Itâs ⦠duh-duh-difficult, thatâs all, just duh-difficult ⦠duh-duh-duh-diffâ¦
14 A City Devastated
It wasnât long after the European Cup that a new record shop opened in the town â right next door to the Good Times bar.
And it was around then too that the first rumours began to surface about an impending visit to the town by the sensational chart-topper Clodagh Rodgers, whose number-one hit âCome Back and Shake Meâ was requested as often in the record shop now as anything by the Beatles. But all of this was as nothing to the opening of Coletteâs, the brand-new hair salon in the centre of the square, opposite the Green Shield shop. Already it was reported to be so popular that there were no appointments available until July. A noticeboard outside read:
The most modern sahn in Europe.
And it was into this already fabled emporium that Miss Dolly Mixtures, Dolores McCausland, one day confidently strolled, sporting her scarf in what she called the Babushka style, gaily knotted beneath her chin. Removing her Foster Grant sunglasses and breathing on to the lenses as she cooed â much to the chagrin of the nylon-caped incumbents, upon whom a small but palpably identifiable cloud of resentment now settled.
As they watched Dolly fold herself delicately into an easy chair, leafing through a copy of
Fashion Weekly,
into whose pages she gracefully vanished, as if she perceived herself somehow, quite effortlessly, to have taken possession of the town. Protestant entitlement, was how Henry Thornton might have described it. Itâs not as if I despise them, really, I recall him writing in one of his essays, for me theyâre more of an inconvenience, really, a mild irritation. Like naughty children, I suppose â or recalcitrant pets.
No one could say for definite where exactly the Clodagh Rodgers rumour had originated. Its authorship, however, was eventually attributed to none other than the recordshop owner himself, a well-known entrepreneur not long returned from England. Who had in fact left Cullymore in â58, never to be seen again apart from the occasional holiday in summer when he would arrive in off the boat, in his dark suit and thin tie looking like Ronnie Hilton, they said â a popular singer and bandleader of the fifties. He was a rich man now and had worked with all sorts of âpopâ bands in the UK, it was widely reported.
It has to be admitted that when Clodagh Rodgers didnât appear there was a great sense of being âlet downâ in the town. But it didnât take long for that feeling to dissipate. For, as the name of the best pub in the area suggested, the late-sixties were indeed âgood timesâ and in any case Dave Glover and his band with the singer Muriel Day proved to be a more than adequate replacement.
In fact, among those present in the Mayflower Ballroom that night, were some who claimed to have seen Clodagh Rodgers perform in England and that she âcouldnât hold a candleâ to Muriel Day.
â Who cares about Clodagh Rodgers anyway, someone said, sheâs probably a Protestant.
The fact that Muriel was one as well didnât seem to occur to or unduly bother anyone. She certainly looked it, with her beehive hair. No Catholic woman would have dared to sport such a coiffure at that time. For, if she did, she would be responsible, as Canon Burgess never tired of reminding his female congregation, âfor bringing a blush to the cheek of the Virgin Maryâ.
It was around this time too that âFashion Show â69â was convened in the hotel and an emergency urban council meeting called to establish just exactly what it was that had âgone onâ. Quite a few members of the council hadnât been in favour of having the meeting at all for to tell the truth they were confused by the whole affair and privately confided that they couldnât âfor the life of themâ
14 A City Devastated
It wasnât long after the European Cup that a new record shop opened in the town â right next door to the Good Times bar.
And it was around then too that the first rumours began to surface about an impending visit to the town by the sensational chart-topper Clodagh Rodgers, whose number-one hit âCome Back and Shake Meâ was requested as often in the record shop now as anything by the Beatles. But all of this was as nothing to the opening of Coletteâs, the brand-new hair salon in the centre of the square, opposite the Green Shield shop. Already it was reported to be so popular that there were no appointments available until July. A noticeboard outside read:
The most modern sahn in Europe.
And it was into this already fabled emporium that Miss Dolly Mixtures, Dolores McCausland, one day confidently strolled, sporting her scarf in what she called the Babushka style, gaily knotted beneath her chin. Removing her Foster Grant sunglasses and breathing on to the lenses as she cooed â much to the chagrin of the nylon-caped incumbents, upon whom a small but palpably identifiable cloud of resentment now settled.
As they watched Dolly fold herself delicately into an easy chair, leafing through a copy of
Fashion Weekly,
into whose pages she gracefully vanished, as if she perceived herself somehow, quite effortlessly, to have taken possession of the town. Protestant entitlement, was how Henry Thornton might have described it. Itâs not as if I despise them, really, I recall him writing in one of his essays, for me theyâre more of an inconvenience, really, a mild irritation. Like naughty children, I suppose â or recalcitrant pets.
No one could say for definite where exactly the Clodagh Rodgers rumour had originated. Its authorship, however, was eventually attributed to none other than the recordshop owner himself, a well-known entrepreneur not long returned from England. Who had in fact left Cullymore in â58, never to be seen again apart from the occasional holiday in summer when he would arrive in off the boat, in his dark suit and thin tie looking like Ronnie Hilton, they said â a popular singer and bandleader of the fifties. He was a rich man now and had worked with all sorts of âpopâ bands in the UK, it was widely reported.
It has to be admitted that when Clodagh Rodgers didnât appear there was a great sense of being âlet downâ in the town. But it didnât take long for that feeling to dissipate. For, as the name of the best pub in the area suggested, the late-sixties were indeed âgood timesâ and in any case Dave Glover and his band with the singer Muriel Day proved to be a more than adequate replacement.
In fact, among those present in the Mayflower Ballroom that night, were some who claimed to have seen Clodagh Rodgers perform in England and that she âcouldnât hold a candleâ to Muriel Day.
â Who cares about Clodagh Rodgers anyway, someone said, sheâs probably a Protestant.
The fact that Muriel was one as well didnât seem to occur to or unduly bother anyone. She certainly looked it, with her beehive hair. No Catholic woman would have dared to sport such a coiffure at that time. For, if she did, she would be responsible, as Canon Burgess never tired of reminding his female congregation, âfor bringing a blush to the cheek of the Virgin Maryâ.
It was around this time too that âFashion Show â69â was convened in the hotel and an emergency urban council meeting called to establish just exactly what it was that had âgone onâ. Quite a few members of the council hadnât been in favour of having the meeting at all for to tell the truth they were confused by the whole affair and privately confided that they couldnât âfor the life of themâ
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