My first memory of music
This was my first memory of music, when I became fully aware of my existence – the unforgettable Vera Lynn’s:
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when
But I'm sure we'll meet again some sunny day… *
I was on Parkgate Street in Dublin with my parents, when a big Ford V8 military truck passed along the street, filled with soldiers in steel helmets and holding rifles. I thought they were coming back home from a war. There were about 30 of them singing ‘We’ll meet again’ in harmony and I was captivated. They sang like a choir with strong voices and took the attention of the street.
It was 1949 and I was a 4-year-old toddler, less than 2 feet tall, in this new big exciting world for the first time, and I didn’t know why I was here or what was happening, but it looked very dramatic and interesting to me.
I had been born just up the street at the top of the North Circular Road, beside the Phoenix Park in Dublin, when Hitler was hiding in his bunker. Before I was born one of his Luftwaffe pilots flew over my city by mistake and blew half of the North Strand away, situated at the other end of the North Circular, where I later went to school. Apparently he couldn’t find England.
The Park became my playground, my Disneyland, all of its 1,760 acres, enclosed by seven miles of granite wall to make it nice and cosy and private. I now owned one of the biggest play stations in the world.
It was my fantasyland, where I could become many different people and act out many different roles. There was lots of space to explore my different thoughts, fantasies and humours, any entertainment you wish on demand without ever pressing a button. This was my first theatre, my first stage, my first cinema and the beginning of my first picture show.
It was the start of my escape into dreams, unlimited dreams, where I could create many different worlds and change them at will – and replace the actors whenever I wished. It was so easy, so convenient – it was a walk in the park.
I wake up and then close my eyes again, and escape into sleep, into my own dreamy magic worlds and dream whatever I wish and do what I wish.
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when
But I'm sure we'll meet again some sunny day… *
I was on Parkgate Street in Dublin with my parents, when a big Ford V8 military truck passed along the street, filled with soldiers in steel helmets and holding rifles. I thought they were coming back home from a war. There were about 30 of them singing ‘We’ll meet again’ in harmony and I was captivated. They sang like a choir with strong voices and took the attention of the street.
It was 1949 and I was a 4-year-old toddler, less than 2 feet tall, in this new big exciting world for the first time, and I didn’t know why I was here or what was happening, but it looked very dramatic and interesting to me.
I had been born just up the street at the top of the North Circular Road, beside the Phoenix Park in Dublin, when Hitler was hiding in his bunker. Before I was born one of his Luftwaffe pilots flew over my city by mistake and blew half of the North Strand away, situated at the other end of the North Circular, where I later went to school. Apparently he couldn’t find England.
The Park became my playground, my Disneyland, all of its 1,760 acres, enclosed by seven miles of granite wall to make it nice and cosy and private. I now owned one of the biggest play stations in the world.
It was my fantasyland, where I could become many different people and act out many different roles. There was lots of space to explore my different thoughts, fantasies and humours, any entertainment you wish on demand without ever pressing a button. This was my first theatre, my first stage, my first cinema and the beginning of my first picture show.
It was the start of my escape into dreams, unlimited dreams, where I could create many different worlds and change them at will – and replace the actors whenever I wished. It was so easy, so convenient – it was a walk in the park.
I wake up and then close my eyes again, and escape into sleep, into my own dreamy magic worlds and dream whatever I wish and do what I wish.
***
And we all went up to the Mero, hey there, who's your man
It's only Johnny Forty Coats, sure he's desperate man
Bang Bang shoots the buses with his golden key
Hey hi diddley I and out goes she
***
The Dublin of this time was a female city, soft and innocent, slow and easy, full of songs and stories, a city of contradictions, mystery and larger than life characters.
In my area we had ‘Johnny Forty Coats’ who wore lots of clothes and slept rough; ‘Bang Bang’ who jumped on the buses and pointed his finger at the passengers and said “Bang - bang”. And poor old ‘Hairy Dan’, who slept in Billy King’s field off the North Circular known as ‘The Norrier’. He was reputed to have come from a respectable family and had trained as a doctor, and then cracked up.
We often shouted “Forty coats” at ‘Johnny Forty Coats’, as he cycled past on his antique bicycle laden down with his belongings. He was a big, strong, wiry bastard, mad as a toenail, with a determined dangerous look, and would jump off his bike, and park it against a lamp post or a wall, and give us a vigorous chase.
Despite all his coats, which he even wore in the summer, he could run fast, but luckily he never managed to catch us.
The area around the Park was a military area with a hospital, two barracks, Army HQ and Intelligence HQ close together and linked by tunnels.
There were many soldiers in the area and sometimes, when they cycled past, my brother Sylvester would shout after them:
“Ireland’s only hope, England’s only fear”.
Some of them didn’t take kindly to this remark and would stop their bike, and wave their fist shouting
“I’ll break your neck you bastard. You’ll be sorry. I swear!”
One day a big, strong, redheaded trooper with a fiery temper jumped off his racing bike and gave a long and determined chase in his hob-nailed boots. The brother and myself ran for our lives and escaped yet again, as we had a head start and knew the area inside out. ©
In my area we had ‘Johnny Forty Coats’ who wore lots of clothes and slept rough; ‘Bang Bang’ who jumped on the buses and pointed his finger at the passengers and said “Bang - bang”. And poor old ‘Hairy Dan’, who slept in Billy King’s field off the North Circular known as ‘The Norrier’. He was reputed to have come from a respectable family and had trained as a doctor, and then cracked up.
We often shouted “Forty coats” at ‘Johnny Forty Coats’, as he cycled past on his antique bicycle laden down with his belongings. He was a big, strong, wiry bastard, mad as a toenail, with a determined dangerous look, and would jump off his bike, and park it against a lamp post or a wall, and give us a vigorous chase.
Despite all his coats, which he even wore in the summer, he could run fast, but luckily he never managed to catch us.
The area around the Park was a military area with a hospital, two barracks, Army HQ and Intelligence HQ close together and linked by tunnels.
There were many soldiers in the area and sometimes, when they cycled past, my brother Sylvester would shout after them:
“Ireland’s only hope, England’s only fear”.
Some of them didn’t take kindly to this remark and would stop their bike, and wave their fist shouting
“I’ll break your neck you bastard. You’ll be sorry. I swear!”
One day a big, strong, redheaded trooper with a fiery temper jumped off his racing bike and gave a long and determined chase in his hob-nailed boots. The brother and myself ran for our lives and escaped yet again, as we had a head start and knew the area inside out. ©
*
posted by Roger The Blogger | 2:46 am
1 Comments:
thank you, it was a pleasure to read your blog
eris
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