves and have been known to murder some of their songs at karaoke from time to time.

Watching the DVD of them performing I can quite safely say – those guys were off their trolleys. The booze and cigarettes were certainly flowing that night and some of the jokes that they crack were a bit close to the knuckle – usually at Sammy Davis Jr’s expense. They certainly got away with a lot in those days and it’s hard to see even some of the baddest boys in rock today getting away with what these tuxedo-sporting crooners were able to all those decades ago. It was certainly entertaining to watch and passed the time until Colin and his mum returned.

Shortly after they did, we received confirmation that The Ryders were almost in Blarney, so the time had come to kiss The Blarney Stone. Off we set and met them at the village green located in Blarney centre. The sun was shining and I have to say, with the castle overlooking proceedings, it really was a beautiful little spot. We caught up with The Ryders as they relaxed in the afternoon sun on one of the park benches.

Walking through the picturesque gardens of Blarney Castle we reached the foot of the castle. Just as we did – the heavens opened and it started to rain – for all of two minutes. Welcome to Ireland.

I mentioned earlier that its easy to take the many castles that we have in Ireland for granted, but once you’re inside one, walking up the narrow spiral staircase and looking through the remains of rooms such as the family room, the kitchen, the main hall and the intriguingly named “young ladies room” (which incidentally was directly below the priest’s room), you can’t help but get caught up in the mystique and atmosphere that these places generate.

Reaching the top of the castle we approached the Blarney Stone with some trepidation – the stone floors proving to be quite treacherous underfoot after the recent downpour but in the end Chris, Janet and myself all had a snog of the Blarney Stone, with Colin and Jim opting out (I guess because they didn’t need to reload).

After that we had a couple of pints in Colin’s local pubs back in Ballincollig before setting off through the Cork and Kerry mountains to Killarney for the main event – the Christy Moore concert.

First of all - I have never seen a town like Killarney in my life. We all know the importance of tourism to Ireland’s economy, but from what I could see; the whole town was based entirely upon the tourist industry. It seemed that every building we passed was either a hotel or a bed and breakfast.

Once the Ryder’s had checked in to their lovely bed and breakfast, we headed for the venue – the mightily impressive Gleneagle Hotel INEC - a huge sprawling complex which resembled a small village under one roof rather than a hotel.

With just time for the one pre-show pint and sandwich we made our way to our seats.

Having been the first person to get through on the ticket line when buying tickets, I managed to get seats A1, A2 and A3, which the girl on the phone reliably informed me was front row centre aisle (Chris and Janet had ordered their tickets a couple of days later and where a few rows behind us).

As we walked along the front row we came to three seats empty dead centre, front row but once we reached them, we were disappointed to see that the seats were not ours and indeed that our seats were off to one side of the stage, at an angle. The view wasn’t great and I was a little disappointed. Then for some reason, we were moved by an usher to the three seats next to us – even though we were sitting on the correct seats. The view was certainly an improvement so we weren’t complaining. Chris and Janet were about 12 rows back from the front but were more central, so they were happy with their seats as well.

After a few minutes, Luka Bloom, Christy’s wee brother came on and sang perhaps half a dozen new songs that we recognised from the show we had seen him perform a couple of months previously in Antwerp.

Once he had finished, there was a short pause of a couple of minutes and then the two of them came on. Just like that. No pomp and circumstance for these boys. Just on stage, a wave to the audience and they took their seats. And that was it. There was the Great Man himself sitting less than 10 metres from me. I was actually at a Christy Moore concert!

Christy had a spell of ill health which caused him to announce that he was no longer touring. Thankfully with a return to health came a return of his appetite for the live gig – although granted, he doesn’t do it to the same frequency any more.

Seeing him in the flesh as he took his guitar and got into his position, I was amazed by how big the guy is – and not height wise either. His neck and forearms are massive and it’s fair to say that he’s got more than a bit of a belly - but the man is in his 60’s these days – so fair play to him for having the energy to continue touring at all.

