When Things Were Great!

By Eamonn Kelly

One man's attempt to find existential meaning in small town Ireland leads to desperation and eventual eco-enlightenment. Oisín Landers returns home to Ireland after 20 years, to find the country in the grip of an uncharacteristic economic boom.  Everything has changed, except Mick Lowry's Bar, which has remained frozen in time, in a deep sepia hue, inspiring Oisín to a whole new depression similar to the one that caused him to emigrate in the first place. How will Oisín survive the ravages of small town Irish life? 

Praise for Eamonn Kelly's comedy.

Religious Knowledge:  "...written and directed by Eamonn Kelly is a gloriously over-the-top spoof on our mythologizing of the Christian Brothers' past."  The Irish Times

Frugal Comforts:  "...Remarkably clever, full of guile and purpose, skillfully poised between the horrible and the hilarious..."  The Irish Times

The Comedy Cumann:  "...Kelly himself created an excellent stage persona as a deadpan guitarist with a Jim Reeves fixation singing wonderfully dreadful stuff."  Irish Independent

• Language: English
• Publisher: Same26
• Release date: Mar 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781540188540

Book preview

Praise for Eamonn Kelly's comedy.

––––––––

Religious Knowledge: ...written and directed by Eamonn Kelly is a gloriously over-the-top spoof on our mythologizing of the Christian Brothers' past. The Irish Times.

––––––––

Frugal Comforts: ...Remarkably clever, full of guile and purpose, skilfully poised between the horrible and the hilarious... The Irish Times.

––––––––

The Comedy Cumann: ...Kelly himself created an excellent stage persona as a deadpan guitarist with a Jim Reeves fixation singing wonderfully dreadful stuff. Irish Independent

Ireland is where strange tales begin and happy endings are possible.

––––––––

Charles Haughey, former Irish Taoiseach (Prime Minister)

Chapter One

Disputes Between Fractions

––––––––

Oisín Landers, forty-five and rising, with a great squall of frizzy grey hair windswept across his rocky skull, had been home for a few months, but he still hadn’t fully reintegrated back into Irish life, and he had begun to doubt that he ever would. He sat now in Lowry’s Bar listening to the radio with the other men.

The big story of the day on the Lorcan Moffatt talk show, Lorcan Talkin’, was the interview with visiting government minister, John Duggan. There was always a big hoo-hah in town when Minister John Duggan came to visit, despite the fact that he came to town regularly enough. He’d visited twice since Oisin’s return, but still the novelty never seemed to wane.

Peter Gaynor, a spry, elvish man with a quick eye, sat perched delicately on a high stool next to Oisín, facing into the bar where Mick Lowry, the squat, bullish publican, stood with his plump hands on the beer taps, like someone driving some form of machine.

Jarlath Conroy stood propped at the L of the bar, squinting dangerously at the radio from beneath the rim of his western hat.

Over by the fireplace, old Hoagie Harmon sat quietly warming his bones by the fire, his back to the men.

Oisín did his best to keep track of the various stories that intrigued the locals, but his interest in local dramas was distinctly distant and dream-like. He was still learning how to react to what was considered important, by watching the other men and following the mood of the herd. Sometimes he wondered had he been away in America at all, or did he dream it all up, sitting here all these years on this barstool? The first night of his return he found himself sitting in the exact same place that had been his regular spot years before, the grain of the bar-top greeting him like an old school desk, the exact same place he was sitting now, looking on with calm disinterest as the men reacted with laughter to something from the radio.

He’ll be talkin’ pure bollocks, as usual, said Mick Lowry, as sure as shite is shite.

He will of course, said Peter Gaynor. And don’t we love him for it?  If they started making sense we’d all lose interest. 

John Duggan T.D. was Minister for Heritage, Gaeltacht, Infrastructure, Fisheries, Rural Intrigues and Arts. He was the first government minister the town had ever produced, and he was treated like royalty, being the first tribal chieftain of any consequence to emerge from Notton Doon since the days of the Fighting Neachtain’s, Bronze Age founders of the town. 

