Christy Parker reflects on an urgent excursion to save his Christmas during the recession of the early ‘80’s.

As history repeats itself with a vengeance, many of us recall the enforced departures that saw us unpack our bags in foreign rooms in the 1980’s. Nostalgia is selective of course and what may have once seemed cold and uncertain acquires a warmer glow with time. Christmas, in particular, ignites the memories.

Before Ryanair, the likes of Aer Lingus were expert practitioners of the attitude that would define the Celtic Tiger; they charged exorbitant prices. At Christmas they increased them. Consequently, coach & boat was the dominant mode of transport for emigrants to London, even if every journey took ten times longer while conversely reducing one’s life expectancy by a year.

In late 1982 I had formed an attachment with a girl in Youghal, which helped happily to divert my attention both from being unemployed and from doing anything to rectify it. However this sustaining situation cast a discomforting hue across Christmas as I realised that my impoverished state (hasn’t changed by the way) would see me fall badly short when it came to celebrating the birth of Christ in every bar in town. On November 1st, my hopes and chattels in a green rucksack, I boarded Slattery’s bus for London, vowing to return by Christmas a wealthy man, for at least two weeks.

I quickly acquired a live-in bar job through the Tara Catering Agency, Paddington, a one-woman service operated by the late Nora Nesbitt (nee Dunlea) of Glendine. Nora dispatched me to a bar in the Holloway Road, where a 5 ½ day week of 13 hour shifts awaited. I’d been mangled by the system before so this didn’t surprise me.

I would be the sole staff in a small, L-shaped bar, where grim wallpaper and worn carpet didn’t add its attraction. The jukebox consisted 50% Joe Dolan, 40% Brendan Shine and the remainder for English people. The guv’nor (as landlords are known over yonder) was a small man in possession of a huge stomach, several cheeks, a few chins and a walk that seemed reluctant. His name was Tony but everyone referred to him as ‘The Pig,’ though not to any of his faces. His wife, Anne, dressed in miniskirts and carried a 1970’s beehive hairstyle. She was seldom seen in the bar nor, allegedly, outside it since the mid-70’s. They were childless but had an old, lame sheep dog that seemed to be the wiser of the three.

My lino-floored room had a bed, a chair, a dressing table and a fan heater. I was summonsed to work by a loud rap and a yell of “nine-a-clock y’awake?!” On my first morning I had my head out the 2nd floor kitchen window conversing with a departing delivery man on the street below. I was oblivious to The Pig’s voice until he roared in frustration, “You’re f****ng breakfast is ready! Are you f****ng deaf or f****g stupid?!” I responded, “Must be stupid, or I wouldn’t be here!” To which he smiled delighted, “I like your style. Good man.”

Thereafter, as seemed to be the norm, I always ate alone in the kitchen. My diet largely consisted of combinations from toast, boiled eggs, beans, bacon, cheese, fish fingers, steak & kidney pie, pork chops, ready mashed potatoes, peas and tea. I would be summoned to the kitchen by a bell to find it prepared on the table courtesy of the elusive Mrs Pig who would either be absent or about to depart. She rarely spoke to me. Soon the dog and I had become had formed an empathy and began taking each other for walks after closing time.

Saturdays were busy and the rest of the week ticked by as casually as summer waves rolling onto Youghal beach. In this vacuum of energy, I polished every glass and dusted every shelf twenty times a week while Joe Dolan professed his love for the girl in the white washed gable only feet away.

The clientele were small in number and mostly represented elderly locals and some younger Irishmen en route to livelier haunts. Occasionally a few young girls happened by but the juke box soon cleared them. Most nights, The Pig sat at the counter talking to friends and casting a caustic eye at any stranger who might alight on the premises, though this was normal behaviour for guv’nors.

One night, feeling I wasn’t contributing sufficiently to life’s dynamism, I hurled an ice cube into the air with a spoon and caught it in a spirit glass before administering the whiskey. The Pig’s eyes nearly popped onto the counter. He broke off from conversation to ask, with unconcealed awe, where I had “learned that trick.” Thereafter, his limitless admiration demanded that I repeat the manoeuvre whenever he himself wanted to impress someone. I resolved never again to work for someone who didn’t go out.

Then there was ‘Harpo.’ It wasn’t his real name but his resemblance to the famous Marx Brother was uncanny. This was not merely due to his physical appearance but, appropriately, he could neither hear nor speak. He also had a glass eye. Harpo worked in a local restaurant but spent much time in the bar playing cards. He possessed an amazing communication skill whereby his hand and facial gestures seemed to telepath his wishes.

Harpo was mostly loved but sporadically ridiculed. One afternoon a customer was aping his rather loping walk when suddenly Harpo turned and caught him in mid-gait. Embarrassed, the mimic began to apologise and Harpo half turned away, scrunched his fist over his eyes and then offered his irritant a reconciling handshake. The joker eagerly accepted and a second later screamed in alarm as he discovered Harpo’s glass eye staring up at him from his palm! Harpo, grinning widely, waved his finger in his face by way of a lap of honour.

Two weeks later, to circumvent the possibility of being instantly cast into a cold dark night, I informed The Pig by daylight that I was going home for Christmas. I’d stay a week to give him time to replace me. Like a couple whose relationship had settled for acceptance over ambition, we had grown to expect no surprises from each other and so this made him swear profusely. Then suddenly he mellowed, sighed and observed, “I should have known when I saw the rucksack that you weren’t a man to stay put.”

A new man, more determined than I to rid himself of Ireland, arrived within days. I hoped the dog would understand.

By Christy Parker \ Photo: Michael Hussey (YoughalOnline.com)

Having sent the Celtic Tiger packing, the Wolf of Recession may be baring its teeth for further havoc but Youghal town centre is determined to stare it down. Four new businesses have opened for business in recent months as the Clock Gate oversees an unexpected commercial expansion on its doorstep. A singular blanket of optimism enfolds their proximity.

Mara Mina Pharmacy replaced a similar trade from the leased premises in the Rivergate Mall last October 30th. It forms one link in a chain of six throughout Munster, Ardmore. The Youghal branch employs five staff but “we’d hope to double that in time,” says Egyptian-born proprietor Akram Hanna.

Arkam stresses customer care. “Patients can register with Mara Mina and benefit from a 24-hour service, 365 days a year,” he says. “If someone can’t get to the shop, we will try to deliver to them. People often focus too much on administration but I believe if you look after the customers, the business will care for itself.”

Three doors down, Helen’s Boutique opened on November 29th and represents “a life’s ambition to own her own business for proprietor Helen Brookes. Following 16 years working in local factories, Helen’s passion for fashion was stirred over six subsequent years in fashion retail, including Annette’s. Read more