It Occurs To Me: A lighthearted look back at 2025: Part 1

The Holy Trinity

Pat Spillane, Colm O’Rourke and Joe Brolly are standing before God inside the Pearly Gates. God looks at them and says, “Before granting you a place near my throne, I must first ask you what you believe in.” Addressing Colm O'Rourke first he asks, “What do you believe?”

 O’Rourke states with some passion: “I believe Gaelic Football to be the food of life. Nothing else brings such unbridled joy to so many from the long grass of Meath to the bogs of Kerry. I have devoted my life to bring that joy to such people supporting their club and county.” God is impressed and offers Colm the seat to his left.

 He then turns to Brolly. “And you, Mr. Brolly, what do you believe?” After adjusting his glasses and calming his hands, Joe says: “I believe courage, honour and passion are the fundamentals of life and I've spent my whole playing career providing a living embodiment of these traits.” God, moved by this speech, offers Joe the seat to his right.

 Finally, he turns to Pat Spillane. “And you, Mr. Spillane, what do you believe?”  “I believe,” hisses Pat, “that you're in my seat!”

Pronounce this…with drink taken!

Many years ago, a young man, the worse for wear, came spaltering into a well-known hostelry looking for a drink. He was refused but was gently directed to a soft seat and offered tea and sympathy. Out of civility, one of the locals asked him: “What are you at this weather?”

 “I’m doing a Philosophical Doctorate on Epistemology,” was the pompous but slurred reply. “Musha,” was the retort, “you have all the signs of it.”

Kick the habit, sister!

No better man than my old friend Richard Moore (of Children in Crossfire fame) to tell a story about his blindness which not only sums up his lack of self-pity but also that wicked self-deprecating humour which has contributed to his being one of Derry’s much-loved personalities. 

A wee nun came to him for guitar lessons many years ago but long before the lesson began in his living room, Richard was concerned at the lack of progress of the visitor as she walked with guitar down his hallway, accompanied by an occasional thump from the instrument and an apologetic ‘ouch’.

Things were no better during the lesson and the hapless ‘Slowhand’ seemed incapable of even learning the most basic of chords.

It was only when his beloved Rita landed home that he discovered his error, when she called: “Richard, why have you all the lights off?” The wee nun was too civil to tell him.

Gunfight at the McCool Corral

In a week when the great Dublin goalkeeper Paddy Cullen died, I recalled the wonderful journalist Con Houlihan who, having witnessed Mikey Sheehy’s legendary goal against Paddy in the 1978 All-Ireland Final between Kerry and Dublin, wrote… “Paddy put on a show of righteous indignation that would get him a card from Equity, throwing his hands to heaven as the referee kept pointing towards goal. And while all that was going on, Mikey Sheehy was running up to take the kick — and suddenly Paddy dashed back towards his goal like a woman who smells a cake burning.”

Michael Murphy: ‘You don’t bleedin’ mess with the Lone Ranger’

A few minutes after the introduction of Messiah Murphy in Ballybofey, I was reminded of a great story (too long to tell here) that I heard from a loyal Dublin supporter some fifty years ago, which began with “You don’t bleedin’ mess with the Lone Ranger.” 

Armagh’s Aidan Forker learned that in a hurry! I was further reminded of a red-card incident which took place in a wee village in Donegal some sixty years ago. 

A notorious character had occasion to cause mayhem on his infrequent visits to a local hostelry, and when he had sufficient drink taken, fancied himself as a kind of Ike Clanton lording over Tombstone in the 1880s. 

One evening, after he had dispatched a fellow customer, a table and chair through the front window, he stood on the pub steps with his fists clenched, roaring: “I’ll take on any man in da tree parishes… da tree parishes!”

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The proprietor sent for the local Sheriff — who knew the protagonist well — and when he approached the buck, your man roared again… “I’ll take on any man in da tree parishes… da tree parishes!”, and swung a haymaker at the guard. 

Garda Earp, who had been a handy boxer in his time, not only avoided the blow, but landed a ‘falooder’ of an uppercut on your man’s jaw. As Ike Clanton fell in a heap, Wyatt hissed: “I’m from neither of the three!”.

If the late Paddy Cullen thought a cake was burning, poor Aidan Forker must have felt like a crab apple among the sweet Bramleys of his Orchard County, as Michael Murphy swatted him aside like an annoying fly dive-bombing his morning marmalade in Glenswilly.

Corny or what?

I see where Trump’s envoy to Ukraine is called Kellogg… thankfully, he’s not half as ‘flaky’ as his boss!

Ah begod, your honour!

One of my favourite court stories from away back concerned the old Garda Sergeant who, in trying to empty a pub one night in rural Donegal, got dog’s abuse and a wallop from an individual who had form. 

He managed to subdue and arrest him, but when the case came to court, his Inspector advised him to exercise caution as there was a new judge on the circuit, and nobody was really sure how lenient or otherwise he might be when it came to pub cases. 

In any event, the wily old Sergeant discovered that the new judge was a Roscommon man, and in the course of his evidence, he added that the defendant had used terrible insulting language while he was wrestling him, but that he couldn’t possibly share it in a court of law.

 “I’ve heard it all before,” said the judge, “let us hear it!” 

“Your Honour,” says the Sergeant, “he called me a thick Roscommon bastard!” The judge responded: “Oh, did he now?”, glared at the smirking defendant, and proceeded to give him the maximum sentence permissible.

Afterwards, as the guards returned to base, the Inspector paused, turned to the Sergeant, and enquired: “I thought you were from Mayo?” The Sergeant smiled, touched the side of his nose, and replied: “Do you fancy a pint?”

Rory, Drumshanbo and the Masters!

Watching any sports event from a high stool gives you a very different perspective, particularly if the buck next to you has elevated himself from barroom bore to co-commentator. 

You know the type. Rory McElroy put us all through the emotional hoops…it was ‘squeaky bum time’, to use an Alex Ferguson phrase, but what a wonderful outcome. The buck fornenst me, however, was not enamoured by the fact that everybody went ballistic with joy, thus drowning him out, so he waited…and waited. When there was a wee lull, he blinked at me and rasped: “Did you know Drumshanbo is a big Trump fan?” “Drumshanbo?”, I queried. “Aye, that boy Bryson Drumshanbo!” he helpfully informed me.

There was an explosion of laughter and one ecstatic lady at a table added: “And there was me about to buy a bottle of DeChambeau to celebrate!” The buck was not impressed, pursed his lips and squinted in that timeworn way that signifies drunken annoyance. 

Just to ensure a modicum of civility and to distract him, I responded: “Aye, you’re right… sure wasn’t Drumshanbo at Trump’s victory speech in Florida after being re-elected, and appeared on stage wearing a ‘Make America Great Again’ baseball cap. He also has a Trump logo on his golf bag?” Your man turned toward the DeChambeau bubbly lady and, through his teeth, growled: “Now, didn’t I tell yis?”

I don’t know if longtime Drumshanbo resident Charlie McGettigan will read this, but in the event that he does, would there be an ould song in it?