Page turns for irreplaceable Mick the Book

MICHAEL KELLEHER knows the power and pull of a good story. That’s why he has been reluctant to dispel the one about how he is barred from pub quizzes in the seaside town of Bray.

He should indeed be so cast out because the range of stuff he carries around in that busy head of his puts the rest of us at a distinct disadvantage. Like all real gentlemen and scholars, though, he carries this knowledge lightly. That makes it bearable for the rest of us, but no less intimidating.

Mick the Book, as he is affectionately known, retired as librarian from the town’s old Carnegie library after 43 years pubic service last week.

He is, to lazily invoke that hoariest old cliché, irreplaceable.

Not just because of all he knew, much of it gleaned from the volumes he both loved and obviously inhaled, but because of his decency, professionalism and dedication.

If you looked to borrow a book, chances are he’d have already read it or at least read of it. If you asked for a book he hadn’t heard of, it was probably because you got the title or author wrong. If you sought out a book that time and print had forgotten, he’d find it, dust it off and bring it to you.

Twice in recent times he exhumed tomes for me that the peerless library in Trinity was dragging its heels over.

With these worn copies came a story, an added layer of nuance and disclosure. Perhaps a suggestion of another historian that might be sought out, or even some tangential tittletattle. There are precious few genuine polymaths left in our libraries, so appreciate them while you can. In Bray, we’ll just have to do with bookshelves of gifted memories.

Here’s to the next chapter, Michael.

A little perspective on the moral panic, please

IS THERE any hope for us? We seem to slither further down the sewers with each passing day. We have shed all inhibitions, lost all self-control and moral restraint.

A quote caught my eye this week, from a charity volunteer describing what she witnessed along Dublin’s O’Connell Street in the early hours.

It reads: “It goes to one’s heart to see how very young most of the girls are; also to see how drunk many of them are. The awful boldness of these men and girls appalls (sic) one.

“They accost one another without apparently any shame, and more times than I can count I have turned my flashlight onto dark doorways and corners in laneways and disclosed scenes that are indescribable.”

Not a pretty sight on our capital’s main thoroughfare. So which night last week did this occur? Friday or Saturday most probably, nights when the street is a pantomime of the undead, deranged and sozzled.

Except it wasn’t last week. Or even the week before. It was sometime circa 1915, actually, as recorded by the Irish Women Patrol which prowled the streets to make sure that ‘separation women’ – the wives of men off fighting for God, king and a few bob – weren’t up to no good. But some of them obviously were.

I came across this during some historical browsing and it struck me that sometimes we need to put things into perspective. If the world is going to hell in a handcart in front of our eyes, it isn’t for the first time.

And Ireland is no worse than it ever was and there are no sins we commit now that we didn’t enjoy before.

The new Free State did indeed conspire with the one true church to create a beacon of Christianity that would shine a light for the rest of Europe. But we know how that worked out. Some people will always behave themselves, but certain others will allow their vices a night out on the town occasionally.

It’s what makes the world go around.