The two of them opened up with a few songs, and it was evident very quickly that Declan Sinnott was not there to make up the numbers. Anyone that reads this and that knows his music will probably scoff at this remark – but the truth is I had not travelled there to see him. I knew who he was and what he had achieved, but I was there to see the two Moore brothers perform. Declan is a very accomplished guitarist and watching him follow Christy’s lead and go with the music was a joy to behold.

And Christy’s voice? Well Christy’s voice was something else. Deep and rich and thick with accent, it carried itself in the acoustics of the hall with an undeniable authority. His notes hung in the air, like they were something solid that you could just reach out and touch.

One of the great things about watching somebody perform live, compared with listening to them on CD, is that the performance you witness is a unique experience, never to be repeated. A performance that you as a member of the audience play a part of. It’s the nuances and the little turn of phrases that don’t appear in the recorded version that make it so special. The comments from the audience and the interaction with them. Every concert is a different story with its own unique characters and Christy realises this more than most as his performances take on a life of themselves.

After playing 4 or 5 numbers to get loosened up, the banter with the crowd started. People would shout out the songs that they wanted to hear and Christy would consult the rest of the audience as to whether he should play it or not. He’s a funny guy as well, cracking jokes and responding to some of the things that get shouted up at him.

And that was how the show went. He played lots of songs that I was really surprised to hear. He has a very good way of taking a concert down the fine line between sad, serious songs and light-hearted funny songs.

Like I’ve said before – Luka is the more talented musician – Christy is the more accomplished performer.

Songs range in topic from “The Contender” – a song detailing the confessions of an alcoholic, to “Delerium Tremens” (DTs) a funny song about a guy waking up with the hangover of all hangovers. Beautiful love songs like “Ride On”, “The Voyage” and “Black is the Colour” are mixed with piss-take songs like the “Casey” song detailing the drunk driving offences of Bishop Casey and “When Joxer went to Stuttgart” detailing a trip to Stuttgart to see The Republic of Ireland team beating England in the European football championships.

A Christy Moore concert is an emotional roller coaster ride that always leaves you feeling better about yourself and life in general, despite the content. His songs, whether written by him or not make you think. He dares you to think about single mothers giving birth to bastard children under the despising eyes of nuns at one of their “retreats”. He laments about the troubles that face gypsies (or travelling people as he calls them), even though they don’t receive much sympathy from the greater mass of the populace.

And then of course there’s the politics.

Lord knows there are loads of songs out there dedicated to the politics of Ireland and I don’t really want to dwell on the subject for too long (I know - it’s not like me!). One of the songs is “North and South of the River” a beautiful song detailing the plight of Ireland in a way that is not patronising or offensive and certainly doesn’t make any political statements. I’ve included the lyrics here because I think it is expressed in a very simple manner the feeling of a lot of people from Ireland, especially those from the North that have had enough of all the bloodshed. I don’t mind admitting a tear came to my eye when he sang this song. Above all else - peace must prevail.

I want to reach out over the loch
And feel your hand across the water
Walk with you along an unapproved road
Not looking over my shoulder

I want to see, and I want to hear
To understand your fears
But we’re north and south of the river

I’ve been doing it wrong all of my life
This holy town has turned me over
A young man running from what he didn’t understand
The wind from the loch just gets colder, colder

There was a badness that had its way
But love wasn’t lost; love will have its day
North and south of the river

Can we stop playing these old tattoos
Darling I don’t have the answer
I want to meet you where you are
I don’t need you to surrender

’cause there’s no feeling that’s so alone
As when the one you’re hurting is your own
North and south of the river

Some high ground is not worth taking
Some connections are not worth making
There’s an old church bell no longer ringing
Some old songs are not worth bringing
North...
(Higher ground is not worth taking)
North and south of the river

But once again the contradictions in his performances continue when he goes on to sing a song called “Back Home in Derry” detailing the plight of prisoners banished from Ireland by the British to Van Deimen’s Land (Tasmania). This song was written by Bobby Sands, the most famous of all the hunger strikers, the IRA-man who starved himself to death in prison, indeed the song was written whilst he was in prison.

