What we were thinking of as we pulled nylon stockings over our head within sight of armed policemen guarding Leinster House, I will never know. Already we had given the lady in the drapery shop a minor heart attack by trying them on for size. Balaclavas would presumably have been better, but back then - in fact it never changed - Raven Arts Press was a low-budget operation, writes Dermot Bolger.
Indeed, to be precise, in 1980 it was a no-budget publishing house where authors saw their poetry books printed firstly by obscure means that occasionally involved the illicit exchange of money in the same Finglas pub where Malcolm MacArthur shaved off his beard, then collated by hand and finally brought to obscure bookbinders in cardboard boxes precariously balanced on the crossbars of bicycles.
All that would change, however, when we received the manna of Arts Council backing. The last literature officer in the Arts Council had sent us packing, but that spring the new man - tall and bearded and with a keen sense of humour - had offered moral support and promised to fight for financial assistance.
Business plan
Six months later, when the latter hadn't arrived, myself and two poets - Michael O'Loughlin and the late and much lamented Conleth O'Connor - decided to hurry it along by arriving at the Arts Council offices to kidnap the new literature officer for a day. It might not have been the best business plan ever invented, but at 21 it seemed pretty neat. As was his nature, the man took it in his Zen-like stride and started a friendship I come to treasure.
As tomorrow is the fifth anniversary of his death, I would like to mention him as a hero of Irish literature. Lar Cassidy was not a poet or novelist, but a hard-working and - as was the nature of his trade - relatively anonymous civil servant. But he left a genuine legacy to writers and readers in this country.
I met him first in 1980 in a damp basement in North Great George's Street. It was a kip - I know, I was in charge of it. But it was the only venue available for a reading by Derek Mahon. Lar shook my hand and said he was the Arts Council's new literature officer.
I last visited him in 1997, when he was dying of cancer. We walked along the seafront (he fell once because his vision was failing) and we spoke about readings in the magnificent Irish Writers Centre, just a hundred yards from that scabby basement - a centre that came about in no small part through his vision and dogged commitment.
Supportive presence
In the 17 years between those meetings Lar had become a strong, supportive presence in the lives of Irish writers. In Amelia Stein's superb series of photographs of him, Lar Cassidy's huge balding head stares out, smiling like a Buddhist master, balancing wisdom with infectious enthusiasm for life. I never think of him without recalling Bloom's wonderful line that "a revolution must come on the due instalments plan."
Like Matthew Arnold, who spent his life slowly effecting change on infinite committees, Lar spent endless hours poring over papers, travelling to meetings, nudging, cajoling and effecting change.
During the four-and-a-half years I later served on the Arts Council (Jeffrey Archer is having to serve only four for perjury) I would receive calls from Lar at midnight, still at his desk preparing the groundwork for meetings, as he fought to protect literature's share of the budget as though his life depended on it. If he succeeded, after a day of bloodshed around the table, he would walk to his office with the stride of a golfer who'd sunk the winning putt at Augusta.
Yet, although young Irish writers now amass huge advances, Lar worked for a standard Civil Service wage. No budget or bursary could affect him financially, yet he jealousy guarded every penny that could be diverted into Irish writing.
Victorian commitment
In an age when the public service is associated with cynicism, he had a Victorian commitment to his work. No young writer today could imagine what Irish writing was like back in 1980. The cultural landscape is changed utterly and, while literary historians may analyse the period by discussing writers, much of the transformation is due to people such as Lar working quietly behind the scenes.
I last saw him through the window of his house in Monkstown, lying in bed surrounded by his beloved books and the overwhelming love of his family. His greatest legacy is that future generations of writers, who won't know his name, will benefit from his unyielding dedication to the highest standards of writing and the living standards of writers and their families. In quiet moments tomorrow many of us privileged to have known the man will remember and raise a glass to him.