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~ Settled back in Jersey, heart still in Ireland….

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Category Archives: Ireland

Orla at the Lilac Ballroom

02 Monday Jan 2023

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

In the early 1980s I was on holiday in West Cork, visiting relatives. I was persuaded to head along with a few cousins and friends to a dance at the Lilac Ballroom, Enniskeane. I wasn’t to know but this was just before the death throes of the Irish dance hall and the discotheques became the new ‘scene’ for youngsters.

I based a scene in A West Cork Mystery at the Lilac. Here it is.

She stood, mesmerised. The big neon light sign above the hall flashed, promising a great time to all who would pay the entrance fee and come inside. Her friends Roseanne and Mary-Jo, both of whom were old Lilac hands, lit up fags and scouted all around them, taking in the scene.

The lads had gone for a quick drink and they wouldn’t be long, they said. Rory had driven them all out from Dunmanway in no time at all, swinging the Vauxhall Viscount with abandon along the, largely unlit, country roads. There was plenty of parking in front of the hall and, as eleven o’clock approached, the place was getting busier as more cars arrived from the surrounding countryside.

The girls hung around by the car, wrapping their shawls closer around their shoulders against the cold breeze. They fidgeted about, anxious to get inside. Occasionally one or the other would see and greet a friend, mutually admiring dresses, hairstyles, saying ‘hi’ to friends of friends.

Orla knew no one apart from her two friends, and of course Rory and John. She was nervous now, not quite knowing how to act, unsure of herself in these strange surroundings. She had on her best dress, a grown-up dress showing off her pale shoulders and a lowish neckline, though not so low as to bring on more tribulation from her mother. It had been a compromise purchase but Orla was happy with it. She had slapped on the make-up liberally, heavy on the eye shadow as she had seen the older ones do. She now pulled out her lipstick from her handbag and applied a little more, checking in her compact mirror and surreptitiously pursing her lips to see the effect. She sighed. She considered her face too thin, nose too sharp, cheekbones too high. Which boy would ever ask her to dance – a blind one maybe? But already there were admiring glances from both boys and girls at the striking tall girl with the red hair.

At last the local pubs seemed to be emptying and, to Orla’s relief, Rory and John reappeared refreshed and ready for action. The five of them joined the queue which had suddenly formed outside the doors which led into the foyer.

Orla had her half-crown ready, it was double for the men. It was money that Orla could ill afford. All of her group seemed to be paying their own entrance so that way there could be no misunderstandings afterwards.

They paid their money and took a ticket. Mary-Jo reminded Orla to keep the ticket as a pass-out, in case she went outside later and needed to regain entrance. Now they could hear the band, and the music hit them as they pushed through the swing doors into the hall.

At the far end was the band, presently playing an Irish dance-tune set. This was expected early in the night and only two couples were taking advantage to swing each other around the floor.

‘See ya later’ said Rory and John and they wandered over to where the men were standing. Orla followed Mary-Jo and Roseanne across to the opposite wall to join the women. There her two friends chatted animatedly to others they knew, Orla joining in when she could. She didn’t want to be the wallflower that no one talked to. Some, though very few, of the women smoked cigarettes. Orla had never tried one and had no intention of doing so. By contrast most of the men puffed away creating a foggy, slightly mysterious atmosphere over the dance floor.

At the end of each set – three tunes – the band paused for a few minutes and sipped from bottles of water. Some of the women headed off to the toilets or to the café-bar. Orla looked across the smoky room at the men. Almost all men these days had long hair, in complete contrast to the clean-cut looks of the showband who were getting ready to play again. Most had jackets and ties though, and flared trousers were all the rage. The men were laughing, joshing, horsing about, showing off. Just like the church hall after all, thought Orla. But she nevertheless noted that the men would cast their occasional glances across the room, sizing up the women. In much the same way, she fancied, that the farmers would assess the cows in the market square. She hoped that she might catch a nice one.

The band struck up again and, to cheers, the leader announced a set of pop songs. Taking his cue the singer launched into the first number, joined by many of the assembled crowd.

‘Oh Sugar, Oh Honey Honey…’

The girls commenced jigging on the spot; the first of the men bravely crossed the room.

‘You are my Candy Girl…’

The prettiest girls were the first to be asked. And, just as inevitably, they politely refused. ‘Sorry, I’m not dancing.’ The older, more experienced men took the early rebuffs without demur and went along the line until a girl would step out with them.

