The Sixties, very roughly the period between the end of the 1956 – 62 Campaign (waged by the IRA and Saor Ulaidh) and the intensification of the Provisionals’ War in Northern Ireland in the early seventies, was an irregular period in Irish political life. This irregular period was, irregularly, a time when all the categories of Irish politics, from the nation to the polity, from Hibernianism to Republicanism, from Socialism to Unionism were actively thought about and fought over, in the streets and the pubs of Ireland, and in the dreams of Irishmen and Irishwomen. That is the background to the stories contained in this book, which attempt to show how the irregularity of those times was answered in the name of the poor and the powerless and the rights of the people of Ireland by a group of men of no property and no name, or of many names:—the IRREGULARS. (The photograph below is of the Colour Party at the funeral of Vol. Liam Walsh in 1970.) Chapter One God Save The Queen 1 Chapter Two Theology 6 Chapter Three The Pillar 13 Chapter Four The Other Cheek 20 Chapter Five Altar Ego 28 Chapter Six Hoax Calls 40 Chapter Seven Banns 56 Chapter Eight In The Woods 66 Chapter Nine Frankie The Striker 76 Chapter Ten Three Nations 91 Chapter Eleven The Vault 110 Chapter Twelve Aid For Small Farmers 119 Chapter Thirteen The Wall 136 Chapter Fourteen Chastity 148 Chapter Fifteen Two Off Mister 153 Chapter Sixteen The Expelled 160 Chapter Seventeen Esso Blue 175 Chapter Eighteen Codicil 194 Chapter Nineteen Revolutionary Citiphiliacs 221 Introduction 230 Website hungrybrigade.com God Save The Queen border campaign began to peter out in the As the Republican North due to lack of public support a new anti-British campaign was developing in the South. This consisted of busting public house televisions. It began when some public house owners believed that punters would drink more if they sat at the counter staring at a snowy television screen rather than engaging in animated conversation with one another. This sales tactic was several years ahead of its time insofar as it came into existence prior to the opening of an Irish television station. This meant that only B.B.C. television was available to Dublin pub drinkers, and this was a problem because that station closed each night after the news and weather with an image of Queen Elizabeth of England and a spirited rendition of the British National Anthem. It was customary, therefore, to switch off the television as soon as programming finished. Failure to do so could cause trouble as it was also consuetudinary for Republicans or politically conscious gurriers to toss a glass or a stool through the television screen if it continued to beam out triumphalist imperialist propaganda across Irish airwaves. It was towards the end of April 1959 when a young Ructions Doyle bumped into Vincent Sexton, the horticulturist and member of the Republican Movement. Sexton was then almost forty years of age. He seemed quite agitated as he threw glances over his shoulder. “Is everything alright Vincent?” inquired Ructions. “I was just accosted by a young pup of a Branchman in Parnell Street,” complained Sexton. “Did he try to arrest you?” “Remember me Vincent,” said Sexton, imitating the Branchman, “Remember me, he says in a palsy walsy voice.” “A congenial poxbottle,” observed Ructions Sexton’s voice became officious and haughty. “Should I know you Sir? I said to him. Ah c’mon Vincent, sure wasn’t it me who questioned you over the oul tele in Smith and Grogan’s.” “The fucking cheek of him,” Ructions sympathized . 1 “Exactly,” agreed Sexton, “And did you impress me? I asked him.” “That was putting him back in his cage,” said Ructions. Just then Tommy Marsh, a Sinn Fein supporter, came upon them. He had turned up at a Cumann meeting to join Sinn Fein some months earlier but left immediately when he spotted an elderly woman at the back of the room darning socks. He now arrived with a story that sent a shiver running down Sexton’s spine. He relayed how, a few days earlier at the Gardiner Street Labour Exchange, a big fellow with a Belfast accent had claimed to have busted eleven television screens in Dublin public houses. Sexton, who had smashed screens from Stoneybatter to Bulloch Harbour had also notched up eleven. He had presumed himself to be out of reach of the nearest contender. “A Belfast blow-in,” he exploded, “and not even a member of the Movement.” “This fella is