The minister had agreed to pop into Notton Doon FM for an on-air chat with Lorcan Moffatt, to assuage doubts being raised about a new road development: The Inter-City Barren County National Interchange Road Construction Network, as it was officially known. The development had initially stirred a manageable squall of controversy on the environmental left, but disaffection was beginning to spread into the general populace on the back of more recent awkward political twists to the story that called for a cool ministerial intervention.

A red carpet had been rolled out to greet the minister at the radio station, with a choir of schoolchildren arranged to sing He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands as the minister’s sleek limousine purred up to the kerb. A driver hurried around the car and opened the heavy rear door to release the minster to the public.

Minister John Duggan, known affectionately as Honest John, stepped from the limo to a gasp of recognition from the small crowd of onlookers. A handsome man in his mid-40’s with a perfectly tinted sun-tan, he flashed his famously brilliant smile to the crowd, trotting up the red carpet, his tanned hand smoothing his rich brown hair as he went. He halted for a moment to listen to the children singing, pretending to conduct them for a moment, creating a sea of indulgent smiles on the faces of the onlookers. Cameras multi-clicked and a picture appeared on the front page of that week’s Notton Doon Today, the town’s free weekly newspaper, under the headline, Honest John Leads the Choir.

The minister was welcomed at the door of Notton Doon FM by Lorcan Moffatt himself, a tall, mildly obese man with a purplish complexion wrought by a steady daily intake of full Irish breakfasts in the mornings, heavy afternoon lunch roasts, and careful but steady intake of pints of stout and glasses of golden spirits in the evenings.

Lorcan’s probing journalistic eye, tucked beneath a serious bushy brow, twinkled an easy smile for the minister.

The minster greeted everyone by their Christian names in the radio station, even halting to ask about the progress of children and parents from various employees along the smiling corridors.

Finally, Lorcan had the minister parked in the muffled confines of the studio, headphones on and a microphone in his face.

Back in Lowry’s Bar, Mick Lowry turned up the radio. Here’s the fucker now, said Mick. He winked at Oisín and laughed.

Mick still wasn’t used to Oisín haunting the bar, and he sometimes regarded him like the stranger he actually was, despite Oisín having a deep and known history as a native of the town. But that twenty-year blank in Oisin’s biography left the other men a little wary of him.

Oisín nodded and smiled and listened along as the men quietened down to attend to Lorcan Moffatt introducing the minister.

Mick Lowry reacted when Lorcan, in a business-like manner said that there was concern on all sides in relation to the new road development.

He’s on form, is Lorcan, said Mick, approvingly. Straight in with the questions.

The issue was causing controversy across the entire region. Some people maintained that the development would destroy Neachtain’s Wood, a vast area of ancient woodland outside Notton Doon. The wood was named after the Fighting Neachtains, some of whose graves were still being discovered by archaeologists in the deepest reaches of the shadowy woodland.

There are concerns by some, said Lorcan to the minister, about the new road development and the impact it might have on the woods. While on the other hand, you have concerns expressed about the eco-warriors camped out in the woods and their possible negative impact on the woodland environment. Plus, there are concerns in the archaeological community about the graves of our forebears, the Fighting Neachtain’s, some of whom are also buried in the woods, and on top of all that you have the environmental concerns of the slug to consider.

Lorcan was referring to the now famous Notton Doon slug, known scientifically as Gastropod Molluscium Notton Doonicus, now fondly known locally as Val Doonican. The creature had only recently been discovered by a holidaying Belgian biologist, who found a specimen of the slug one night flattened on the sole of his rubber boot. On closer scrutiny, the biologist’s expert eye discerned that the mess on the sole of his boot was biologically unusual, sporting rare spots on its skin. The botanist eventually identified the creature as a badly squashed extremely rare slug. Luckily it wasn’t the last rare slug in the area. After hunting down a few more examples, the botanist finally concluded that the slug was unique to Notton Doon woods.

