15 Rounds.

They were all tied in, all the decades, Mary, Mary, Mary the poor woman and all she had to pat up with that fellow, our father and his family, and all the rest of them. Forgive them how could ye, except for his mother, God love her, the creatur. Putting up with that lot. Glory be, glory be, sure wasn’t she a saint. But she was an O’Brien, probably back to the tent in Cashel with Brian Boru. Give us a few pints there Mick, Christmas is nearly upon us!

We settled in; the big globes over the marble counter were reflecting in the spillage. The air was atmospheric; the voices were gutheral in the rumbling mumblings of Northsiders gatherings. T’was coming up on Christmas, there wasn’t much money and all these recent movies made expectations high. Yes! So high they were nearly out of reach for plain people something had to be done, a plan was needed. We were gathering in Mad Madigan’s, the old gang was coming to gather. Those that had gone to England were coming back on the boat for the last couple of days : Mossie from the RAF, Tommy from the British Army, Liamer from the Irish Guards, Johnser from the Royal Marines, Skinto and Buster from McAlpines and Joe from Wimpies. They all had money, plenty of money for pints and they could easily call the rounds. Those of us left on the “Sod” needed a plan to be level. Those of us still going to school that had Postman Christmas jobs, had something. But it was going out as fast as it was coming in, for the Fairview Bar at the back of the Post Office was an “early house” and one needed fuel to cycle with the big bag, out to the sticks in Coolock, sure that was out in the country! Everything costs money. So now that you had a job for a couple of weeks, you had responsibilities. You had to have presents for the family and some of the neighbours that always gave you presents. And then there was Annette, Anne Deirdre, Kay, Rita, Hatchet and Pat. Shure they’d all expect something. Another pint added to the confusion that had to be flushed in the white marble urinal. As one held the irresponsible John Thomas between Thumb and forefinger, gazed upward for heavenly inspiration to cure the deepening desperation, the plan of salvation smiled itself before me. I came out singing “here, here, the gangs’ all here, what the hell do we care. What the hell do we care? What the hell do we care now! “What’s that grin for?” was the question from the gang of lads that had now swelled to nine or ten of us.

Now lads, do you remember the fun we had doing the Christmas Carols? There was silence! My smirk had warned them. Something was coming ; “ The Annunciation, The Visitation, The Birth of our Lord, The Presentation of Our Lord in the Temple, The Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple. The Temple was our Dublin! All our mothers would be honoured with Mother of Pearl rosary beads so that they could all go down to make novenas for us, the black sheep, at the Church of St Jude, in Ballybough. We are poor little lambs that have gone astray, Baa, Baa, Baa” The memory of Frank Sinatra and Burt Lancaster singing in the movie “From Here to Eternity” which had just come out and we all joined in - “Gentlemen rankers out on a spree, doomed from here to eternity, God have mercy on sad old we, Baa, Baa, Baa, the poor little lambs that have gone astray, baa, baa, baa.”

Page 2.

Mick slapped the counter, “now lads, it’s getting noisy”, but he was laughing. It brought us together in a group for listening and focusing, as we used to be a couple of years previously, when we were after cigarette vans, Egan’s beer lorries with cases of whisky. Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve, the shops would be packed; Woolworths, Cleary’s, Arnotts. Pass the parcel, two people outside on the street with sacks, six to eight in the shops taking turns and passing quickly in the crowds, with two together going out the doors. It was simple, everyone was going to get presents this year and we were going to get locked and sing happy birthday to Jesus when we got midnight mass in the Pro Cathedral. And we did!