Back to the 1980s in more ways than one
THE YOUNG lad made his Communion on Saturday, so for the first time since the resumption of action after the lockdown I went an entire weekend without seeing live sport.
The closest I got to competitive fare was looking at the kids and some pals (all from the one household I should add) racing manically to complete the obstacle course on the bouncy castle at the back of the house in the fastest time.
I may, or may not, have had a sneaky turn myself after a beverage or two, but for insurance purposes we’ll say I just kept a watching brief.
In fact, I didn’t see much sport on the television either as the last couple of days have been spent enjoying precious time with the family and entertaining guests that, given current restrictions, came at different times to share the little man’s big occasion with him.
I did manage to keep half an eye on soccer results on Saturday and watch the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe through tired eyes the following day, but Sunday evening’s Match of the Day was my first opportunity to sit back and soak in sport and give it my full attention, although for a while I thought I had switched on Comedy Gold, given some of the slapstick defending by Liverpool and Manchester United.
It was like being transported in a time machine back to the early to mid-eighties, with Aston Villa and Everton riding high in the league and Manchester United looking like also-rans, although Liverpool were a long way off the sky-high standards they’ve set for themselves for the past two seasons and also in the heady days of Bob Paisley and Kenny Dalglish.
Unfortunately, the similarity with the eighties doesn’t just end with a quick glance at the upper echelons of the top flight table as we’re set for another nasty recession that could bite deeper than Luis Suarez getting his teeth into a sirloin steak.
Although fitness levels and overall quality has immeasurably improved since four decades ago, not everything is better in the beautiful game - the way Erik Lamela went down like a sack of spuds after being barely tickled by Antony Martial being a case in point.
The moustachioed hard men from the eighties would never dream of dabbling in such ridiculous amateur dramatics, and if either of my youngsters tried similar theatrics they’d be told in no uncertain terms not to do it again.
As harmless as the contact was, by the letter of the law the Manchester United striker had to go for raising his hand to an opponent’s face, but Lamela should have also received his marching orders for his reaction alone, never mind instigating the incident in the first place.
After Manchester City could
only manage a draw against an impressive Leeds on Saturday, I thought the title may as well be handed to Liverpool there and then, but Aston Villa’s hammering of the champions the next day has left plenty, including myself, questioning the wisdom of that train of thought.
It may well be a false dawn, but with the likes of Arsenal, Tottenham, Chelsea and Everton finding their stride and Liverpool and City looking vulnerable, we could actually be in for an open,
decent title race for once.
Sadly, it’s looking like I could have plenty more weekends devoid of live sport during the winter months, although David Moyes seems to have quickly got the hang of this working from home lark as his West Ham side turned on the style to dismantle a fancied Leicester outfit.
I fear the best-laid plans of the powers that be running GAA, rugby, soccer and other codes in this country could well be scuppered, so it would be nice to have some
crumbs of sporting comfort to get us through what promises to be a difficult winter of discontent.
Although I’m prone to an auld grumble or two about the mucky boots abandoned in the hallway or the hurling helmet discarded at the door, I’ll miss having those minor things to give out about if they’re cruelly snatched away from us again.
In Lamela style, even a brief mention of the word lockdown makes me drop dramatically to the ground with my head in my hands.
apprentice in 1976, billeted to the training centre in Dun Laoghaire. The four years of the apprenticeship inducted him into a world which was military in its discipline and attention to detail.
Lighthouse life required absolute dependability along with an understanding of the working of the motors which kept the lights shining and revolving with meticulous reliability. At the time that he joined the service, the staff were being introduced to the helicopters which were taking over from the boats which used to service the sites around the coast.
Being flown around in choppers was exciting but the training also had its prosaic side – sessions at the catering college in Cathal Brugha Street where the newbies learned how to feed themselves in their remote work places. They also learned how to tie knots. They learned how to use radio beacons. And, yes, they learned morse code which was then still in widespread use.