I’ve never been comfortable with the political side of Christy’s music, but just because I don’t agree with his politics doesn’t mean that I’m going to ignore it. I listen to it; I understand it and treat it with as much of an open mind as I would expect somebody to treat my political beliefs. Music is a very powerful and emotive medium to carry across a political message and to instil a certain feeling into the listener. In some ways much more so than through political debate. Perhaps if the Reverend Ian Paisley had done a few karaoke sessions during the 80’s and 90’s our cause might not have been scoffed at as much as it was. OK – I’m being flippant, but I hope you get the point.

The city of Derry's name is a subject of dispute between nationalists (mostly Catholic) and unionists (most of whom are Protestant), with nationalists calling it Derry, and unionists, Londonderry.

Bobby Sands, a nationalist, of course penned the words “Back home in Derry”, but one feels that even if he’d have been a unionist, he would probably have used “Derry” – Londonderry, after all, being a four syllabled word is very difficult to fit into a song.

This is how he came about to sing it that night:

“Back Home in Derry, Christy!” some guy shouts from the audience.
“Oooo, I dunno, what you reckon folks – are we up for that this evening?”

Cue much murmurs of appreciation from the audience. Just as this calmed down, PopTart – a catholic from the Rebel county of Cork itself, shouted out “LONDON-Derry!!”

I could have fallen off my seat.

Christy gave a withering look and then responded in Gaelic something along the lines of “What’s happening?” and thankfully that was the end of it.

Like I say – Christy’s concerts take on a life of their own – nobody is sure what they’re going to get, but I’m pretty sure nobody was expecting that little outburst from the PopTart! Sometimes I have to wonder at the thought process that goes through that fella’s head.

As the concert ended to tumultuous applause, Christy and Declan left to a standing ovation from everyone that was there. The guy is a legend and his audience knows it. What the audience also knew that night was that we were going to get the special treat of having Christy and Luka singing on the same stage together and the place erupted when the three performers came back on stage.

And with the briefest of introductions, the three of them started to sing “City of Chicago” a song that Luka wrote for Christy and a song that Christy has been singing ever since. Detailing the hardship of the people forced to leave Ireland by the famine, the song is short and simple but a firm favourite with Colin and myself. I think for both of us, it was the defining moment in the concert.

At the concert’s end and as the audience once more rose to give another standing ovation for the performers, I was left to contemplate my first Christy Moore concert. As the hour approached the gig, I had begun to get a wee bit nervous. I had been looking forward to the concert for such a long time and over that time built it up into something huge. I was sure that I would end up being disappointed – that Christy would not live up to my hype.

But I am happy to say that he did – and that it was without doubt one of the most memorable events in my life. As I left the venue, I was heard to say “All that I now need is for Liverpool to win the League again and I’ll die a happy man”.

Thankfully, based on the recent performances of my beloved Liverpool it’s going to be sometime before I meet my maker with a happy man….

Epilogue – Sunday 3rd October 02:00 – Darby’s Nite Club, Ballincollig
After a couple of pints at the post-show disco in the hotel, listening to woeful music being played by the DJ from hell, we said our goodbyes to The Ryders, dropping them off at their Bed and Breakfast around midnight before returning to Ballincollig, where the PopTart and myself were going to sample the local disco before calling an end to the evening’s festivities.

Hoping to perhaps doze for a bit in the car on the way back, a combination of listening to the Rat Pack on CD and Jim driving at breakneck speeds, I didn’t get any shut eye at all and it was just after 01:00 when we walked into the night club.

“That’s 10 Euros”, said the guy at the entrance
“For the two of us?” said Colin.
“Nope. Each” was the response.

We looked at each other and then at our watches. This was going to have to be a helluva night club to warrant such an extortionate entrance fee but beggars can’t be choosers, so we handed over the money and then went into the disco.

Coming around the corner we were greeted by a strange sight.

In the middle of the room, there was the dance floor, occupied by two people – a fella and a girl giving it their all – the fella was in a wheelchair. I suppose a strange sight in itself - but what made it even stranger was the fact that there was hardly anyone else around.

It was then that I noticed all the faces up above looking down on the scene from the balconies up above. It seemed that this was were the bar was as well. As we approached the bar, I could see there were a few more people upstairs, but not a lot. The club can’t have been any more than a quarter full.