‘When I kissed you girl I knew how sweet a kiss could be…’

Soon the dance floor became less of a no-mans-land. Some of the women, still partnerless, danced around their handbags. A proportion of the men were now dancing, with varying degrees of style or none at all, cavorting, smiling, inviting their partner to be impressed with their moves.

‘Like the summer sunshine pour your sweetness over me…’

‘Thank you’ the girl would say at the end of the set and would retreat back to her fellows without further ceremony, head high. Even if the lad was a dish a girl wouldn’t risk her reputation publicly by pairing off that early in proceedings.

Orla got a dance on the third song of the set. A young, spotty lad but she supposed she ought to be polite and start to make an effort. She swayed her hips to ‘Bad Moon Rising’, gazing vacantly over the lad’s shoulder, ignoring his efforts to smile and make eye contact and, as the set drew to a close, she retreated back to the line with a ‘thank you.’

‘Come on, let’s get a drink.’ Roseanne led them upstairs to the bar area. Soft drinks only, which explained why the men tended to dally elsewhere before the dance. They bought Tanoras and sat at a table overlooking the dance floor.

‘I hope that Pat fellah asks me out again. He’s gorgeous.’

‘Well I dunno. There’s not many here tonight I’d look at twice. Be as well sitting at home with me Ma.’

The night wore on. The songs became livelier, the crowd less inhibited. Even the most sorrowful wallflowers were asked to dance though even they had the dignity not to cling onto their welcome saviour.

But then the last, slow set was announced and it was all to play for. Though Orla had been ‘up’ a number of times by now she had met no one interesting. Still, she hoped that she might partner a nice lad for this last set and maybe progress to a kiss or two outside before the drive home. At least then she’d have something of interest to say to the others afterwards when they’d be gassing in the back of the car.

But her heart fell when she saw Spotty making a beeline for her. She was sure that one or two other men had their eye on her as well but he was almost at her side. No one wanted to be left at the wall at this stage. Already there were a few stranded and loveless who were making for the exit as if they didn’t have a care in the world. As did many lads who had only been there for the music and the craic really.

Mary-Jo and Roseanne had disappeared. Orla resigned herself to her fate, no one was going to save her so she gave her best attention to her eager beau. Yes, a bit spotty, but not unpleasant, nice smile, teeth, Patrick he said. They one-two-threed around the floor among the other couples. He danced nicely enough, tried to hold her closer. She gently resisted. He bent his head to hers and, as she angled away he nibbled her neck. It tickled and she giggled. He laughed too and planted an unexpected kiss on her unwary lips. She smiled and returned the kiss. It was a nice sensation, gave her the shivers, and Orla thought this was the best she was going to get. She hadn’t had that many kisses from a boy and was quite unpracticed. Certainly at the church hall Patrick and Orla would have been prised apart by now. As the last number drew to a close Orla consented to Patrick holding her ever closer.

The main lights were switched on and the band said goodnight. Orla looked around but her friends were nowhere to be seen. Never mind, they wouldn’t go anywhere without her.

‘Well goodbye Patrick, thank you for the dance.’

‘Thank you Orla, I’ll see you outside. Do you have a coat to get?’

The Lilac is still there in Enniskeane, though it’s now a Skoda dealership.

A West Cork Mystery is available here https://amzn.to/3i3n3w6

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Simpler Times

20 Tuesday Sep 2022

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Running, Writing

≈ 14 Comments

Out on a little run this morning I was pondering on how simple life can be. Yes, of course all of us have worries, issues, problems to a greater or lesser degree. But as with the practice of mindfulness, running a few miles along quiet lanes on a fine morning can reduce the world momentarily to the one you are living in – the buildings, the fields, sky, sun, clouds. Nothing else matters. The past is gone and can’t be changed. The future is uncertain and can be dealt with as and when it comes. You are experiencing and enjoying the now, which is usually, at least, OK.

But the meditative effect of putting one foot in front of the other can also have other, surprising effects. In the past I have suddenly had worrying problems unknot themselves, unbidden, on a long run. I have, now and again, ‘lost’ a mile or so of a run – no recollection of having run the roads which have got me to my present position.

