There’s a scene in the old Dermot Morgan tape often quoted in this space in which Ireland’s greatest political satirist is ‘taking off’ Mike Murphy interviewing Michael D. Higgins and he begins the monologue thus:
“Michael D. Higgins, the D’s for Dodgy”. Between my admiration for Both men (Dermot and Mickey D) it very often comes back to mind. Now read on…
I recall telling a dear friend about the gag once, not as such because of Morgan but out of the Galway connection. To which the unforgettable riposte instantly shot – “Paul B. Garvey, the B’s for Benignus”. It’s for whaaaa? says I. “Ah, Ben, just Ben”. But there was no way I was letting this fascinating titbit go.
“Ah, I think they named me after some monk or other, but not The Monk“, came the very quick qualification. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Paul B. Garvey in a nutshell – immensely proud of who he was and where he was from but at the same time wouldn’t lose an iota out of the idea of taking the pi** out of himself!
It is a cause of both shock and indescribable heartache to be referring to he who was simply ‘PBG’ in my phone for the past 30 odd years in the past tense. Truth be told it was only in the last month I knew he was ill. There was a tragedy which effected many of us in this locality what is probably a scary number of years ago now, but, there were those of us, in the inner sanctum if you wish to title it thus, who knew only too well the devastating effect it had on himself.
And, in all honesty, in the aftermath of same, our lives sort of drifted apart, as was the case with many people. That will forever break my heart now. But I know, if I was in trouble, and nobody else could help, but he still could have, I know I still could have hired ‘The Garv’ (team!)
Well no, actually, because mention of hire recalls the numerous times I or my late father would try to give him even a small token of appreciation for whatever jam he was after getting us out of, only for him to hop into either the Saab or the Toyota Dyna and bolt out the gate before we could get near him.
You know, it’s strange how close you end up being to someone you cross paths with almost by accident. As was exactly the case with PBG and I. For you see, I’d never heard of him until the day Johnny O’Connor Snr was piloting a run to Fairyhouse and declared “We’ve to pick Garvey up on the way”. To which I replied” Who?” Had never heard of him. Which prompted the driver to exclaim “Oh Jazus, you’re in for a treat. Think of a cross between Onslo and Michael Lowry!!”
Never was a description more on the money. As in, what you saw was absolutely what you got, and when it came to helping out a friend in need, NOTHING was an obstacle.
Which, blessedly for me, left many memories which will be cherished for a lifetime. Not all printable, mind you! That said, if you want to talk about starting as you mean to go on, how about this for a first outing driving yours truly. Firstliy, the mundane, but highly meaningful.
Himself – and Johnny and Eoghan Lynch to be fair – insisted on this corner having a pint as bringing me out for the evening was their treat, it may have been around the of my birthday.
Anyway, on arrival into Kilbeggan races, a major discovery – no Guinness on draft. After dissuading Paul B. from blowing a gasket with the poor sod behind the bar and assuring him that Murphys or Beamish would be fine, my minder came up with the ingenius idea of stacking two or three of the ‘plastic glasses’ together to make a conveyance thick enough for me to lift.
Then, however, the fun began. As has become my habit when going racing over the years, unless I have ‘word’ for something in the Bumper, we try to get out before the last race. Which was grand in theory but attempts at achieving same in this case almost ended in catastrophe.
Because firstly, having never been there previously, I didn’t realise you had to cross the track to get to the carpark and secondly, by the time our jovial journey director pointed this out, the race had started!
That, however, didn’t get in the way of the following back and forth:
BB: They’ve started, we may hang on.
PBG: Ah they’ve only jumped off, you’ve loads of time.
BB: You might say that, but you have two legs that work.
PBG: I’m not exactly built for speed and you’ve an engine under your ar*e, come on!
Delighted at having been proven right, the director of operations for the day then spots Noel Meade parked beside us and, despite vehement protestations from yours truly, gets the great man out of his car and, being the utter gentleman that he is, the man from Castletown who was responsible for me falling in love with horse racing did come over and spend quite a while with us.
So long, in fact, that when the return journey did eventually commence, it dawned on the driver that we would, in fact, be cutting it fine in terms of getting back to Brady’s to round off the occasion with a night cap. So, with my nod of approval, suffice to say the accelerator had a fair degree of downward pressure on it most of the way home.
Which was grand until we hit the outskirts of the K-Club in Straffan at about dusk. The fading light meaning the first speed ramp wasn’t spotted until it was, well, too late, and this individual nearly had his head like Dino the Dinosaur in The Flintstones out through the roof!
Needless to say we did make it back to the watering hole in ample time and, at one stage when he was gone out to the loo I saw my opportunity and bought him a pint. Yes, the predicted light hearted bollicking did duly arrive, but, if I was in his debt after Kilbeggan, it was only chicken feed compared to the trip to Bellewstown a few weeks thereafter.
On this occasion he and I were going solo. A very Irish way of putting things meaning that there was only the two of us and – unusually for a trip to the races – we had no additional passengers. Now, in fairness to the rural, summer tracks, it would be unreasonable to expect them to have anything other worldly in terms of disabled viewing facilities but to their utmost credit, the Delany family have gone above and beyond to accommodate those of us who need such assistance.
That, however, can’t legislate for the idiocy of bucks who think they rule the world once they are kitted out with a hi-vis jacket. The jackass we met on the Hill Of Crocafotha more than met his match when, after insisting that we try and put the wheelchair through a turnstile to gain entry, he was ‘treated’ to a display of PBG in full flight in my defence.