There’s No Slug Like Our Slug, Anywhere Else in the World Bud, went a catchy country ‘n’ Irish song to celebrate the discovery. There were even calls to have the slug adorn the Notton Doon town crest, though there were some in the business community who were strongly against this idea, sensing that a slug as a town brand might not be the greatest lure to inward investment.

The minister began by saying, in his familiar high, nasally pitch, that he had come down from Dublin today especially, in a helicopter as it happened, partly to see the wonderful warm happy faces of the people of Notton Doon, who were justly proud to have produced a government minister from among their brood, and also to address not only the concerns mentioned by Lorcan, but also other, deeper concerns which only a minister could fully understand and appreciate.

Lorcan, irritated by the minister’s boasting, butted into his comfortable fog of self-regard to demonstrate to critical listeners that he wasn’t going to allow Honest John too easy a ride on his show. Lorcan had journalistic standards to maintain, and a fabled hard-news nose reputation to protect.

Minister, he barked.

Honest John’s eyes widened in alarm.

I really must mention the controversy about the award of the contract for the road development to Cratty Developments, said Lorcan. If you’ll forgive me, minister.

Good man! yelped Mick Lowry at the radio.

The minister skewered Lorcan with a hard eye. Lorcan held the minister’s eye, braving several tense seconds of dead air.

You’re just doing your job, Lorcan, the same as the rest of us, said the minister. He smiled tightly, wounded by the awkward probing question, and so early in the day, and in his home town too.

The story about the awarding of the contract to Cratty Group Developments had broken in the national press that morning. What made the story interesting from a Barren County point of view was that after a suspiciously swift round of negotiations with various construction firms, the contract for the construction of the road network was awarded to Cratty Group Developments, the company that belonged to John Cratty, Honest John’s father-in-law and the brains and money behind Honest John’s political success. Cratty had even been the one who christened him Honest John in the first place, though few actually knew that. During the first campaign to elect his son-in-law to political office, John Cratty had come up with the idea to give his candidate a nickname, following a trend at the time that saw many politicians with monikers describing an issue they specialised in. There was Frank The Garbage O’Driscoll, and Una Glass Ceiling Madigan. But it is a difficult thing to pluck a good nickname from mid-air, though there was no shortage of private nicknames Cratty had for his son-in-law, none of them very flattering. But the Gods favoured Cratty, as always. He had more or less given up on the idea when, one evening, while idly watching a documentary on the History Channel about George Washington, Cratty had the brainwave to nickname his son-in-law Honesty, honesty being the best and most irrefutable policy, with cachet to be mined in all quarters. It was perfect. And the sheer cheek of the notion also appealed to Cratty’s Machiavellian side. He grinned like a wolf at the idea.

John ‘Honesty’ Duggan - A Politician You Can Trust, went the slogan for John Duggan’s first successful bid for political office. To Cratty’s amazement, the bold assertion of John Duggan’s honesty was accepted without question and was soon transposed into the now more affectionate and familiar Honest John. Everyone called him Honest John now, even leader writers in the national press, with hardly a hint of irony to be whiffed anywhere.

Honest John now smoothly declared that the unusual alignment of events that led to the contract going to his father-in-law’s company was a coincidence of small decisions and numbers that surprised even himself.

The truth of the matter is, said Honest John, I plumped for the best deal on the table. I was aware at the time that certain high-minded commentators might see something sinister in this. But I braved it out nonetheless and made the difficult decision, biting the bullet and doing the hard thing by awarding the contract to the wonderfully professional and successful Cratty Group, even in the face of predictable high-moral-ground whinging and unfair criticism from certain Dublin intellectual types.

Later, Honest John would ask John Cratty was there any way they could maybe give Lorcan Moffatt a lifetime sabbatical and put one of their own men in that spot. They both agreed it was too important a post to be harbouring an independently-minded journalist firing inappropriate questions at sitting ministers. Lorcan Moffatt didn’t yet know it, but the days of Lorcan Talkin’ were numbered.