And this morning I thought of a little thing that happened over 50 years ago. It was of no consequence, one of the millions of memories which are generally stored in the dark recesses of one’s brain to stay there, but occasionally to pop to the forefront for no reason. I was still at school and it was the early 1970s. I was in west Cork with a school friend of mine, looking up relatives who were plentiful at that time – aunts, uncles, cousins. We visited a woman whose identity escapes me, but we were aware her daughter (or granddaughter) was celebrating her birthday – maybe her third or fourth. Accordingly we bought a cheap doll, duly arrived at the house, and presented the parcel to the little girl. I don’t think I’ve ever seen wonder on anyone’s face such as that of the little girl as she unwrapped the present and saw the doll. Enraptured, she removed it from the box and clutched it to her chest.

(Not the actual doll)

Then she carefully put the doll back into its box and wrapped it up before walking away, returning to it and reliving the joy of opening the present once more.

That little girl will be in her 50s now. If she has children and maybe grandchildren I don’t think they’d be so easily pleased.

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Goal Mile Christmas 2008 – Reprise

25 Friday Dec 2020

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Running

≈ 3 Comments

GOAL is a humanitarian charity established in Ireland some 40 years ago. Each Christmas Day, one of their fundraisers is the GOAL Mile. Held on athletics tracks throughout Ireland, the concept is simple – pay an entry fee, run a mile (a distance rarely raced in competition nowadays), and everybody wins.

By Christmas 2008 I’d been in Dublin for a year and had embedded myself in the life of Crusaders AC who have their track and clubhouse at Irishtown on the eastern edge of the city. Crusaders host one of these GOAL miles. This year – 2020 – it’s a virtual event for well understood reasons, but in 2008 I was there on Christmas morning to do my bit.

Fortunately it wasn’t just one mad race that morning as Dublin has some seriously good athletes. I jumped into one race in which I stood a chance of not being embarrassed. On the whistle, off we set, two or three of us in running gear plus a couple of Mums pushing prams and trailing slightly older infants. It was a bit surreal, not many spectators as we headed past the clubhouse, down the back straight, around the final turn from where you can see the big cargo boats at Dublin Port and down the home straight to complete the lap. Unfair obstruction as I had to weave between and past scampering children and buggies but my complaints went unheard as they’d paid their entry fee as well.

Fair play to myself, I pushed my body hard if not fast. As I passed the finishing line for the last time I heard the time – 6.58 – which remains my PB to this day.

Some proper runners from the famous Crusaders club

It might have been short-lived and long ago but I still treasure those days with the Crusaders and still I still wear the club vest whenever possible.

Last day with the Crusaders kids, summer 2009

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Written in the Stars

25 Wednesday Nov 2020

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Writing

≈ 4 Comments

I blogged about Ireland’s Bloody Sunday some time ago. In a nutshell, on 21st November 1920, in reprisal for IRA assasinations earlier that day, British military forces went along and sprayed bullets around Croke Park in Dublin where the Dublin team were playing Tipperary at Gaelic football.

15 were killed or fatally injured, and many wounded. Amongst those killed was Michael Hogan, the Tipperary captain.

Michael Hogan

Last weekend was 100 years since those landmark events. The provincial Gaelic football finals were played, amongst them the Munster final Tipperary v Cork. Tipp hadn’t won the Munster championship since 1935, i.e. 85 years ago – Kerry (especially) and Cork habitually fight it out amongst themselves.

It was written in the stars that Tipp would win, which they duly did, thus honouring their former captain who was taken too soon.

And another strange coincidence occurred. That year, 1920, the provincial champions were:
Munster – Tipperary
Leinster – Dublin
Connacht – Mayo
Ulster – Cavan

That was how they finished last weekend as well.

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Fungie the Dolphin

22 Thursday Oct 2020

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Writing

≈ 12 Comments

He’s not been seen for over a week now. The mainstay of tourism in the town of Dingle, Kerry in the far west of Ireland is gone and hopes are fading.

Fungie originally turned up in Dingle Harbour in the early 1980s. He fascinated locals and visitors alike with his friendly nature, but surely he’d soon join his mates in deeper waters.

Not so. He became a regular attraction and a little industry quickly grew up, – boat trips certainly but also the hospitality trade which found itself suddenly busier with the influx of tourists. No longer was Dingle a peaceful, niche corner of old Ireland, it was suddenly on the beaten track, a short and scenic trip down the road from celebrated Killarney.