“Open the f*****g gate or he’ll have you all over every media outlet in the country before morning!” Let’s just say said gate was opened immediately and yon steward and ended up asking me for my autograph! But, in terms of horse racing outings, nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, will ever top Downpatrick.
For a bit of context, a horse called Find The Way, trained by Denise Foster and owned by a couple of local business magnates, was running in a handicap hurdle at the foot of the Mourne Mountains. And, being the last week of November, there was absolutely no way one of the duo could take time off work to head north. Thus, he very kindly asked me would I take his Owners And Trainers pass and go in along with the co owner.
Would I what! When we did it, we didn’t half do it either. As was custom back then, my late father had one of his masterpiece maps drawn out and the mammy, God rest her now too, had the flask filled and enough sandwiches and buns to feed a football team, never mind a touring squadron of four!
The expedition hit a snag, though, when Paul B. informed us he didn’t need the map that he’d been up there before and knew the route. Not being in a position to argue the point, the triumvirate of us kept schtum and let him off.
Which was fine about 85% of the way up. Until what we knew was only within a couple of miles of our intended destination, only for the gentle giant behind the wheel to declare “No, no, this is it here immediately on the right. I was here before, remember?”
Well now, it was a sports venue alright, but the only time horses might have been present was if they were powering an old Pierce mowing machine. For you see, it wasn’t Downpatrick Racecourse, it was the home of Ballinahinch RFC!
Now, you’d have thought that, having come a cropper with the sense of direction on the way up, himself would have kept the head down on the way back. It wouldn’t be in the Garv to do such a thing though.
Thus, of course he had a shortcut. Which he got great mileage out of selling the merits of to the rest of us. Knowing that the GAA Club AGM was on later that evening. But, eh, it didn’t exactly go to plan. Cutting a long story short, pun entirely intended, his diversion never materialised and we in fact ended up on the outskirts of BELFAST!
Did the man who was the first to ever mentioned the townland of Naulswood to me admit he was wrong this time? Eh, no, the typical Garvey-esque reponse was “There was definitely a turn there on the way up”!
For all the joking and the craic, though, he was a dab hand at scrubbing up and being what I used to dub posh Paul. Such as when he would wheel out Oscar – his vintage Austin car – out to serve whoever happened to be Captain of the Dunboyne Golf Society for their annual Drive In. Or when he was driver-designate for at least one local couple on their wedding day.
Not to mention the day he had to put a serious face on while out with me after my hero turned treasured friend Graham Geraghty was knocked out cold playing for Ireland in the International Rules Series.
So much so that he was fitted with a neck brace whilst being stretchered off the field. PBG knew me well enough to know the sight alone had me very rattled. Hence he went off on a mission. Stating that he knew a guard who was usually on duty down around the dressing rooms (of course he did), and would try to get to Mocky (Martin Regan) to see what the story was.
He went even further than that, though. Having met Amanda Geraghty and Graham with me on a few occasions, didn’t he get the poor woman to ring me there and then to put me at ease. Which she actually did in fairness to the poor woman, but for a while thereafter I was hoping my aide-de-camp’s gung ho approach didn’t land me in the soup!
I always suspected, though, that his favourite ‘job’ was being on hand to assist the man he – and by extension this writer – simply referred to as ‘The Minister’. No, not the late John Bruton, but the gentleman who many of us – only partly in jest – considered to be the power behind the throne, Mick Connolly.
Mick Connolly’s status, and that of his family, as being people of great import in the annals of the locality has long been secured. Not only due to his very senior standing in the local Fine Gael organisation but, even more so, due to the Connolly family farm being the epicentre of filming for the beloved Irish television programme The Riordans.
It was through lighthearted, good-natured political based jibing that Mick’s honourary title of ‘The Minister’ was first imparted in this direction. When he’d be dropping me home after being somewhere or other, he’d say “I’ve to call into The Minister on the way home to see who’s doing the driving (back in for pints) tonight”
Invariably, the operation used to break favourably in his direction. Which would regularly lead to me having to nudge him that he couldn’t be keeping The Minister waiting if our chats had overshot the runway. Which they inevitably always did, between actual news, lies and belly-twisting laughter.
Because, you see, there might have been plenty who would seek to extract the urine out of the big fella, but he was a well traveled, well read individual who could and did hold his own in all sorts of company. Mind you, though some folk might find this odd, I loved to get him talking about Galway above all else.
Which was very easily done because all one had to do was mention Galway hurling and he was away. I can still see his eyes lighting up the first time I mentioned Sarsfields winning the All Ireland Club SHC. A wonderful side including serious stickmen like Padraig Kelly, Peter Kelly, Joe Cooney and Liam Donoghue. And of course when I posed the inevitable question, were the team sponsors – Garveys of New Inn – part of his clan, the whole rigmarole of seed, breed and generation were placed on record.
***
The world does indeed work in mysterious ways. Less than 24 hours after he was summoned to the Pearly Gates to explain Benignus to St Peter, his beloved maroon and white captured the Leinster SHC for the fourth time, dismantling Dublin. You can be sure there was an extra body in spirit in one of the Ard Chormaille seats quietly smiling.
Safe Home old friend, I will be forever grateful for the years of happiness, craic and adventures we shared. Never in all the years we moved in the same circles was there a ‘NO’ when I needed help with God knows what. You were loved and will be missed more than you could or would ever want to realise.
“Go on, you can’t be keeping the Minister waiting”
Fág freagra