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One of the many events held during 2016 to honour those who took part in the Easter Rising one hundred years before, was a stage play From the Backbone Out which told the story of Richard O’Carroll a labour leader and a member of the Irish Volunteers

O’Carroll who commanded an outpost in Camden Street was fatally shot after he was captured by the infamous Captain Bowen-Colthurst who would murder the pacifist, Francis Sheehy-Skeffington and two journalists on the same day.

When he came face to face with Bowen-Colthurst he asked O’Carroll if he was a “Shinner’? O’Carroll’s response was unequivocal, he replied… “From the backbone out”. Hence the title of the play which premiered in Dublin’s Liberty Hall to a packed audience of 400 people in April last year. The play is the work of two young Dublin men, Alan O’Brien and Patrick Ferris and marks their debut into playwriting.

Alan is a poet, writer and part-time actor and has won a Slam Sunday event as well as being shortlisted for the Maeve Binchey Travel Award in 2015. Co-writer Patrick Ferris has a degree in History and Classics and has written ‘as far back as he can recall’.

Now this dynamic duo has written (Alan) and directed (Patrick) an award-winning radio play Snow Falls and So Do We. Winner of the P J O’Connor Award 2016 (RTE) the play has been independently produced for the internet. It has received wide acclaim described by one listener as “Very Beckett. Kept me totally enthralled”. Other comments can be viewed on the link below.

Link to the play on soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/greenember/snow-falls-and-so-do-we

The most pleasing thing about this readable, amusing and perceptive memoir is that O’Brien, who is clearly a scholar of literature, drama and history, weaves his erudition seamlessly into his life-affirming tale of working class life.

 Fergus Whelan,

LookLeft

  Ah, yes, the Irish sure do have a way with words – a very entertaining, humorous, intelligent, loving and proud memoir. More literary gold from the “Emerald Isle”.

                                                                                                                                Wendy O’Hanlon,

                                                                Acres Australia

  I loved this little bit of history about a big period of sadness that happened in a proud country where people stood solid for what they believed to be right and just. A powerful story written from a heart that witnessed the country he loved torn in two.

                                                                            John Morrow,

Pick of the Week

 O’Brien weaves together the many threads of history and his own life to produce an informed tale that will interest many readers well beyond the globe’s enormous Irish Diaspora.

                                                                             Robin Osborne,

Media Adviser

 The book will also appeal to the Irish Diaspora, as O’Brien’s memories of migration to and from England for work in the lean years of 1950s Ireland will resonate with many. As thousands continue to emigrate every week for places like Australia, O’Brien reminds us in his closing lines, ‘There are Irishmen and there are men from Ireland… I am as Ireland made me. Intentionally or not’.

Dr Sarah Campbell, 

Modern Irish History  

 While his later life took him to Australia, this memoir stands out among those which tell a wider tale than interesting anecdotes about growing up in Dublin or other places in the “Rare Oul’ Times”. It looks into the developing mind of a young person who is not only intensely observant of the world but conscious of their class and the challenges before it, and most critically, can convey it to the reader.

Michael Halpenny,

Liberty

 O’Brien’s long held view is that it was necessary to remove the gun from Irish politics. Some years later the IRA came to the same conclusion. An erudite and entertaining read.

                                                                              Bendigo Weekly

A short extract from Against the Wind: Memoir of a Dissident Dubliner

At the end of the war Da was home once again from England. He had got a job with a small builder doing mainly repair and maintenance work on some older houses in New Street.

Ma was very happy to have him home once more and sang as she went about her housework. She could even laugh when the clothesline broke and the clean washing fell to the ground. “Blast it, the bloody nuisance of a thing,” she said under her breath. “Ah sure Pat will fix up a new line when he gets in.”

Nothing was a worry to her then. “And it’s great to be living a natural married life again,” she confided in Mrs Foley across the fence as they both hung out the Monday wash. Mrs Foley laughed and said, “Now Kath, just remember what they say, ‘If you can’t be good, be careful.”’ And they both laughed together as women do in each others company when there are no men to overhear.

But though Da was happy enough to be working steadily he was thinking of the uncertainty of the ups and downs of the building industry and wondered if it would always be so in Ireland. He read the newspapers avidly to keep informed of the trends that were possible indicators to the economy and the foreseeable future for tradesmen like him.

“How would you like to go out to Australia, Kath,” he asked my mother one Sunday, as he looked up from reading one of the English Sunday papers. For the next few days the talk was all about Australia and we kids got in on the discussions and dragged out our school atlases to look at where Australia was in the world.

On the way to school as we walked up the Rathmines Road my younger sisters Mae and Doris and I chatted about “being Australians” and were overheard by a young woman walking with her newly commissioned soldier fiancé. “Oh are you little Australians?” she stopped to ask the girls.

“No. Not yet anyway. But we might be someday. If our Da can stay home from England and save enough money for us to go there,” Mae said innocently.

“So your Daddy can save more money here than he can when he works in England?” she asked. “I thought there was great money to be made in England the way everybody goes there.” She looked at her officer and smiled smugly. “So the streets are not paved with gold in London after all, darling,” she smirked.

