Locking Horns in The National Park
Photo: Chris Grayson
John B. Keane in The Limerick Leader
One venerable reader of our column on communications was none other than my great friend, Willie Whack Gleeson, dean of Limerick’s typesetters and a great man to utilise big words as well as small.
He is a man to whom I am greatly indebted this many a day for his priceless insight into the character and background of his fellow Limerickmen.
“Sir,” he opens in characteristic fashion, “in recent contribution of yours to the Leader, you referred to the use of long words by yahoos, gombeen men, TDs and long-winded buffoons.”
“If I had my way, I would apply the following as a fair reading test for all drunken motorists and self-styled intellectuals and comprise city and county councils.”
“Promulgating your esoteric cogitations or articulating your superficial sentimentalities and amicable, philosophical or psychological observations demonstrate a clarified consciousness, a compact comprehensibleness, no coalescent conglomerations of prejudical garrulity, jejune bafflement and assinine affectations. Let your extemporaneous verbal evaporations and expectations have lucidity, intelligibility and veracious vivacity without rodomontade or Therspian bombast. Sedulously avoid all polysyllabic profundity, pompous propensity, psittaceous vacuity, ventriloquial verbosity, and vaniloquent vapidity.”
Shun double-entendre, obnoxious jocosity and pestiferous profanity, observable of apparent.”
“In brief, say what you mean, J.B. Don’t use big words.
Yours till Niagra Falls
Willie W. Gleeson”
How does one react to a letter like this from a man, who as far as I am aware, was never once intoxicated by the exuberance of his own verbosity nor given to inflated or fustian tumidity?
I imagine the sensible thing to do would be to have a shave a haircut, and if practicable, a shampoo, after which a refreshing bathe in the milk of ass mares is to be recommended.
American papers, please copy.
Sometimes at race meetings, I stand aside to watch the passing scene.
At the dog tracks, it’s different.
One is at once caught up in the proceedings such is the nature of the sport.
Recently at a well-known race meeting, I stood near to the owners’ and trainers’ bar.
From time to time, men and women with binoculars draped across their shoulders came and went.
Occasionally the doorkeeper would extend his hand to stop people who did not show proof of ownership.
Some of these were somewhat disgruntled and argued their cases heatedly.
Sometimes the doorman would reconsider his decision and admit them.
With others, he was adamant.
He held them firmly at bay; a cross look on his face, his shoulders belligerently squared under his white coat of office.
There was one particularly noisy exchange during which a couple of young bucks attempted to push the doorman aside.
They moved off, however, when the doorman threatened to call the Guards.
Next to arrive was a North Kerry publican with a party of friends.
None of the group had ever owned or trained an ass not to mention a horse.
The publican in question shook hands with the doorman and entered the bar.
Then, with the magnanimous gesture, he indicated to the remainder of his party that it was alright for them to enter.
The doorman made no attempt to stop them
Immediately after the last of the party had entered a decent-looking man with a pair of binoculars was held at bay by the doorman.
Puzzled, he retreated and sought another bar.
Nothing like this applies at dog tracks nor at football matches have you a special bar for players and trainers. I am tempted to ask who are owners and trainers above everybody else that they should be given a special bar?
I saw some of them in a special enclosure in the stand, and there was nothing about them to indicate that they were different from other race-goers.
This story first appeared in The Leader on October 2, 1976.
Down Memory Lane in Tarbert
This photo from the opening of Tarbert Comprehensive School was posted on Facebook by
Click on the link and you will find some of the people named in the comments.
This predatory cat waited for ages but that bird knew better than to come down from the tree.
My Friday friends in St. Vincent de Paul shop
Helping the customers on Friday October 4 2019 were Nancy, Liz, Bina and Eileen.