Dingle Town

Now, here’s the thing. Some of us, maybe with rival Cork sympathies, thought it was all a cod (pun intended). Fungie might have been a real dolphin at the outset but those cunning Kerrymen weren’t about to lose their new income stream. I, for one, reckoned that the thing was now a blow-up dolphin, dragged about the harbour on display to gullible Americans.

One time I espoused this thought to the (previously friendly) ladies in the Tralee tourist office to be met with the fiercest of death stares (and I’ve received a few so I should know).

I repent; there is nothing in the present grief that suggests that Fungie was anything other than a real fish (or mammal). Fungie come back 😢😢

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Maybe people are afraid to believe in ghosts

14 Monday Sep 2020

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Writing

≈ 28 Comments

Have you ever seen a ghost? If not, do you believe in them, or at least have an open mind? If there was a scale of belief 0 – 10 where would you be? I reckon I’d be a 7 or an 8.

Obviously, if you’ve seen a real live ghost you’ll be a 10. Others, many of you, will be a sceptical zero. So no, I’ve never had the pleasure though I’d desperately love to learn that ghosts exist on a physical level.

Cottingley fairies

We’re short of apparitions here in Jersey. We do have a few old legends but they are firmly rooted in the past with no sightings (to my knowledge) in modern times. Our medieval castle Mont Orgueil does supposedly have a resident ghost whose dark corner I point out to our visitors; there is a little substance to this maybe according to previous ghost hunters. Doctor John Lewis, in his memoirs of the Occupation years, describes taking rooms in Bath Street and, for several nights in a row, heard a tumultuous racket coming from the room next to his own bedroom. Upon opening the dividing door there was silence and emptiness. He had almost got used to this phenomenon until one night the noise stopped abruptly, never to reoccur. (The building has since been demolished.)

A family I know well once experienced the sensation of an invisible ‘someone’ walking slowly across their living room and out through the wall – there were three of them who simultaneously experienced this. I re-wrote this scene in A West Cork Mystery.

Credit blogs.bcm.edu.

And of course, Ireland is where you will find ghosts, if anywhere. There is a rich cornucopia of myth, legend and folklore documented by the likes of WB Yeats, Lady Gregory and more recent writers like Michael Scott. And Ireland of course doesn’t just have ghosts; it has the faeries which, as everyone knows, are the descendants of the Tuatha Dé Dannan who were driven underground to the Otherworld by their conquerors the Milesians. They interact with the human race in myriad ways.

As a child, on a visit to an aunt in west Cork, she’d say, “Go to sleep now but wake up at midnight to see the leprechauns dancing outside.” And next thing the morning light would be streaming in through my window.

Slievemore, Achill (Atlas Obscura)

Walk (or run, as I’ve had the pleasure of doing) through the misty wilds of Connemara, wander through the deserted village of Slievemore on Achill Island, listen carefully to the dark silence descending over any Irish village once the pub door has been closed for the night, sit for a while, your back against a standing stone which pre-dates any history we know. Then tell me again that you’re a zero.

Any spooky experiences out there?

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My First Marathon Finish

17 Friday Apr 2020

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Running, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

NB: Long post, no pictures, a bit of self-indulgence.

Something just led me to look up my August 2008 blog on this matter and, guess what? There wasn’t a blog post at all. It seems like there was a nine-month hiatus in my blogging after I moved to Ireland in early 2008. So, almost 12 years later, here’s what I recall of my very first marathon finish.

You’ll note it wasn’t actually my first marathon, or even my second. Just the first I finished. So I’ll deal with those bad ones first. In 2006 or 2007 I entered my first full marathon, in Cork. I ran badly, didn’t get much beyond half way. I was puzzled and disappointed, but put it down to inexperience. Then, in June 2008, I entered Cork again. This time I’d trained like a demon with training runs up to 20 miles and beyond. Inexplicably I failed again, worse than the previous occasion. There seemed to be no reason for this abject failure – I’d run plenty of half-marathons at this stage so to not get beyond 13 – 14 miles was inexplicable.

What was I to do? I couldn’t just give up on marathons. What I did was enter another one, seven or eight weeks later, at Longford in the Irish Midlands. Instead of training even harder I cut back my mileage and added in a bit of gym work – resistance, lifting, rowing machine. I headed down to Longford on the evening before the race. A good start to race weekend – the hotel couldn’t find my booking so I had to head out miles into the countryside to find a room. However, the next morning, it was cool, breezy and damp. Just the conditions I like. Off we went.

