Paul Malpas

After the trauma of the recent week ie. the birth of those twin boys, I have found it hard getting back to the mundane. The pen has become heavy in my hand and my brain is struggling to return to its livewire best. Perhaps it was the cocktail of champagne, cider, stout and good old Chilean Carmenere wine that has dulled the mental performance, but today, come what may, I have decided to rid myself of the dilatory rut that I have found myself stuck in.

The news from Manchester this morning is that the twins, although not thriving as well as might be expected, are alert and well and their mother, although exhausted because of the new routine, is confident that they will get the hang of the tap that controls the flow from those mammary reservoirs. My daughter says that one of the delights with feeding twins is that when you have finished with one and turn over to the other, the first scratches your back. On top of that there is a lady coming round this morning who calls herself a Breast Feeding Coordinator from the hospital and she has papers to prove it. She will no doubt add her bosomal delights to the feast that is already at the table, but formula milk is definitely off the menu.

It seems these days that wet nursing is no longer a thing of the past and we know of one 72 year old woman in Hollywood who is still at it and has been plying this honourable trade for the last 42 years with the offspring of filmstars and in the process has made herself millions. She lives in a mansion up in the hills outside Tinseltown and must have paps down to her knees by now. Fair play to the rich and famous for ensuring this profession still exists today in this fast food world we live in.

I went to Manchester last week on hearing the news. I went the old fashioned way, by train and boat and train and was amazed by the ease which everything seamlessly slotted into place. I caught the train from Boyle, walked across the platform at Connolly Station in Dublin and caught the Dart out to Dun Laoghaire, walked across the road to the Stena Line Terminal and walked onto the boat. The same at Holyhead, where we caught the train to Chester, and changed for Manchester in minutes. What amazed me also was the number of passengers who choose this form of travel. Going by car you are cocooned and are not aware of this traditional mode. Although the throng was slightly diluted at Chester, some going north and some south, those of us who made it to the end, struck up a friendship that will take a long time breaking.

I heard one amourous young English lady who seemed attracted to this langourous, tall, thin, cigarette smoking West of Ireland youth, who looked to be coolness personified, “how many pints do you drink when you are out on the tear at weekends”. “I don’t know” was the reply “the same amount as I drink during the week. I’m always pissed when I get home and I can’t remember”. This for chat up lines takes the biscuit and I hope they have a long and loving relationship.

It is a trip worth taking for anyone with the time and it took me on a happy memorial tour of all the chemical and petro-chemical plants of North Wales and East Merseyside where I spent many a pleasurable day in the past. I was recognizing the plants but getting their names mixed up. A sign of old age, I am glad I am where I am.

My first meeting with the twins was memorable, emotional and private but I will at least show you this photograph, which was taken within seconds of me arriving at my daughter’s house. The smile I think is more in anticipation of the cold glass of Weston’s Old Rosie cider that my son-in-law was holding tantalizingly out of reach, while I cuddled the delightful twosome.

Two days later, repleat with joy, I came back to Ireland in Helen’s car and stopped off in Dublin to watch the premiere of my daughter, Paddy Jo’s, performance in Brian Friel’s play “The Yalta Game”. She played the female lead, Anna Sergeyevna, in this adaption of a theme from Anton Chekov’s 1899 short story “The Lady with a Lapdog”. Although I say it myself and I am of course as biased as hell, she was magnificent and I was really proud of her in this her first professional performance after years of making a name for herself at UCD’s Dramsoc. Mark my words, look out for Paddy Jo Malpas in the future, she indeed might need that wetnurse in Hollywood in the years to come.

Irish soldiers who enlisted in the British Army in their hundreds of thousands in late 1914 were faced with a massive dilemma by 1917.  What was their exact place in history?  Could they ever be let live with their families in their much changed homeland?  Would their blood sacrifice be forgotten?  What were they and who were they fighting for.  In some cases these questions were answered.  They were fighting for their regiment in this case, the proud Connaught Rangers and they were fighting for Ireland and they were soldiers in the true tradition.  What was left unanswered was what yet they had not faced.  Post war Ireland and the horrible way these heroes were treated by nationalistic dogma for the next 80 years.  It is only with books like Sebastian Barry’s Its A Long, Long Way and now with the play I watched last night is their place in history becoming resolved.

It was my privilege to attend The Little Theatre in Athlone last night, where Rain King Productions presented From The Shannon To The Somme.  A play based on the true story of Michael Curley, a native of Athlone, and an ex-sergeant in the Connaught Rangers, who was involved in forming the first company of Volunteers in Ireland in about 1912.  The Volunteer movement gathered pace and by late 1914 they had about 195,000 members when John Redmond, the leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party appealed to them to join the British Army in their fight against Germany and thus ensure independence at cessation of hostilities.  175,000 did so immediately and Michael Curley and his friend Jack West were just two of these men.  The Easter Rising in April 1916 put paid to these ideals.  Michael and Jack were stuck there in France in charge of Irishmen who had in fact all joined up for lots of different reasons but they all faced the same problems on returning home.

Beautifully written by a young Irish writer, Neil Richardson, who has a book coming out this autumn from O’Brien’s Press called A Coward If I Return, A Hero If I Fall: Stories Of Irishmen In WW1. Look out for it.

Under the very able direction of  Caroline Barry the action skips along from pre-war Athlone to 3rd Ypres in 1917, with much humour, and especially in the 2nd act, pathos that visably hit the audience.  The absolute silence and then spontaneous bursts of applause mid-scene says much for the writing, directing and acting.  The barrack-room language ensured the attendance was treated to genuine reality.

The four actors, Stephen Jones, Gerard Adlum and Nessa Mathews, who cut their teeth in Dramsoc at UCD and Paul O’Bryan from Bull Alley more than impressed with their delivery and timing.  Star of the piece for me was Stephen, as Michael Curley, who was on stage throughout the play and had the audience in the palm of his hand when emotion was called for.  He was more than ably and comically backed up by Gerard’s Jack West, as the unwilling reservist who admirably took on his responsibilities.

Look out for these six names in the years to come, you will undoubtedly hear plenty more of them and thank you Rain King Productions for a magnificent piece of theatre.