Even at our childhood stage we had an understanding of the economic conditions that prevailed in the Ireland of the forties and fifties. We had heard Ma talk of how when men were away they had to keep “two homes” on one wage. I wanted to tell this smug bitch some of the realities of life and how the country could never survive without the emigrants remittances that came back delivered by the telegram boys each week.
I had heard the discussions in our house and in the homes of our relatives many times and over the years had come to understand more of the “grown-ups” talk. I looked up words like “emigrants” and “remittances” in the big dictionary that had been in our family “for generations” Ma had said when I asked where the “big book” came from.

But instead of confronting this woman who was after all only a few years younger than my parents I took my sister’s hands and walked away. When I told Ma what had happened and what I had wanted to say to the couple she just smiled and said, “One half of the country doesn’t know how the other half lives. Probably her officer fella is just back from Sandhurst”. This made my Da laugh and he explained that even those that managed to stay at home and did not have to “take the boat” would have relatives in England or America or Australia. That emigration was “a curse for some and a safety valve for others.”

An overdue update for all followers of this site:-

Visitors from 89 countries as at 22 May 2017.

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Book – Against the Wind: Memoir of a Dissident Dubliner. ISBN: 1-922086-53-3. The book is available at  many public libraries in Australia, but is no longer distributed by Dennis Jones & Associates. However, a limited number of signed copies are available direct from the author and are also available on Amazon POD or as an ebook.

In Ireland the book may be purchased through visiting the Facebook pages of Liam and Alan O’Brien who are the agents for the book in Dublin.

Apart from this site many of my articles may be viewed on http://www.thewildgeese.irish

Thanks to all fans and followers of Being Bookish.

TURNING THE TABLES

By J. A. O’Brien

“A nice thing to find in one of the largest bookshops in the city. And in one of the main streets of Dublin no less,” Dan slammed the book on the manager’s desk.

Mr Molloy looked at the book. “My good man there is no way we would have that book for sale,” he said.

“It was with the Greek literature. Any young student could have picked it out thinking it was by Homer,” Dan snorted. “Disgraceful. Absolutely disgraceful. Ulysses indeed.”

“I assure you there has been a mistake. We have never ever stocked that man Joyce’s book in our store. We have very strict rules.” Mr Molloy wiped sweat from his forehead.

“It’s a banned book.” Dan pointed to the notice that was prominently displayed around the shop and could be seen through the glass panel of the office. It read:

“THERE ARE OVER 8000 BOOKS BANNED IN IRELAND. IF BY CHANCE WE HAVE ONE ON DISPLAY, PLEASE INFORM US AND IT WILL BE DESTROYED.”

“So much for that indeed,” Dan snorted. “Not only banned by our own Irish censors but I believe it is on the Index too.”

Mr Molloy went white. “Not the Index. Oh my God, not that.” The Church’s Index of Forbidden Books, carried more weight than the censors’ list so far as he was concerned.

“The same.”

“A filthy piece of work. And it gets worse at the end. A married woman languishing in her bed recounting her escapades and indulging her fantasies. A disgusting soliloquy.” Dan said.

Mr Molloy reached for the book. “As bad as that?” he asked.

Dan detected more eagerness than shock in his tone. “I’ll show you,” he said and opened the book. “Forty-five pages.” He held the last chapter between his fingers.

Mr Molloy licked his lips. He leaned forward as if to try to read the vertically held pages.

“Will I read some of it to you?” Dan asked.

“Yes. Yes of course.”

Still holding the pages together, Dan turned to the last page of the chapter and read:

I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

“My God,” Mr Molloy said. “What a wanton hussy. How could any man write it?”

Dan looked him in the eyes, “A dirty mind, Mr Molloy?”

Mr Molloy’s eyes were wide, his breathing heavy. “Leave it with me then. I’ll burn it this very day. It shouldn’t be held with the tongs.”

“Ah now I think that I had better take care of it. After all you didn’t even know it was on your shelf.”

“It’s just that I wouldn’t want it to be an occasion of sin for any young man. You know what I mean.”

“Or any young woman for that matter,” Dan said, with just the right touch of innuendo.

Mr Molloy flushed a bright red. He licked his lips again. “God forbid and may He keep the women of Ireland pure,” he said. By now he was almost panting.

“I’ll take care of it for you,” Dan said. “After all there is your reputation and that of your store to be considered. You supply most of the schools in the city. And it would never do for this to get out.”

Mr Molloy sought to recover himself. “Perhaps we can come to some arrangement then.”

Afterwards Dan told his delighted friend, Mick, “Brother, I got all the books the kids need at school this year. All free of charge. A very nice little deal, Mick. We can always benefit from the influence of the obscurants in this country.”

“Yeh turned the tables there alright. But I’m glad you didn’t let him keep me book,” Mick laughed. “Brand new and smuggled across the border via Belfast. From one peculiar and closed society to another. Jayus! The bould Joyce himself would be tickled pink at it all.”

This story is based on an incident that occurred in 1950s Dublin that involved two friends of our family. They did not live to see a statue of James Joyce erected close to where the bookshop with the sign once stood. Acknowledgements to the James Joyce Estate for the lines from Ulysses. ©