Honest John fixed Lorcan with a diamond eye.

Lorcan, irritated by the minister’s anger, pushed ahead with another hard question. It was an unprecedented grilling in the short history of ministerial visits to Notton Doon.

Minister, said Lorcan. Some people are concerned that Neachtain’s Wood will be totally destroyed and that Val Doonican will go extinct!

I beg your pardon, said the minister. Val Doonican?

That’s what the people call the slug, minister. It’s a term of endearment.

There was a long stretch of dead air as the minister digested this surprising revelation. I see, he said. Right.

In warm tones of silky schmooze, the minister assured Lorcan that the woods would indeed be completely destroyed, but that the destruction would be sensitive in the extreme, taking place on a phased basis, so that local people wouldn’t be suddenly confronted overnight by the fact of no more Neachtain’s Wood.

When you’re boiling a frog, said the minister, rephrasing an idea he’d picked up from John Cratty, You’re best putting it into warm water and slowly heating it up. Because if you just drop the frog into a pot of boiling water it will hop out and escape.

John Cratty was listening to the broadcast from the veranda of his mansion overlooking Notton Doon valley, the spires of the town away off in the distance. Now into his 70’s, John Cratty wore his silver hair long, swept back into a ducktail. He was a tall, slim, Euro ladies’ man, not shy about wearing pink, and he had mastered the art of the amused raised eyebrow. Everything about him looked rich and sophisticated. Even his long bony nose was attractively honey-tanned from frequent Mediterranean soirées. But beneath the refined veneer there still dwelt a rough and ready youth of primal hungers and bog manners, still parsed with the resentments nurtured by the indignities of being born and reared dirt poor in rural Ireland, suffering the tight condescension of his betters. He was now better than all his old betters put together. A regular aristocratic presence at elegant wine-sipping social events in the Barren County, stooping down from time to time to listen to some small person whispering into his influential ear for Cratty to bend the world a bit to their advantage. John Cratty ruled his world and moved easily through it, comfortably untouchable.

He looked sharply at the radio now when Honest John started into the frog story. Ah, you fucking eejit! he spat. You’re not supposed to say it on the fucking radio.

Back in Notton Doon FM, Lorcan Moffatt’s jaw had fallen open in astonishment, not only at Honest John’s admittance that the woods were indeed planned for total destruction, as feared by many, but also by the realization that Honest John genuinely did not appear to see what all the fuss about. As the minister continued talking, Lorcan, looking for a way in and not finding one, decided to just let Honest John talk and see what in hell he might say next.

In the fullness of time, said the minister, we’ll have several Neachtain’s Parks. This is part of a progressive green-spacing initiative the likes of which this county has never seen."

The minister went on to describe plans for landscaped parklands for the spaces between the roads, with matching plant life, including a Japanese Garden and suchlike for the other small parks to be built between the other roads that would make up the complex of the interchange. There would also be an English Garden, and an Irish Garden, and maybe a French one as well.

The Irish garden will likely feature lots of nettles, said Peter Gaynor, from his high stool in Lowry’s Bar.

As you know Lorcan, said the minister, I’m a keen gardener.

I didn’t know that.

Well I am. And, from that perspective, I have to say, hand on heart, that for me, the landscaped, park-like environment is far more preferable and easier on the eye than the big aul tangly wood. And I wouldn’t think I’m alone in that. I’m sure many normal ordinary people would feel the same way. Plus, as a keen gardener, I don’t see the point of slugs. So, I wouldn’t be at all put out by the loss of a slug if it came to that. A slug is a pest. Always was, always will be. There’s no place for slugs in the parks we’ve planned. We’ll have a dozen or more small, compact new parks, each one with its own tidy place between the various important and vital new roads. And there’ll be five new jobs in the parks too, picking up the litter that drifts in from the roads, clipping the hedges, poisoning the slugs and whatnot. The parks will be like islands of greenery, each one incorporating its own distinctive attractions. And the nice part is that families will be able to drive to them on the various new roads we’ll soon have available.

