The Lying Wee Bastard

I didn't have much love for traditional music in school. Me and Paddy Reavey - on the sound word of another – had only joined the Traditional Group to get our hands wrapped around some guitars during school hours.

Mr. Murphy, our Music Teacher, was a man I had great respect for but he didn't appreciate reels and jigs being butchered by our crude renditions of Rory Gallagher, Zeppelin and Sabbath. This caused him to frequently erupt with shouts of "would yas jus’ play the fuckin' chords on the sheet boys!"

Either we were reasonably good or he was just completely desperate, but Murphy entered the lot of us - about 10 musicians in total - into the local Feis.

I remember saying to Paddy, "fuck that! I'm not sittin’ on ma hole playin’ that fuckin’ shite on a Saturday!" Paddy looked concerned, probably because he knew I’d meant what I said and for me not to show would have rendered him the only guitarist in a traditional melee of fiddles, flutes and fuck-all else.

There were two things on my mind. The first: That I really couldn't have been bothered giving up my Saturday for academic activity. And the second: That I had partial stage fright.

I had a few too many bad experiences in primary school at the Feis. Once, when on stage, I completely forgot the words to a poem, leading the adjudicator to hopelessly shout them at me. The words seemed to bounce of my blank, gormless face. Then another time, on tin whistle, I completely mangled the Kerry Polka whilst a ninety year-old woman, whose face seemed older than the mountains of Mourne, glared at me as she frustratingly attempted to accompany me on the piano. These two experiences, locked deep in my reservoir of trauma, often bubbled to the surface making me detest and fear the stage.

So, on I went with my Saturday as normal, into town to meet the boys. I had no mobile back then. Anyone whose number I needed, like something straight from Foreign Languages Press in Peking, was kept in a wee red book. 

I arrived home that evening and my Ma asked me, "were you supposed to be somewhere today?" I lied and a told her "no!"

Paddy had been phoning the house trying to get hold of me. He didn’t tout but my Ma, being my Ma, suspected something was amiss.

On Monday morning when I finally got speaking to Paddy in person he explained that Murphy had blown a fuse when I didn't show up. I imagined Murphy turning red with veins pulsating around his forehead and beads of sweat tumbling into his eyes. It sent terror through me, so I concocted a lie about me going to Warrenpoint Town Hall and said to Paddy, "an' sure none youse were fuckin' there!"

"It was in Newry Town Hall Brian." Paddy said, his voice laden with disappointment.

"Well sure nobody fuckin' toul me that, did the'!"

So that was the story I was sticking to. All day I was dreading music. Again I had visions of Murphy, with his big hairy man hands - you should have seen them hands on the piano though, pure class - grabbing me by the throat and choke slamming me straight through a double bass. My anxiety grew.

Walking into his class that afternoon - I was the last one in - he greeted everyone but me with a friendly “hello”. Instead, I received a stare so intense that I'd thought his eyes had punched holes in me. they continued to follow me to my seat. I felt as though there was a crosshair fixed on the back of my head, my execution imminent and with whoever sat closest to me destined to be splashed with my brain & blood splatter.

Once I had sat down, the class fell silent.

"Where the fuck were you?" Ask Murphy, slow and measured.

"Whaaa?" I replied, as though ignorant.

"Are ye deaf?"

"Where the fuck were you on Saturday?" He asked again, this time slower and with emphasis on the 'fuck'.

"Sure I was in Warrenpoint and there wasn't any of yous about!" I exclaimed.

"WARREN-FUCKIN'-POINT!" He exploded, thumping his desk simultaneously. The thump penetrated my body and made my heart pound harder.

"Why the fuck were you in Warrenpoint?" He demanded to know, still shouting.

" 'Cause that's where the last Feis I was at was."

"IT WAS IN NEWRY!" he screamed at me.

I looked around the class in desperate hope that someone would at least express sympathy for me and my predicament. Even eye contact would be sufficient, but no-one dared look at me for fear they'd suffer Murphy's fury too and besides, they all knew I was talking pure shite.

"Well a know tha’ now don't’a." I said, and to further reinforce my defence, "an’ sure nobody toul me it was in Newry anyway."

Either he was in shock at my audacity or bewildered by my idiocy but he said very little more to me for the rest of the class.

Not long afterwards he banished me from the Traditional Group and in fairness to him, he probably felt as though he was doing me a favour.

It's funny how things change. After leaving school I developed a much deeper appreciation and love for Trad, spurred on by two Paddys in my life - one was Paddy McCann (my late Granda) the other was Paddy Reavey (mentioned above). I now feel, knowing what I know now and how my interests have developed since, that being back in that place and time again I would undoubtedly relish fulfilling a roll that I once so readily took for granted. I suppose that's the beauty of hindsight.

Despite Murphy's disappointment and anger with me that day, he was a brilliant teacher. It was in his class that I managed to attain my one and only 'A' at GCSE.