As a tribute to my first teacher, Mrs Anne Callan, who recently passed away, I would like to include the following post. In 2015, I had the huge honour of being asked to write a speech for my former primary school’s 50th-anniversary celebration. (The new school had replaced an older building which had stood since 1888). The following is an edited version of the speech. Sadly, the other teacher mentioned, Mrs Bridget McCole, is also no longer with us. May they rest in peace.
Preparing this has made me realise that I share much in common with the American astronaut, Neil Armstrong. For instance, his first spaceflight took place in the year of my birth. And, less than a year after his small step onto the surface of the Moon, I took a personal giant leap, when, with even smaller steps, I passed through the doors of our school for the first time.
The date was Monday, June 15th, 1970. I know this because I remember my brother talking incessantly about England’s defeat to Germany in the previous evening’s World Cup match. Incidentally, I would go on to marry a cousin of one of the England players who participated in that game in Mexico forty-five years ago. If you find the previous statement incredible, I hope it’s due to the coincidence, and not because someone actually married me.
I met two wonderful women and great teachers, Mrs Anne Callan and Mrs Bridget McCole for the first time that day, and received a warm and genuine welcome from both ladies. As for the building itself, I loved the newness of the place, the big windows, the different coloured chairs in the classroom, and the magical blackboard. A Saturn V space rocket could not have impressed me more.
I do, however, have one unhappy memory from that day, and that was being sick beside Mrs Callan as she was giving a music lesson. As this was the seventies, I was no doubt suffering from an early form of disco fever. For someone who could throw up in front of an entire schoolroom of kids, I was very shy during my initial days at school, but would eventually lose my bashfulness, and contribute my fair share of noise to the ‘Wee Ones’ Room’. To get a sense of what Mrs Callan had to put up with, imagine a youngster with all the decorum of a Sunday Game panellist – then multiply that by twenty. My time at primary school lasted throughout the seventies, and I’d like to give you an insight into Annalitten life during that period.
In the 1970s, the boys at our school followed the style of most young men and took to growing their hair long. I would theorise that our long locks were an act of rebellion against older folk. And barbers. We missed more cuts than Rory McIlroy at the Irish Open. It wasn’t just our hair that set us apart from our predecessors and successors. To say our clothes were distinct is an understatement. We were often seen in flared trousers and loud shirts with collars so large, they would embarrass Harry Hill.
Colours were different too. Yes, colours. I mean, we had blackboards instead of whiteboards, and our football team’s shirts were blue, not red. One year even the grass was a different hue, changing to yellow in 1976 because Ireland didn’t receive its usual above-average share from God’s watering can. This led to pupils in our school actually praying for some rain in Ireland.
That was a summary of the sights of Annalitten in the seventies. The sounds were something else, and the one defining sound was the ‘Annalitten Groan’. An excited groan is the best way I can describe this noise, which would be performed if we knew an answer to a question. Simply putting our hands up was not enough for us. We frequently made the school room sound like a cross between a Wimbledon final and a commercial for laxatives. Looking back, it’s funny how we never realised our chances of being chosen to answer would have increased had we kept our hands down and stayed quiet.
A short-lived craze for boys appeared in the middle of the decade. Bubble gum picture cards of English Football League players were swapped like telephone numbers on a speed dating night. The deals that took place here would impress a modern football agent. Imagine it. Johnny Giles exchanged for Mike Channon, Steve Highway for Colin Bell, or Don Givens for the entire Luton Town squad. Football card swapping would disappear as quickly as Bay City Rollers fans, going to prove that youngsters can be fickle in any era.
Personal memories of this place are too numerous to mention in totality. I will say this: The relatively small events come to the fore as much as the major ones. For instance, I remember reading the school’s set of encyclopaedias as often as I could in order to indulge my passion for the solar system. This interest in the planets led to me being known by the affectionate term ‘Spaceman’ for a few weeks. Told you I had a lot in common with Neil Armstrong.
