The new Ireland

YOU might think that you know Pete when you look at him. In many ways he is the average man next door. He used to be a Led Zeppelin fan with long red hair hanging down his back, but now the curls are flattened with hair treatment and he is indistinctively shorn; no trace of a head-banging past.

Pete married Pauline when he was 23 and she just less. It was a big wedding with over 150 in attendance. Both she and he were from classy working-class families, each with stories of near glorious relatives who could’ve gone further, if it wasn’t for some small weakness, too fond of a pint, or reticence.

The residue from these people was scattered all over the hotel ballroom where the wedding reception was held, glorious Dublin characters, with no-nonsense stories.

‘My Brudder, as ye know, was in dee RTE Symphony Orchestra, on first violin, and yes, we were all proud of him, but he was dirt cheap, and he never brushed his teet, he had very little bludd in him, he shudda been here te-day, but he’s half dead from misery, so of course he isn’t!’

This was Pete’s Aunt Breda, she had a large sharp nose and carried a small flask of Powers in her handbag, she cut nonsense off at the pass, and was a champion of the meek.

Delightfully brusque, Breda was lively company. Pauline’s family were more sedate, her mother was understated and stylish, still in mourning from the loss of her husband, she wore a black fitted knee-length dress and cashmere cardigan to the wedding. She drank weak tea and wore her sobriety without a hint of supremacy, her fine pale skin, resplendent without the aid of make-up.

Her family’s blood pressure was in a downward trajectory while Pete’s was on the ascendance. His family were galled when Pete separated from Pauline four years later and continued to live beneath the same roof.

Pauline’s mother saw no reason to mind, she liked Pete, and he liked her. She maintained her milk white pallor, as did her daughter.

Every weekend, without a hint of guilt, Pete splashed himself with aftershave and went into town, where he would charm the hearts out of women in the single bars; they liked him for his wit and gentleness, in that cut-throat environment, he was a breath of fresh air, and his beer belly didn’t detract it seems.

There were girl ‘friends’ in every quarter, and he managed to keep them all on the go at the same time. Pete regaled them with self-effacing stories, like the one about his washing. Trying his best to keep on top of domestic tasks, he had hung it on the line in the sunless back yard.

‘But I just couldn’t get them in before the next shower arrived. Finally, I was driven to give them serious attention, managing to grab the almost dry clothes before heading to work at the telephone company. Only one pair of underpants was dry enough to wear and they had been left out there so long, a bleedin bird had made his nest in them!’

Pete had mastered what younger men would kill for, charm.

Pauline and Pete still live under the same roof, he has been known to bring girl ‘friends’ there for tea. On a few occasions, joining Pauline with her new boyfriend and her mother.

With saucers balanced upon knees, they would sit in a dignified circle around the fire and talk about daily trivia. James Joyce was crucified for less, but this is the new Ireland, it’s a blast!

Her mother was understated and stylish... She drank weak tea and wore her sobriety without a hint of supremacy, her fine pale skin, resplendent without the aid of make-up