An Irishman's Diary is pleased and proud to announce the annual Treeve Taylor-Brian Behan award, to be given to the unsung heroes of public-spiritedness. Let us learn more, first of all, about this Treeve Taylor by visiting his home town of Basingstoke in England, where until recently stood a terrace of six houses, in the garage of one of which our Treeve kept the entourage of Taylor motor-bikes. Last Sunday afternoon, Treeve smelt petrol coming from the garage. So he did what all sensible people would do in such circumstances. He lit a gas heater and took into the garage so as to stay warm while he searched for the petrol-leak.
Now to be sure, we should be thankful for small mercies; thankful that neither Treeve Taylor nor any of his neighbours was hurt in the following inferno which destroyed five of the six houses; thankful that his name is not O'Sullivan or Murphy, with all the tabloid side-splitting hilarity which would have resulted; and thankful most of all this Christmas that he is not our neighbour. But of course this Christmas he has no neighbours; he burnt them all out.
Modest surprise
He is one leg of our award. The other is named after Brian Behan, brother of well . . . who else? I confess to only modest surprise that there is still a Behan brother around. Though Brendan lived into middle age, and died 35 years ago, he seems to have been followed by an inexhaustible supply of other brothers, all of them - oh heart-sinking term - unfailingly, characters, and just like Chinese infantry in the way that they poured over the horizon, yet always chirpy, witty Dubs, invariably specialising in rare-ould-times talk.
The Late Late Show used trot out a Behan brother a week, year after year, yet still there would be an infinity of replacement brothers to unleash on a Behan-weary public, whimpering vainly for mercy, so that no brother need ever appear twice. I fully expect this newspaper to be carrying obituaries of Behan brothers for the next 60 years or so, our obituaries editor going grey-faced with terror as more Behans appear on the skyline to replace the massed ranks that lie before our trenches . . . yet still they come, yet still they come. General McArthur seeing 10 million Peoples Liberation Army Soldiers in Korea knew the feeling.
But back to the Behans. The other day, Brian, who is 73, went swimming nude in a gale at Horesham in East Sussex. The weather was so bad that people seeing his small pink septuagenarian form capering in the huge seas telephoned the emergency services, and a huge air-sea rescue operation got underway, helicopters battling through the hurricane and grizzled old lifeboatmen peering grimly through the hissing, howling spume and commending their souls unto the Lord. Finally, after a long and arduous mission, Brian Behan protested nakedly to rescuers who had braved the gigantic rollers to get to him, "I'm just having a swim."
Early candidates
So we proudly announce the Taylor-Behan Civics Awards, not least in the hope that the pair become neighbours; they are clearly suited for one another. Early candidates for the inaugural award are the teachers of St Marie La Branleuse Compulsive, who took their wheelchair class windsurfing off Bray Head during Hurricane Charlie and whose charges ended up scattered along the coast of Namibia, with one last seen vanishing near the Cape of Good Hope.
Annual jamboree
However, stiff competition comes from the Kingstown & District Pyrotechnics Club who this month availed of the plentiful accommodation in Gorozdy to host their annual fireworks jamboree there. They were initially delighted with the enthusiasm of neighbours who arrived in large iron vehicles, and let off some spectacular bangers; but then some of the pleasure of what had been a harmonious if noisy evening dissipated when Russians caught and executed the Club secretary and president-elect.
Others argue that the true essence of Taylor-Behanism was captured by naturists from Finglas, Upper Coolock and Kilbarrack, with their decision to have their winter sun-holiday in Algeria, especially since the club decided to travel virtually in the nude, merely wearing their special club T-shirts to celebrate their holiday. Unfortunately, it seems that the acronym for Finglas, Upper Coolock and Kilbarrack, in conjunction with the name, "Algeria" went down rather badly, though no doubt a superfluity of private parts did not help: 10 of the visitors, including a Sister of Mercy who mistakenly thought the plane was flying to Lourdes, were beheaded even before they arrived at passport control. The survivors are now serving in slave galleys, rowing pilgrims to Mecca. Across the desert.
But these are not successful claimants to the throne. True Taylor-Behanism involves great risk from which the risk-taker emerges unscathed. Folly must never be properly punished: the delinquent must get away with his delinquency. Neighbours' houses must burn while the culprit escapes unhurt; nude septuagenarians gambol while despairing winchmen lower their rescue trawls. It is the eleventh commandment: And Last of All, Fools Are a Charge on us All.