One of my favourite memories of Mrs McCole is when she taught us the poem ‘Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth. She was always a most knowledgeable and enthusiastic teacher, but, in my opinion, she reached new heights that day. Her love of the subject had me entranced. I have happy memories of Mrs Callan too. Perhaps my favourite is when she gave me my first ‘VG’ mark for a piece of writing I did entitled ‘My Clock’. I regard the moment Mrs Callan awarded me that mark as the start of my writing career, so now you all know who is to blame. Seriously, I will be forever grateful to Mrs Callan.
All through my time here, the Old School stood beside the new one, sending out its own lesson to my subconscious, telling me how fortunate I was to go to a modern, centrally-heated school, to be able to see the local hills and the sky as I learned and to have more study space than the pupils who attended the Old School. To use the words made famous by Bernard of Chartres, Isaac Newton and Noel Gallagher, Neil Armstrong had “[stood] on the shoulders of giants” to reach the moon. We, on the other hand, followed in the footsteps of wee ones. But in their own way, they were giants too.
Many of those wee ones were our family and friends. I must add, I was surprised and delighted to learn that my own late mother and uncle had contributed well-written and interesting articles to the Folklore Commission in the 1930s when they were pupils at Annalitten.
My fellow pupils and I would use the Old School’s facilities for school concerts in 1978 and 1979 – a poignant coming together of the old and the new. I would return to the Old School as a secondary student in the 1980s, to take part in activities like basketball lessons run by the wonderful Pauline Devlin. I also attended a few discos which brought back memories of my primary school days, because my shyness had returned. This time around, asking girls to dance left me tongue-tied. Although I did get the opportunity to step on a few lassies’ toes, I was most usually found standing motionless in the corner, just like when I played Gaelic football on the school field.
While today’s celebration gives us the opportunity to remember and thank all those responsible for both the Old and New School and to remember our past pupils, we must also think of our school’s present and future. Today, in Frank and Fiona McDonnell, we have two fantastic and popular teachers, just like when I was here. Let us hope this standard is maintained in the years to come. To present pupils, I say this: If you’re honest and try your best, you will go far – perhaps to the Moon, like Neil Armstrong.
Which brings me to the last, and the most important link I have with Neil Armstrong. Both he and I were blessed with brilliant, wonderful teachers. Mr Armstrong went above and beyond once. Teachers like Mrs Callan, Mrs McCole, and Frank and Fiona McDonnell go above and beyond every day.
© John E. McBride (2017)
Many people feel down when they go back to work after a weekend or holiday. In this piece, I stress the positives of returning to work. I won’t use any clichés like “At least it gets you out of the house” because a lot of things can get you out of the house – for example, walking the dog, or going out to the ice cream van, or walking the dog while you go out to the ice cream van. (Not recommended).
My strategy to make you feel better about your job will be this: Write about even worse jobs. I apologise if you actually do the work I’m about to mention. If you are, perhaps this blog post might make you want to consider changing career. Or changing the blog posts that you read. (As long as that doesn’t include ‘Moanaghan Man’).
The first horrible job on my list is acting in a laxative commercial. Think about it. The actor didn’t get the role due to his/her dramatic ability; it was because he/she looked constipated. Hardly a skill that’s going to win an Academy Award – unless it’s the award for ‘A career that’s literally going down the pan.’
Another thankless task is delivering mail to the US Secret Service. The problem here arises from the fact that the address of the US Secret Service is, well, secret. Imagine the poor postal worker(s) tasked with delivering a letter to that organisation. They have to knock on every door in the States and inquire if the secret service is located there. I imagine they go alphabetically, so would begin their quest in Alabama. Twenty years later, they’re in Delaware, reached retirement age, and still haven’t found the secret service. And they didn’t even get the consolation of a trip to Hawaii.
If you still want to be on holiday, think about my next terrible job: Pretending to be on holiday. You might think acting or modelling on a beach would be a dream and it is – up to a point. But think about what happens when the time comes to actually go on holiday. Where do you go? You have seen enough glamourous locations so the only thing to do is go home and spend the time looking at afternoon television – and at yourself in adverts in which you pretend to be on holiday. It would make you wish you’d done a laxative commercial instead.