As you know, Lorcan, purred the minister, Neachtain’s Wood is at present awkward to get to at the best of times, and easy to get lost in. And there are all sorts of peculiar characters camping out in it and being a danger to the sensibilities of normal, moral, hard-working, tax-paying, cornflake-eating family people. So, for these reasons, we believe that the new road networks will bring a more civilised aura to Neachtain’s Wood, making the amenity available to everyone. By the time this forward-looking scheme is complete, Neachtain’s Wood will be entirely wheelchair accessible.

The minister sat back and made a wrap-it-up gesture to Lorcan.

Lorcan hardly knew where to begin. He opened his mouth to ask a question. But the minister vehemently shook his head and made a cut-throat gesture.

Lorcan reluctantly wrapped up the interview and went to an ad break.

Honest John whipped off the headphones and glared at Lorcan.

What was that all about, Lorcan? The interrogation?

It was hardly an interrogation, minister.

Honest John stood up and squared his shoulders. I get enough o’ that stuff in Dublin, without having to listen to it when I come home.

I’m sorry you feel that way, minister, said Lorcan, but the subject is causing quite a bit of controversy in the region. The people need to know what’s what.

Honest John stared madly at him. The people! He barked a laugh and moved to the door. He turned angrily on Lorcan. The people do what they’re fucking told. The same as always. That’s my job. Telling them what to do. And your job is to facilitate that. Are we clear?

Lorcan looked back impassively, but said nothing.

Honest John turned away in frustration and stormed from the studio. The old country classic Big John blared in the foyer in his honour when he burst through the studio doors into the public space, magically reacquiring his smile as he briskly departed the building, waving to onlookers before diving into the waiting limousine.

***

Back in Lowry’s Bar, Mick Lowry was filling the radio ad break by interpreting what he’d just heard. I never heard Lorcan Moffatt go at anyone like that, said Mick. He gave him a right grilling.

When Lorcan returned after the ad break, Mick turned the radio up a little louder to show his approval of the morning’s proceedings. Lorcan, it turned out, had decided to devote the entire show to the issue, bringing in other people to talk about the various points he’d raised with the minister. Among the guests was Finbar Mulcahy.

Oisín looked up in recognition when he heard the name. What the hell was Finbar Mulcahy doing on the radio? He wondered.

Finbar Mulcahy, one of the Mulcahys from the nearby town of Raggleduff, went a bit odd in his teens experimenting with hallucinogenic mushrooms. He adopted the philosophies and lifestyle of the Native American, summering in a teepee in Neachtain’s Wood, among other lunacies, to keep the tongues wagging in the Barren County. But he mystified the men of the town by attracting a succession of beautiful women to live in the teepee with him.

Who’d have thought, said Mick Lowry at the time, that living in a tent is the way to pull fine girls. Hah! Who’d have ever thought that?

Finbar, now well into his forties, had developed into a radical marijuana leftist who dreamed of one day stoning the entire world, whereupon, he believed, a golden age of peace and harmony would prevail and even the most unlikely people would derive spiritual enlightenment from a close listening to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. Finbar had inspired the protest against the proposed road development in the woods, and he was one of the few people in Notton Doon who could say, Inter-City Barren County National Interchange Road Construction Network Development, in one breath; and he did so often, and with impressive fluency.

The response to Finbar’s militant stand against the road development surprised even himself. Eco-warriors came from miles around, and even from overseas, in response to his call, and camped in the meadow where Finbar’s famous teepee was located. Other teepees were quickly built, and in no time at all the meadow was a full-fledged teepee village of fifteen or more large teepees in the centre - a kind of downtown area where all the action took place - fringed with a suburb of smaller tents and a few mobile homes and camper vans. Someone christened the settlement Teepee Town and painted the name on a wooden plaque which was now tied to a tree on the edge of the clearing.

Finbar came on air to speak on behalf of the eco-warrior community. He spoke surprisingly well to begin with, considering, as he admitted later, that he was still half bombed