I think I was about nine when I last went to confession. I was living in Dun Laoghaire, Co. Dublin, where I used to go to St. Michael's church. Into the dark confessional, where the priest whispered at you and you weren't allowed to look through the grille. I had told all my heavy sins and was awaiting absolution. I waited and waited, then after about twenty minutes I heard snoring coming from behind the grille (which I suppose shows how exciting my sins were!). The priest was fast asleep and snoring. I left the confessional and I don't think I ever went back. Somebody told me afterwards that the poor priest had been bitten by a tsetse fly while on mission in Africa and had developed sleeping sickness. The explanation didn't do much to quell my scepticism about religion.
One of my driving routes was the number 18. It was affectionately known as the 'elusive 18', because you could never get one! This was mainly due to the bus crews 'lying down' on the job and avoiding work. The terminus in south Dublin is at Sandymount Green. I remember this well because one day, while driving my bus around the Green, I had a slight altercation with a metal box at the top of an electricity pole. I first became aware of this altercation when I heard the sound of breaking glass coming from upstairs and hysterical women screaming as the metal box attacked the upstairs of the bus like the shark from Jaws. One day, while driving my bus up near Churchtown (I think it was near the church!), on a nice relaxing summer afternoon, the conductor informed me that a young woman had just gone into labour. This put the cat among the pigeons!. My experience with women going into labour was minus zero. Especially on a bus that I was in charge of. I had heard that in England they trained you to deliver the baby after throwing off the other passengers and blocking the windows with the seats. (I never asked about hot water and towels, although there was certainly a good supply of hot water in the radiator). Without further ado I drove the bus, ignoring bus stops, until I came to the nearest pub, which in Ireland doesn't take too long! I stopped the bus and declared "Ok folks, this here bus ain't goin' no further. Everybody off!" My remarks of course were not directed at the pregnant woman, who at this time was being consoled by the conductor. I ran over to the pub, phoned for an ambulance (the first and only time I have ever dialled 999) and waited for it to arrive, which it did five minutes later! The pregnant woman was safely dispatched to the hospital, we got the rest of the afternoon off and that was the end of that!
One summer's night in Manhattan I decided to go for a walk in Central Park. I had recently arrived from Ireland and was unaware that the park closed at midnight and that one could get seriously mugged there. There was no-one about, it was a lovely quiet night as I strolled along in the direction of the lake. When I got there I was met with a most peculiar sight. About ten policemen, in full uniform, were gathered at the lakeside. There were two small boats in the water, each boat containing two policemen. They were in the middle of a splashing fight, one intent on soaking the other with the oars, while their colleagues stood on the bank and roared encouragement. I was quite amazed. I stood there watching this spectacle for a few minutes when one of the policemen spotted me. Two of them came straight over and barked questions at me. The nature of these questions went along the lines of what the hell was I doing there. I replied in my best Irish brogue, subtly enhanced for the occasion, that I had just arrived from the Emerald Isle, was unaware of what was going on and was terribly sorry!. It worked, they told me to go home. I often wonder has anyone else ever seen the Central Park police having boat fights late at night in Central Park lake!
There are things I remember about New York that stick in my mind. When I arrived there, with my four month working visa, I had a few contacts but no job. At that time they were putting the finishing touches to the World Trade Center. The security firm there realised that all these young Irish poeple were arriving for the summer and were prepared to work for minimum legal rates, so I got a job as a security guard. They didn't give me a gun, but they did give me a torch and a hardhat! Our main function was to provide fire patrols on the 115 or so floors of the Trade Center, for insurance cover. Each patrol covered about 10 floors and we were all Irish except the supervisors, who got really pissed because we talked to each other on the walkie talkies in Irish! One day I was cycling through Central Park with some friends, when I ran over a squirrel (by an accident, as my youngest son would say). The squirrel got wrapped up in my front wheel and went round and round about six times until eventually he got thrown out on to the ground. I stopped the bike and went to the aid of the squirrel. He was in bad shape and not long for this world. There was no doubt that the kindest thing to do would be to put him out of his misery there and then. This was easier said than done. I had nothing with which to do the foul deed! I have put other poor victims out of their misery by running over them with the rear wheel of the car, or by shooting them, but in this instance I was at a loss. Finally, after hunting around the park for a while, I found a large stout stick, with which I intended throttling the unfortunate squirrel. When I got back to the scene of the accident, the squirrel had passed away of his own accord and that was the end of that!.
Chiefy was my Dad, Michael O'Dwyer. I could write an entire book about him, he was a great man and a real character. He was called Chiefy by some of the local people in Dunmore East, Co. Waterford, where we lived. I'm not quite sure why, I think it was started by another character from Dunmore, Nicko Murphy, and had something to do with Big Chief. Anyway, Chiefy had a dog called Scampi. Scampi was also a character and one of the best dogs I've known (he used to ride on my motorbike). Now Chiefy at this stage had retired from the hotel business and was enjoying life. Occasionally, he would stroll down the village and spend some time in one of the hotels, drinking pints of Guinness. Of course Scampi would accompany him on these adventures, faithful dog that he was. One day Chiefy was ensconced in the bar of the Ocean Hotel, when the owner, Brendan, arrived back from somewhere else. As Brendan walked into his hotel, he glanced down the bar just in time to see Scampi cocking his leg against a bar stool. Brendan was furious! He strode down the bar to Chiefy and said "Michael, that bloody dog of yours has just peed against my bar stool!" "Well Brendan", said Chiefy without batting an eyelid, "It just goes to show you what he thinks of the place!"
Working in the Communications Centre (the Godbothering Centre) Driving the coal demonstration lorry for CDL (God, what a horrible job!) The London pub scene Portering at St. Bartholomews, London I was a roadie.. The Offshore Blues I was a Bed Salesman! Irish publican in Marbella Live Television in Johannesburg