Paul Malpas

St Patrick’s Day 1973 dawned clear and bright: it really was a lovely day for March.  The sun shone and it was very warm, in my recollection probably the best St Patrick’s Day for weather.  After a couple of liveners at the Conservative Club, it was down to St. Robert’s church, where we had chosen to marry because of its light and colour as opposed to Helen’s parish church, St. Cuthbert’s, which was brown in its different shades.  Kevin, my brother, was best man and Ann, Helen’s sister, was chief bridesmaid.  The two of them still courting and for a good while longer until their final sad breakup.  The other two bridemaids were Helen’s school friend, Angela Pelham from Langley and Carmel Caffrey from Leicester who was at university in Manchester and was courting Matt Towey, Helen’s brother.  Helen looked a treat in her wedding dress; even now looking back on wedding photographs of the beautiful bride, I bless myself on my luck.

The wedding breakfast took place at the Vth Inn in Manchester, on Crown Square, a part of the Stanneyland’s empire and soon to be an upmarket Italian restaurant, Isola Bella.  We had the feed and I, nervous as a kitten, spluttered out a few words of thanks.  We all agreed that speeches were all a serious waste of drinking time.  We left the Vth Inn in our gleaming green 1600GT Capri and headed for the club where a full afternoon and evening’s entertainment was on the cards.

Cleverly I had instructed my mother to have a wrap up of bacon, egg and sausage waiting at the Club for the first breakfast at our new house the following morning.  We had bought a house in Chorlton on Mauldeth Road West for £7,000 from an old lady.

Everyone gathered at the Club whilst some serious drinking took place and in the evening a band called the Kentucky Ramblers took the stage, I have never heard of them since but what a great show they put on.  We were drinking till 2.00am when I left with my bride.  Jim & Peg Towey had done us proud paying for the meal and a few rounds of drinks, my mother paying for the flowers and I paid for the buffet in the evening.  When you think that after 12 hours drinking, I drove home with Helen, we certainly took some chances those days.

With my last dregs of energy I carried Helen over the threshold and I was soon snoring my head off in the new bed upstairs.  Worst of all I had left my breakfast parcel at the Club and so on wakening at 7.00am the following morning, starved with the hunger, we decided to head for Towey’s, where Jim was just up and we soon had breakfast on the go.

After that the whole of the following week was taken up with a male celebration of the union.  Jim Towey and his brothers, Pake, Mick, Tom, Matt,  Malachy and myself and Jim Duffy, their brother in law, and a fellow from Clare called John Lehane, used to sit down at the lunchtime opening and drink our fill.  These men were all in their middle 50s and having gone through that period myself, I can only admire their concentration, powers of endurance and attention to duty that week.

I remember one dinnertime session, the pubs shut at 3.00pm those days, Bert Flint, the landlord of the Old House at Home on Burton Road, gave us some leeway and did not start shouting time until five minutes past the hour.  There was the Towey’s, Jim, Pake, Mick, Matt &  Malachy, Jim Duffy, myself and of course the ever present John Lehane, eight men and twenty four pints on the table.  We drank them and were on our way home for 3.15pm.  Back to a wonderful dinner at Peg’s and then a quick snooze before setting off once more for the Old House at 7.00pm. the women with us this time, those that wanted to come that is, most of the older women had seen this craic so often they stayed at home and waited for the men to run out of steam.

After a week of this enjoyment or carnage, everybody went home and we were left to our twosome and hard facts had to be realised.  I was one week into married life, totally skint, with a mortgage and HP payment due.  Over the previous two years I had been playing golf and with my previous good fortune I had bought a highly prized kangaroo skin golf bag of professional size and quality off the Australian professional at Shifnal Golf Club in Shropshire.  I sold it for £60 and threw in the clubs for nothing, thinking I was that poor I would never play again.  This gave us some respite and I settled down at last learning how to make a family with my beautiful and patient bride.