Even at the outset I felt better, more confident that this was to be my day. I took it steady as we headed out of town, into the country. I passed a couple of chaps with ‘100 Marathon Club’ on their vests and started to feel even more confident.

Then, suddenly the half-marathoners who had started at the same time split off to the right and the race took on a different complexion. Into the lovely Longford lanes we went, not many of us. At times it seemed that I was running alone. There were very few marshals and only the occasional sign to assure me I was still on course. And then, a bit of fun with a wheelchair competitor. I’d trot by him on the little climbs as he toiled, pushing his wheels around. Then a little later, on the downs, he’d come flying by me, ‘Wheee!’

17, 18 miles, way further than I’d managed in Cork, and feeling relatively comfortable. 20 miles, and I found what they say is true. The last six miles is where a marathon starts. Out now on the hard shoulder of the N5, the Longford bypass. Remember those two ‘100 Club’ runners? They trotted by me, still chatting away together. When your resources are gone, your body has nothing left to give, you have to find ways and means of continuing. Unlike in Cork though I could sniff the finish – so much of endurance running is mental. I tried a trick – for each of those last six miles, concentrate on a person special to you and they’ll get you home. Whether or not it was that, I somehow found myself on the outskirts of Longford Town, still virtually alone. And then, like a vision, the finishing line on Main Street. Sunday lunchtime and a couple of dear old ladies kindly clapped me over the line. Someone handed me a medal.

Happily the nearby Longford Arms had made room for me on this Sunday evening and I tottered up to my room, collapsed on the bed, legs and everything quivering and cramping. I finally found the strength to get to the shower…it wasn’t working. The hotel agreed to change my room to one with a working shower, but this was further pain. Finally I showered and managed a somewhat tortured rest.

But by 7pm I was right as rain. Medal around my neck I headed off on a pub crawl, gleefully downing a pint at each and moving on to the next on that quiet Sunday evening. After about seven pubs and seven pints, waving my medal at disinterested bar staff at each one, I happily weaved my way back to my hotel.

I won’t forget that day anyway, but now it’s recorded here. Thank you for reading.

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Bog Poetry

24 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Poetry, Writing

≈ 14 Comments

Working the low bog lands, farming turf for fuel, has long been a traditional industry in Ireland. It is hard, back-breaking work – the likes of me wouldn’t last the morning. The lads that work the land would laugh at the romantic notion that there is anything ‘noble’ about it. But I think there is. The connection to the land, to their forefathers, is deep.

Bog (Irish Times)

Credit Irish Times

A local writer friend of mine, Yvonne Heavey, dashed off a poem as a tribute to the turf workers – she joined them one summer as a young teenager in the Irish Midlands. No poet I, but I jumped in and had a bash at re-phrasing her poem. It was fun. So in the style of William Drennan (apologies to him), here is what you might term a Mock Celtic Revival poem simply entitled The Turf Workers by Heavey/McCarthy.

As Drennan has told of the Emerald Isle
God saw it was good and bestowed a sweet smile
On its shores north and south, on its mountains so green
Nor did he forget the lowlands between
Though the lakes of Killarney are wond’rous to see
And the Cliffs of Moher have great majesty
It’s the lowlands so rare that God loves the best
And the lads that labour there, reluctant to rest
Ancient land, blessed soil, your gifts we collect
You give and we take, but for sure with respect
The bog lands laid down over thousands of years
Have seen laughter and love, famine and tears
Nearby the bones of ancestors who dwelled
They too worked the land, by hunger impelled
Westmeath to Roscommon, Longford to Clare
When they needed you, you were always there
So laughter done, the boys start to work
Backs bent, legs braced, not thinking to shirk
For them not the comfort of computer or pen
But ageless connection with their countrymen
With spade and with hand they dig and they turn
No clocks they watch, a few euro to earn
For these men of Ireland connect with the land
Not for them sitting down, coffee to hand
From morning to night they work steadily
The rows designated, endless to see
Fellow turf workers, I was once one of you
As a young wan I was there, summer of ‘92
Blisters, bad back, I experienced it with you
You welcomed me in, I was one of the crew
Bog dust, bog frogs, I knew them well
When the rain swept across, it might have been Hell
But you carried on, so I did too
I wouldn’t be beaten, I was as good as you
The laughter we shared, the bad jokes we told
Then on with our work, digging for gold
And at the end of each summer’s day
We’d wend our way home, counting our pay
Never doubting we’d do it again
The next day

