I'll never forget the night that we could have been blown to smithereens by a gas explosion. To make matters worse, we were living in a flat over a fish and chip shop,writes Aine Ryan
Never mind the explosion, can you imagine the headlines? "Maynooth Seminarian, Sociology Tutor, Student Union Vice-President and Labour Militant Activist Blown Up in Freak Accident".
It was some time in the winter of 1978. We had all got plastered on a bottle of Southern Comfort. When we returned to the flat, one of us obviously attempted to brew tea, turned on the gas ring, but omitted to ignite it.
I don't know how advanced forensic science was in the late 1970s. Would they have twigged that myself and the cleric were sleeping in the same bed? It was a single and in the kitchen, quite close to the cooker actually. Anyway, the long and the short of it is, we didn't explode or scandalise our parents. (Well, not on that particular occasion. The only scar I had to show off was a love bite.) Fortunately, the canister was low in gas and all we had to complain about the following day were horrific hangovers and the lingering smell of gas on our clothes.
Long johns
We moved out soon afterwards, into a lovely bungalow in Rail Park, one of the many housing estates that had recently been built in Maynooth. It was pure luxury compared with the flat. The only drawback was that we couldn't afford to heat the place, so I took to wearing a pair of my grandfather's long johns and my mother's fur coat in bed. Oh yes, and a big woolly hat. Boy, did we party that winter - it was the only way to generate heat. Lots of all-night sessions. There were wild arguments between Stickies and Militants, verbal rampages on the notion of Aristotle's "first unmoved mover", dramatic soliloquies of razor-edged wit. And, inevitably, it was always, as I recall, old gravel voice himself, Mr Zimmerman, yodelling away in the background.
The only time that peace would descend on these parties was if someone had a half-ounce of the unmentionable stuff. Pat, the Labour militant, had a great pipe. It had a water bowl, so your throat would never really get too dry. Of course, the clerics never inhaled, or if they did it was very subtle. (After all, they needed to have their wits about them for Morning Prayer!)
During First Arts I had commuted to the college - the family home was only down the road in Lucan. I suppose I was relatively well behaved that first year - not by choice, mind you. I was involved in a few shenanigans during the annual song contest. This was a very sombre and pretentious affair. Celebrity judges attended in evening wear; the aula maxima was the venue. I was a backing vocalist in Jack Sweeney's band.
Nell McCafferty
He was wild crack - a cleric from Donegal, who had earlier in the term been provoked to challenge Nell McCafferty to a flash of his hairy chest. Herself and a few feminist cohorts were attending a lecture in Callan Hall on some topical religious or moral issue. They persisted in heckling the speaker whilst swigging out of vodka or gin bottles. (To be fair, the liquid could well have been holy water.) The taunts on the virility of the Church Hierarchy got all too much for Jack. "You haven't seen my chest yet, Nell," he roared from the back benches in his best Donegal accent.
In the 1975 final of the song contest, Jack decided we should surprise the audience by coming on stage through the trapdoor, over which he had strategically placed a bottomless barrel. When my turn came, I suffered stage-fright and teetered in the barrel. Suddenly it toppled and rolled around the stage with me still in inside. Luckily the audience were already mesmerised by the tuneless squawking of Jack and the Hen Ticklers.
Dizzy times
The 1970s were dizzy times in St Patrick's College, Maynooth. A crêche was established despite protestations from a reverend professor or two. A female student streaked through Callan Hall during Rag Week. Clerics risked their lives nightly climbing over the flyover gates after late drinking in the student union bar. We lay students risked cracking up from laughter while sneaking across Joe's Square after midnight soirées in a sacred penthouse or two.
Last September my eldest daughter, Aisling, registered as an arts student in NUI Maynooth. I regret to say she is not following in her mother's footsteps. She is a diligent student, attends all her lectures and tutorials and is never even a day late submitting a project. (I had to defer my final exams for a year because I forgot to do my thesis.)
The saddest aspect of all is that she isn't acquainted with even one cleric . I realise that they've become a rare species, even in the national seminary.
If only they'd get rid of that silly celibacy thing...I could be the proud mother-in-law of a priest, or even a bishop.