Ben Kiely's lovely reading of his second book of reminiscences The Waves Behind Us caused an old hand - very old - of Burgh Quay to join in the anecdotes of that small but great world. I may have been just before Ben, he said, and left before he did, or we overlapped a bit. But met often.
We all were not so much employees of the Irish Press group but slaves of it, willing slaves. No, we were devotees, and not necessarily political. We worked in the offices where that lovely man Bill Sweetman so long reigned as editor of the daily, but we had outposts: Mr O'Connell's White Horse, or the Scotch House and others - oh yes, Mulligans where the sports people mostly went. At 11 o'clock in the morning, says this old codger, when I was on The Sunday Press, and things were slow in the middle of the week, Dick Wilkes, another lovely and talented man and I would sometimes go to the Scotch House, one floor up, for "coffee", normally with something in it. I remember one morning seeing a man in a dark suit, elbows on the counter, the only other customer. "Hello, men": the first time I had seen Myles na Gopaleen. Coincidence.
One of Ben's great gifts is his memory for poetry. Met him one day up at Anthony Farrell's Lilliput HQ for the launch of the latest book on Myles and family - originally written in Irish by his late brother Ciaran. I had been trying to remember for some reason, the words of that fine poem on the death of Padraig O Conaire, particularly the line about this stick tapping down Winetavern Street.
I asked Ben if he remembered the lines and he stood there and, after a second, gave us the whole of the poem, word for word.
Back to his much-respected friend M. J. MacManus. M.J., who was not known for his religiosity, had a good company of religious friends. Notably Dominicans, who then were based in Portugal. Was it Corpo Santo? One night we were casually asked by M.J. to meet someone in The White Horse.
After a few minutes, this delightful man pulled back his buttoned-up coat and said "You'd never guess I was a priest would you?" What could you say but "Not at all, Father." M. J. was mischievous. Two friends were out for morning coffee in his house. While the wives chatted on the sofa, he led his friend round his bookshelves. And, raising his voice with intent said "Now John, in his case I keep my erotica. Mostly bought from the libraries of deceased priests." There came screech from Rosie, his wife, a good English Catholic, "Joe MacManus, don't you dare. It's all lies. Joe died on a golf course. A Dominican friend was with him to administer the last rites.