I NEARLY went down in history as the man who killed Brendan Behan. I shudder when I think of it now, but I could have become infamous, like the killers of Jesse James or John Lennon.
I'm not joking. I did nearly kill Brendan Behan. But I hasten to add it was not intentional.
It happened in the early 1960s. I was the proud owner of a second hand mini car, my pride and joy at the time. I was on my way to a dance in the Crystal Ballroom. When I reached the bus garage in Donnybrook, I turned off towards Ballsbridge. I was in good form, and everything was all right with the world.
As I approached the junction of Anglesea Road and Merrion Road, this large, red faced, round individual with a mop of hair lunged across the road in front of me. I jammed on the brakes. He brushed against the bumper and kind of flopped on the bonnet. It was all very harmless, really. Luckily, I wasn't going fast. He wasn't injured, but he was quite surprised.
It was Brendan Behan. He turned and spewed out a three minute tirade of insults, the likes of which I had never heard before. Each sentence began with the F-word. Well, if he was pretty shook and annoyed, I wasn't exactly feeling too good myself, it wasn't every day I had the experience of crashing into one of Ireland's prominent authors.
Quickly recovered
I had visions of the newspaper headlines the next day: "Well known author killed by journalist." I didn't know what to say. However, I quickly recovered to shout at him: "Who the hell do you think you are?" Of course I knew damn well who he was, everyone in Dublin knew who he was, but "Who the hell do you think you are?" is always a good way to start a row.
The first golden rule in a row is go on the offensive. I went on to ask him what he meant by walking out in front of my car. Someone could have been killed. Narrowed down, that someone could have been him or I. I found it easy to get into the speech rhythm of the occasion and managed to throw in a few pleasantries myself, also beginning with F.
The altercation continued for about 10 minutes. I, with my head out the window, and he, contorted with rage, rolling from one foot to the other. He then bellowed a final "f... off" and continued on his way.
He staggered on up Anglesea Road, mumbling what I should do with my feckin' car. He lived at 5 Anglesea Road at the time and being a good Irish speaker, he had cleverly named the house "Cuig."
if he walked across Anglesea Road today without looking left or right, he would be killed instantly. The traffic has increased tenfold and is going twice as fast. Hard to imagine that 35 years have passed so fast.
It seems like only yesterday. I can still see him there on the road, fill of life and fighting mad.
A real entertainer
Brendan was at the peak of his career at that time. I knew him to see; he used to swim regularly at Seapoint. He loved swimming, although he wasn't good at it. He may have been a better writer than me, but I was way ahead in the water. He loved to run along the top of the slipway and throw himself in, feet first, invariably shouting `Here goes nuttin'." He always seemed to be in good form and liked to amuse people. He was always a bit of a showman, a real entertainer.
After our altercation, he went on to live for another few years.
Happily, when he died, I had to do with it.
Nowadays, I tell my friends how I once casually bumped into Brendan Behan many years ago, but that we didn't talk about literature. A real opportunity lost.
Another well known writer at the time, Myles na Gopaleen, lived further back towards Stillorgan. Myles was a great observer of life who possessed a tremendous repertoire of one liners. He used to sink the odd ball of malt in Boland's pub in Stillorgan.
The old regulars use to love telling the yarn about Myles and the van. Myles, as well as having a great grasp of the English language, was a fluent Irish speaker. One night he came out of Boland's with some friends. A buddy who owned a van was going to give him a lift home. They all piled into the van, but it wouldn't start. They got out and began pushing.
Totally frustrated
After about 10 minutes, it became obvious that the damn van wasn't going to start. Myles, frustrated at the lack of progress and beginning to feel the chill, raised himself up to his full leprechaun height, put his hands on hips, and said in immaculate Gaelic: "Ta an sean van f...ked."
Myles himself was a great man to tell a funny story. One of his best yarns concerned the two little Dublin layabouts who wanted to get rich. The two Dubs heard that a German car company wanted to set up a plant in Ireland. They quickly saw this as an opportunity that could not be missed. It was the chance of a lifetime, so they got in touch with the German company and arranged for them to visit Dublin.
Two week's later a delegation of three well heeled Germans, immaculately dressed in three piece suits, touched down at Dublin Airport.
The Dubs brought them to a dilapidated little site on the perimeter of the city which contained two derelict sheds, the remains of an old house and a bicycle shed.
One of the little Dubs proudly said: "There ya are, Herr Flick, a grand site; this is where we'll have the new factory. The tallest of the Germans took one scornful glance at the chaos before him, and snapped: "It is in mine arse."