His first posting, while still an apprentice, was to Saint John’s Point, County Down, in Northern Ireland, illustrating his point that ‘ the sea has no borders’. This was followed by another posting to a ‘ land station’ at the other end of the island, at Roche’s Point in Cork.
‘Everything had to be spit and polish,’ recalls Brendan of the discipline involved in the work. It was discipline directed to a clear purpose: ‘ The light was never allowed to go out.’ The drudgery of cleaning brasses until they gleamed was backed by a requirement to be able to take engines apart and then put them back in full working order. And if one engine failed then a second engine, and a third and a fourth were on stand-by as nothing was left to chance: ‘ There was a back-up to a back-up to a back-up.’
Once fully fledged, assignments to land stations were followed by tours of duty in some of the most remotely spectacular locations imaginable. The names have a wild Atlantic ring to them - Blasket and Fastnet and the notorious Black Rock. The new boy remembers doing his research as he prepared to be lifted by helicopter to spend a fortnight on Fastnet far off the south coast for the first time.
He wanted to know in advance what the ‘old man’ – the most experienced staff member – on this famous mid-ocean outpost was like. The reviews of colleagues had young Brendan wary as the chopper approached the lighthouse in mid ocean. He recalls an amazing place, the watch-room high, high up, right at the top of the building to allow a view out over the top of the worst of the storms.
The newcomer became warier still as the resident veteran, who barely offered a word of greeting, tied a string across the room. Brendan presumed that this was for drying laundry but thought little more about it as he retired to his bedroom. A few hours later, his alarm sounded calling him to start work and he raced upstairs only to find himself sprawling across the floor as he burst into the watch-room.
He discovered that he had tripped over the string, which was now down at ankle level, much to the amusement of colleagues who went on to become the best of his friends. The string had dropped because the seemingly unshakeable walls had contracted with a drop in atmospheric pressure – this was a living, breathing structure. The Wicklow man grew to love this impossibly isolated spot where the savage power of the sea was capable of rattling the sturdy light tower.
He also had a fondness for Kish, nine miles out of Dublin, where there was plenty of passing shipping to keep an interested eye on. By chance he was stationed in the Kish lighthouse one evening in 1986 when the barometer began to fall at a rate he had never seen before. He alerted Met Eireann at Glasnevin to the phenomenon and was told to check his equipment before taking renewed readings.
The sea appeared ‘sickly calm’ but the barometer continued to display alarming readings and soon the meteorologists on dry land were also seeing a similar drop in pressure. As the Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead ferry was due to sail, Brendan Copeland took the initiative and rang the ship before it left port, asking to speak to the skipper. He advised the man from Stena not to travel but the call was cut short with a curt goodnight and he saw the ferry sail past – straight into the jaws of Hurricane Charley.
Instead of lasting a few hours, the ill-fated voyage took five days, eventually limping into port in Wales after being blown way off course towards the Isle of Man and sustaining serious damage in the hurricane. The skipper had the good grace to send Brendan a letter later acknowledging that it had been a mistake not to heed the warning.
Automation, with LED lights and computers, spelled an end to lighthouse keeping. The new bulbs were high-tech miniatures, a fraction the size of the old-style originals, while everything could be controlled remotely at the flick of a switch from the comfort of the mainland. Human presence was no longer required, with Brendan stepping down in 1993 to let the new technology take over.
Brendan was broken-hearted and it took time to adjust to work away from the shore at the Harris Calorific engineering plant in Rathnew. Life on land allowed him the joy of spending more time with wife Elizabeth and their three children. He had already been recruited as volunteer mechanic with the lifeboat service by cox Sean Byrne, assisting Jimmy Potts in caring for the engine of the ‘Annie Blaker’. The boat became ‘ the love of my life’ and he took over the job of full-time mechanic in 2007 when Jimmy retired. More of the ‘Annie Blaker’ and the ‘Jack & Anne Slater’ next week.