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© John E. McBride (2017)
In this post, I’m including a piece I wrote for my local Gaelic football team in Monaghan, Ireland – Toome GFC. It’s from 2013, has been slightly edited, and is on the theme of disappointment. I hope it doesn’t disappoint you. The article follows below.
I can still picture the football player as he made his way home from the Pearce Park dressing room over thirty years ago. Although I had just arrived at the sports ground, I knew his team had been defeated in the first match that afternoon – such was the unmistakable look of disappointment on his face. A consoling voice came from the crowd:
“Maybe next time.”
The player hardly took any notice and walked on with his head bowed. That man followed in the footsteps of many defeated players, and in turn, more would follow him. The journey from the losing dressing room to the car park will remain some of the most difficult steps a player can take in football – unless they start playing matches on ice rinks.
I’ll write about one of my own sporting let-downs; it’s quite a big one:
In 2012, I thought I had a chance of winning one of the categories on BBC Sports Personality of the Year. I’m serious; there was a rumour going around that the London Olympic volunteers (of which I was one) could win the team prize. Yes, I thought I was a contender, along with the likes of Andy Murray, noted for his skill with a racket and ball over the course of a tennis match, and Rory McIlroy who's noted for his skill with a driver and putter over a golf course. By the way, I’m noted for my skill with a knife and fork over a five-course meal. Speaking of courses…
Of course, I didn’t win. In case you’re interested, the team award went to the British Olympic squad. For my part, I’ve learned to be more realistic regarding awards. Or maybe not: Sometimes I dream these blogs will win something. I’m not fussy – the Nobel Prize in Literature will do. Mind you, I don’t think I’ll be the Nobel laureate this year. Maybe next time.
© John E. McBride (2017)
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It annoys me when people and organisations insult my intelligence. Take life insurance companies who promise me a good deal if I take out a policy with them. They could do a better deal – by paying me now. Here’s my logic: 1) It’s called ‘life’ insurance. 2) I’m living. 3) So where’s my money?
I appreciate people who try to help me through life but sometimes they can be too kind. For instance, when I have to sign something and the other person places an ‘X’ on the line to show my signature goes there. This is not required; my cognitive ability is such that the words ‘Sign here’ is sufficient information. I have travelled all over the world – to places like the States, Australia and Monaghan town. I can find my way around a sheet of paper, thank you.
Then we have transport companies who come up with ridiculous excuses for delays or cancellations. My favourite is ‘ the wrong type of snow’ which was the media’s interpretation of what British Rail was saying after bad weather disrupted services in 1991. I always thought there was only one kind of snow but apparently, there’s a snow strain that can stop a train. Perhaps they should go all the way (unlike their trains) with their excuses and say that they are operating on the wrong planet.
Staying on the climate, it makes me smile when weather-forecasters predict a day that will be filled with ‘sunshine and showers. They’re not being very precise here, especially if they’re giving the weather in a four-seasons-in-a-day country. As predictions go, it’s like saying a sports team will win, lose or draw their next game. Besides, I can tell if there’ll be sunshine and showers the moment I step out my front door. Come on, weather-forecasters, give us more information, please. You can at least say what type of snow we’ll be getting.
© John E. McBride (2017)
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People who compile political opinion polls should be good at two things: Predictions and numbers. But after their recent failure to correctly forecast the results of Brexit, the 2016 US presidential election, and the 2017 UK general election, it’s unlikely pollsters will be asked to predict winning lottery numbers anytime soon.
It could be argued that incorrect opinion polls are good indicators of a country’s democratic credentials because they show its citizens can and do change their minds about their politicians. In fact, the only places where opinion polls would be right all the time are dictatorships – that’s because the only opinion that counts in the country belongs to the dictator.
Nevertheless, polls could be more accurate. I think the fault doesn’t lie with the pollsters but rather the participants. I mean, the ‘don’t know’ people probably don’t even vote as they don’t even know it’s election day. Even if they did, they wouldn’t go to the polling station as they’d be too busy deliberating on what clothes to wear.