Ordering a couple of bottles of beer, I thought I misheard when the guy charged me 4.50 euros a bottle of beer. Unfortunately I heard him just fine.

It was no surprise the club was as empty as it was.

Just then PopTart spied an ex-girlfriend, who despite his best efforts to look invisible, spotted him and made a bee line for him. Before I know it the two of them are leaving the club to have a chat, leaving me to fend for myself in a dodgy club in the middle of Rebel County with a Northern Ireland accent.

Trying to look as nonchalant as possible, I spied the ex-girlfriend come back in without PopTart, say something to her friends and then leave again. I was starting to worry. I didn’t know his address and I didn’t know how to walk there. If I had been left on my own, I wouldn’t have had a clue as to how to get back to Colin’s family’s home.

As I was left to ponder my next move, a woman in her forties, who was obviously the worse for wear, tapped me on the arm.

“Excuse me – could you look after my pint?”
“Sure – no problem” I replied watching as her and her equally drunk mate tottered off to the fire escape to smoke their cigarettes.

And it got me thinking. Surely, it’s got to be a cause for concern for two female smokers when they go out on an evening? In Ireland you’re not allowed to smoke in the bar, but you’re also not allowed to take your drinks out of the pub. This leaves their drinks prone to getting stolen or worse still spiked with some form of drug. As I thought these happy thoughts the two women came back and as I returned the pint, the second one said:

“Are you from Ireland?”
“Aye, I am indeed. I’m from county Antrim.”
“You’re from The North?!” she exclaimed, with a big drunken grin spreading over her face. “Ach what a sexy accent!”

I started to laugh and she said “Jesus, would you look at his teeth! What a smile! You are BEAUTIFUL!!”

Obviously these women weren’t as drunk as I thought.

Over the next few minutes we had the sort of conversations that go by unnoticed when both parties are both as drunk, but when one is sober, they can get very frustrating – especially for the sober one. In this case me.

“So what are you doing in Ballincollig?”
“I’m here with a friend (although I don’t know where he is). He’s from Ballincollig.”
“Do you work in Ballincollig?”
“No I work in Belgium. I share an apartment over there with my friend Colin”
“You’re Belgian!!?? But your English is really good!”
“No! I’m from Northern Ireland. I live in Belgium”
“So what are you doing in Ballincollig?”
“We’ve been to watch Christy Moore play in Killarney”
“KILLLARNEY??!” both women exclaimed like it was the other side of the world.
“And you came back this evening?”
“Yes”
“And you came back to Ballincollig?”
“You should have stayed in Killarney, this place is a shitehole.”
“Yes, but Colin’s family live in Ballincollig and we’re staying with them.”
At this point, Colin came back to join us.
“Is this your friend here?”
“Yes. This is Colin”
“Colin – your mate is BEAUTIFUL! Don’t get me wrong – you’re a good looking guy as well but this guy is BEAUTIFUL. JUST LOOK AT THOSE TEETH!” and she grabbed and squeezed my cheek like an overly affectionate aunt that you were never too keen on.

Colin’s face was a picture. I was enjoying this!

“It’s a pity I’m too old for you” this fine upstanding, sensible, honest, sober woman continued. “How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-two” I replied

And then she hit me with a line that I had never ever heard used before and frankly wouldn’t be too disappointed if I never heard it again.

“You see if I was 21 – I would MANGLE ye!”

To this day, I’m still not sure what she meant and nor do I wish to know.

Shortly after this entertaining exchange there was a fight on the dance floor. Actually, fight implies that two parties fought. This was not the case.

One guy knocked another one flat out with one punch. As the victim fell to the ground unconscious like a pack of cards, the aggressor then proceeded, without intervention from bouncers or anyone else, to kick the guy repeatedly 6 or 7 times in the head and chest. It was frightening.
Colin and myself made a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the kebab shop and walked the short walk home snogging our tasty kebabs, Colin thankful that he wasn’t going to Darby’s night club every weekend to get his kicks and me thankful that “The Ballincollig Mangler” didn’t get a chance to mangle me after all.

THE END
Jonny Black 07th October 2004