Star Gazing

Heroes are a funny thing. 
I think that some of the heroes you’ll have as an adult are set in stone from your childhood.

For instance, if you were ten years old (which I wasn't, I was a tiny bit more) staring at Live Aid on 13 July 1985, loving all the action yet worrying about the children caught up in the famine, it’s quite possible that Bob Geldof would be a bit of a hero, were you to meet him today.

In the same way, if you happen to come from a long line of Republicans, Bobby Sands will probably always be a hero in your family.

In our house, the Dubliners were kind of heroes.  Both my parents loved them, and us children had no problem with them , at least they were scruffy looking and drinky and not eejits like that Foster and Allen pair, or the show bands who were squeezing the last wear out of their suits in the eighties. 
Obviously, being teenagers, we thought they were right goms.

When the Dubliners paired up with the Pogues, and went on Top of the Pops with the Irish Rover, with their shouting and tin whistles, and Ronnie Drew standing with his hands in his pockets, looking like he honestly didn’t give a shite whether he was there or not, a band of heroes were born.

All the Murphys love the Dubliners, none more so that my sister Mary.

So when we arrived at Listowel Writer’s Week, and saw John Sheehan casually sitting in a corner, drinking coffee, she came over a bit star struck.

I was in Listowel last year and had seen Mr. Sheehan before.   So I was all cool and casual about it.  Not that I’d spoken to him or anything.

He is the last surviving member of the original Dubliners, formed in 1963/4 –before they had even been christened The Dubliners . 

He is also a classically trained musician, a composer, an extremely established fiddle player, tin whistle player and all round gifted person.

My sister was dying to meet him.  We were on one of our “Listowel nights” – when, apparently, it’s okay to drink either pints or vodkas for as long as the residents bar will serve us. 

This is all new, of course, this being the first year we went together.  But I have a funny feeling we have established a firm tradition.

Anyway, after a couple of drinks, I decided that there was nothing that John Sheehan would like better than to be introduced to two Wexford ladies.

Mary wasn’t so sure.  I had to threaten her, actually.  I turned to her in the lobby and hissed “Look, I’m going over to him now, to tell him my sister wants to meet him.  And if you’re not behind me when I turn around, I’ll break your legs, ok?”

She agreed.  That’s when I knew just how much she wanted to do this.  My sister doesn’t take kindly to threats.  Especially from a person who wouldn't have the first idea how to go about breaking a leg.  But she just nodded.

He was absolutely lovely, stood up, shook hands, chatted away, offered to introduce us to Colm Toibín, and offered us a drink.  He even got into a photo with Mary.

Mary coped with it all very well, told him how we’d been reared on his music, and how we’d spent a whole winter watching the video of the Dubliners 25^th anniversary show with our parents, who didn’t care whether we wanted to see it again or not.  They had a chat about the Festival, and how great it is.

Then she talked to him about where we were from, and a documentary she’d recently watched about him. 

If only I’d been so dignified.

When he offered us a drink, in the middle of a perfectly pleasant conversation I blurted out a rude refusal

“No thanks, we know we’re annoying the heart out of you, really”

He looked surprised, but turned back to Mary.  I think he probably thought I was accusing him of being a two faced pig.  He certainly hadn’t given us the impression we were annoying him. 

I’m not usually so humble.

Then, when I was worried there was going to be a dip in the conversation I shouted

“She’s been dying to meet you.  That’s the only reason we’re here, we had been up in John B’s.  We’ve been following you around town.  Meet your stalker”

That would have caused quite the dip, I suspect, except for the fact that Mary had the wit to carry on as if I hadn’t spoken.

Finally, when Mary and John were enjoying a conversation about the Literary Pub Crawl the night before, and how much fun it had been, I started shouting again.

“Come on Mary, move on.  Leave the man alone, he’s trying to talk to his friend.”

I think maybe I was feeling shy.

My father was the same, he insisted all his life that he was actually quite shy.  Nobody ever believed him, except me.  To cover up our awkwardness, we talk and talk when feeling shy.

Or maybe I'm just not fit to be let out.

Thank God this meeting took place in a busy hotel bar.  I’m hoping that the gifted Mr. Sheehan couldn’t really hear me, or thought I had Tourette’s or something. 
If he knows that I’m just a bit of a lunatic, first approaching him uninvited and then shouting at him, he certainly handled it very well.

Like a true hero should.

They say you should never meet your heroes, in case you’re disappointed.  It turns out I shouldn’t meet people I even vaguely admire, in case I start shouting gibberish at them.