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The Evolution of Irish Dance

20 Monday Jan 2020

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Writing

≈ 28 Comments

Many years ago my daughter Emma was entered in one of the dance categories of the Jersey Eisteddfod. She practised her ballet-based piece of work for weeks beforehand and, on competition night, she pulled it off perfectly. Three little girls performing bog standard Irish jigs took the three prizes.

Traditional Irish step dance has its origins in the 1700s when dance masters travelled the country teaching the dances. These visits were apparently very popular with the townsfolk as they represented a chance to have a bit of a party.

In 1893 the Gaelic League was formed. This was a kickback against colonial oppression and the perceived anglicisation of Irish culture. As well as promoting indigenous Irish sports, the League standardised step dance in the country and re-branded it Irish dance.

In 1935 the Public Dance Halls Act effectively confined dancing to Catholic-controlled dance halls. Irish dance2The style of dancing thus remained isolated from outside influences. It continued to be a rather formal and chaste affair, arms stiffly by side, upper torso rigid. Girls and women wore colourfully embroidered velvet dresses, boys and men kilts, though dark trousers started to become accepted. The Irish Dancing Commission retained strict rules concerning the teaching of Irish dance, and the rules of competition were unbending.

The Eurovision Song Contest was held in 1994 at the Point Theatre (now the 3Arena) in Dublin. Ireland were hosting the contest as the previous year’s winners. The national broadcaster RTE televised the show across the continent. Irish danceDuring the intermission half way through the contest a dance performance took place. Those seven minutes revolutionised the perception of Irish dance. Riverdance, fronted by American-born champion dancers Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, took everyone’s breath away. It was sensational. Irish dance was suddenly a theatrical performance. It was energetic, freed from convention, progressive, sexy, smiley. The costumes were now light, modern, sequinned, allowing freedom of movement. It perfectly captured the mood of modern Ireland and the Celtic Tiger years.Riverdance

Irish dance expanded worldwide, outside its heartland and those of Irish descent worldwide. Riverdance became a full-length show which is still touring the world 26 years later. Flatley broke away to run his own shows. If you’ve never seen Lord of the Dance, it is still touring. If you can’t see it live then it’s worth 90 minutes of your life to watch it here, with Flatley himself.Michael Flatley

And, I understand anyway, back at non-theatrical competition level, the judges now accept innovation as part of the evolution of this ancient dance form.

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The Stardust, justice to be served?

27 Friday Sep 2019

Posted by Roy McCarthy in Ireland, Writing

≈ 10 Comments

48 kids never came home from the Stardust nightclub in north Dublin on Valentine’s Day, 14th February 1981. I have posted before on the subject here and here. The bare facts are

Stardust1

  •  A fire broke out in the upper part of the building. It quickly spread to the main nightclub area, which was packed.
  • There was panic, those inside fled for the exits. Some of the fire exits were chained shut and padlocked. The lights failed.
  • 48 died, 214 were injured, some very badly.
  • A Public Enquiry found that arson was the probable cause. This enabled the building’s owners, the Butterlys, to claim compensation of 580,000 Irish pounds.
  • A further enquiry in 2009 ruled that there was no evidence of arson. (No repayment of compensation of course.)
  • Despite the original enquiry finding clear evidence of ‘recklessly dangerous practices’ against the operators of the nightclub, no one has ever been charged with any offence.
  • The Butterlys have brazened it out to this day, re-launching their business on the site with never the hint of an apology or regret.
  • In recent times much more evidence has been gathered that, if accepted, would prove beyond doubt that the fire was the result of an electrical fault in the roof space. And who is responsible for ensuring electrical safety?

Now, after more than 38 years of campaigning, the Attorney General has ruled that fresh inquests into the 48 deaths will be held.

Will the new inquest finally see justice done, as with the Hillsborough tragedy?

Stardust2

Christy Moore’s 1985 song for which he was found guilty of contempt of court. The lyrics are still libellous in Ireland.

Ray Heffernan’s beautiful song of remembrance.

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