Apart from the ‘don’t know’ folk, I think another group should be removed from opinion poll figures. I’ll call them ‘misleaders’ – people who say they will vote one way when they know they will vote the other. These devious people shouldn’t be taking part in election opinion polls. They should be standing for election.
That’s my opinion on polls. If you have an opinion on opinion polls or an opinion on my opinion on opinion polls, please feel free to leave a comment. I’d also appreciate it if you would ‘vote’ for me by giving me a Like, Share and Follow. And please follow me on
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(c) John E. McBride
Ireland’s cricket team have joined its football and rugby counterparts at the highest level in the world. In order to honour all involved, this piece will be about cricket. Please don’t yawn or stop reading. You’ll find cricket has a lot going for it if you read on.
For those new to the sport, I’ll start with some cricket basics: Someone bats and another person tries to get him out. Howzat for basic? (Cricketers shout ‘Howzat’ a lot – couldn’t resist the pun). Every player on the bowler’s team (apart from the bowler) stands around and watches. There’s not much else for these players to do except catch the ball every now and then. Nobody has the heart to tell these fellows that when they’re not being glorified spectators, they’re being glorified ball boys. Meanwhile, the batsman’s teammates are also taking it easy.
With all the standing and sitting around, the exhausted players need breaks for lunch and tea. Yes, that’s lunch and tea – as if a game of cricket wasn’t long enough. The ‘proper’ spectators don’t seem to mind the long interruptions. They just wake up and have something to eat themselves. Rain can stop play but I doubt it stops the dining.
Cricket is so slow that if the New York Jets played the game, they would be called the New York Propeller-driven Aircraft. It can take up to five days to complete a Test Match – it would only take one day if the players didn't eat.
At the beginning of this piece, I stated cricket has a lot going for it so, to be fair, I will mention a few of the sport’s good points. It requires skill, can be exciting, the supporters are fantastic and what’s not to like about a game with terms like ‘silly mid-on’ (don’t ask), ‘follow through’ (definitely don’t ask) and ‘googly’ (a googly is a type of bowling delivery, not a new internet search engine).
In 2017, Ireland gained Test status, a huge honour and a recognition of the dedication of the country’s cricket community. There’s just one problem – Ireland may have to wait to get a Test game. In other words, the world won’t let them have the ball. It appears Irish cricketers have one more thing in common with the Republic of Ireland football team.
© John E. McBride
Scientists have too much time on their hands. Literally. For example, there’s something called the B-theory of time. I don’t know what this is exactly; I always thought ‘B time’ was said by cinema-goers in the 1940s just before a Ronald Reagan movie came on the screen. All I know is that there’s a good chance this theory is about time – as in it’s about time scientists stopped coming up with all this nonsense. It seems boffins are now having hourly competitions to see who can imagine the most unimaginable theory.
Even the great Albert Einstein got in on the act with his Theory of Relativity. Again, don’t ask me to explain this. I suppose it’s called the Theory of Relativity because it’s taken a relativity long time to prove that E = MC Hammer.
I’ve come up with something more useful than Professor Einstein’s effort. I’ve called it my Theory of Relatives. I’ll explain: Say you have a flatulent uncle called Ernie who pretends his dog is the one with the gas problem. The equation for this would go: E = BWBD which stands for (Uncle) Ernie Breaks Wind (and) Blames (his) Dog. You might think this theory is trivial but in fact, it is very important – if you’re Ernie’s dog. My supposition is also a lot easier to prove than Einstein’s effort. You can send my Nobel Prize in the post.
I’m not impressed by the Big Bang Theory either. It has little going for it apart from being called after a comedy show on television. Yes, I admit the universe could have started with a big bang but it could have begun with a lot less fuss – that’s why I’m a fan of the Little Whimper Theory.
Then there is the Flat Earth Theory. To be fair, there probably aren’t too many scientists who believe the Earth is flat, especially if they have taken the time to visit Nepal or Switzerland. Perhaps this theory’s proponents come from the Netherlands. This thesis is ridiculous in my opinion, as you can probably guess. So don’t give me the Flat Earth Theory – I’m still trying to get my head around the Flat Stomach Theory.
© John E. McBride
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