A lesson straight outta Ballaghaderreen

In a word ... Gang. Dispatch from a veteran of the tyre wars

A tyre that may or may not have been pinched by the Pound Street Gang. Photograph: iStock
A tyre that may or may not have been pinched by the Pound Street Gang. Photograph: iStock

You may have seen the 2002 film Gangs of New York, a tale of naked cruelty, ferocious violence, unforgiveable treachery. Timid, by comparison with the Gangs of Ballaghaderreen.

Growing up in the town, each street had its own gang whose sole purpose was to have the best bonfire on June 23rd every year.

From January to June we collected tyres, in particular, (this was deep in the last millennium/century, before global warming and EU regulations) but everything combustible towards that glorious end.

These were secreted away in places none of the other gangs could possibly find but usually did.

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We were the superior and totally honourable Barrack Street Gang or, as my mother used call us, “the Bash Street Kids” (we used to get the Beano comic in our house).

Against us were ranged two other major gangs; the combined thugs of the New Street Gang (including Main St) and the low gangsters of Pound Street (including Abbey View).

Raids on each other’s stores of tyres were frequent, usually facilitated by informers on all sides, and leading to ferocious pitched battles generally involving ash plants/sticks. Bin lids were excellent shields.

Once we spotted a Pound Street gang member up a tree spying on us. We dragged him to a nearby garden, tied him to a stake and rubbed nettles on his legs to try to find out where they kept their tyres.

He wouldn’t say. Then we put brambles around him and said we’d light them. He still wouldn’t say. Typically noble, we let him go.

Our greatest ignominy was when the Pound Streets took over our bonfire one year. The humiliation! We had been betrayed by one of our own. He sat beside a Pound Street member at school.

We regathered forces and in an almighty assault set about recapturing our own fire. Adults happening on the scene were so appalled by the violence they threatened to call the guards. It made no difference.

Then they said they’d call “the Brothers”. Enough. Members of all gangs knew that when it came to violence none of us could match “the Brothers”.

We all downed weapons and went home, black and bruised in our case with a firm purpose of amendment to have foul revenge on those Pound Street low-lifes.

Gang, from Old English gang, for group of men.

inaword@irishtimes.com

Patsy McGarry

Patsy McGarry

Patsy McGarry is a contributor to The Irish Times