a free marketeer with a big mouth. He was bawling it all over the kip.” “If he was any kind of republican he’d have stayed in the North and taken on the B Specials or the British Army, and not elbowed his way into peoples’ dole money down here,” said Sexton. “It’s the easy way out,” agreed Ructions. “I mean if he had any balls he’d leave the teles in the pubs alone and go up and attack an RUC barracks.” “Oh decent people have come down here like Bob Bradshaw and Harry White. People who didn’t bat an eyelid about riddling RUC men, but this bum is trying to make a name for himself on our pitch,” complained Sexton. “Were you ever in the Dockers’ pub on the Quays?” inquired Marsh. “No,” said Sexton. “There’s a tele in the lounge there, it wouldn’t be hard to get at it with a pint bottle and you could go back into the lead, couldn’t he Ructions?” “He could if we were there to distract the barman, except that we have no dosh,” added Ructions, patting his empty trouser pockets. Sexton’s eyes lit up, “Jeeesus lads, I’d really appreciate that, don’t worry about money for god’s sake, sure I’m deadheading roses in Enniskerry at the moment.” “That’s agreed then, so we could meet there later on at about five o’clock,” said Ructions. 2 “Five!!” exclaimed Sexton. “Sure it’ll be six before I get out of the garden and then I...” “There wouldn’t be any point in leaving it later than seven or we’d only be swannian out at closing time with a thirst on us.” “Okay,” said Sexton, reluctantly, “seven bells so.” It was ten minutes past seven when Sexton arrived. His thinning hair was covered with a cloth cap and he wore a white mackintosh. Ructions, whose beard made him look older than his twenty one years, was pacing up and down outside. He was on his second pint when Marsh arrived. “You look very snazzy,” said Marsh. “He’s expecting the Press to take his photograph when he breaks the record,” joked Ructions. “Slow down,” urged Marsh as they began the third round. “Slow down,” repeated Ructions, “do you want me to belittle a man’s generosity?” He gulped into the frothy pint. Sexton was drinking whisky and was beginning to blow a little as the lounge filled up. By the time the Phil Silvers show had concluded and the news had commenced Marsh was noticeably slurring, and Sexton was looking around with a vacant stare in his eyes as if he was not sure why he was there or, indeed, who he was. Now Ructions collared the barman for a last round and to hold his attention he was telling him about English landladies. “You see they’re not Catholics like Irish landladies,” explained Ructions, “sure they’re not Tommy?” “Eh, no.” “What religion are they Tommy?” “Eh, pagans, I think.” “Yes,” continued Ructions to the barman, “Pagans. You see it allows them to throw it about. Their religion allows them you see.” He winked at the barman. “Throw what about?” inquired the barman. 3 “Throw everything about, right Tom?” “Yeah, put it about, everywhere. Put it around,” Marsh concurred, as a customer further down the counter called for a drink. “That fucker down there,” said Ructions, holding the barman by the arm, “that fucker has been staring into the same pint for the last half hour with a mush on him like a sow’s arse and not a civil word to a soul. Now he’s all fucking action.” “I’ll give him action,” warned Marsh as he shuffled his shoulders. “Relax Tom,” advised Ructions, “I’m just explaining to the barman here that the one thing nobody wants in a public house is a silent shitter. A fella like that would empty a premises in five minutes.” “He would,” agreed Marsh. “A fella like that would spread despondency like wildfire.” “A fella who’d say nothing is as bad as a fella who won’t shut up,” Ructions lectured on. “If you have one of each in a pub get ready to meet the receiver.” “What were you saying about the English landladies putting things about?” asked the barman as he shouted down to the silent customer to tell him that he was barred. “Putting it all around,” Marsh interjected, “the whole shebang, all over the fucken gaff. Sure where else would you put it,” he laughed. “What I wasn’t saying is more to the point. You see the English landlady is up for it,” said Ructions giving the barman a series of winks. “Up for what?” “Up for everything, I said. Are you not listening to me? We’re talking here about lovely women who’d kick the salt out of holy water if you didn’t come across with the goods.” “That’s it,” slobbered Marsh.