2026 CELTIC CRUSH TOP OF THE POPS 100

 

Every couple of years listeners vote for their Top 100 favorite songs on my Celtic Crush show on SiriusXM The Loft, Ch. 710.

While everyone who participates seems to enjoy the countdown, the results can be controversial, especially to those who didn’t vote. For me, though, this simple competition often shows trends in Celtic life and culture.

One non-listener questioned the sanity of voters in not choosing Fairytale of New York by The Pogues. The song’s absence from the Top 100, 2026 was surprising, given it had been voted #2 in the previous poll.

Change, apparently, is in the air as other previous chart-toppers like Loch Lomond by Runrig, Kilkelly by Moloney, Keane & O’Connell, North-West Passage by Stan Rogers also failed to make this year’s Top 100.

However, the number of new bands and artists making this year’s cut is both heartening and surprising. It’s as if listeners are demanding that they create their own musical heroes. That doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate The Pogues or Runrig, they just want to hear new voices they’ve been introduced to by Celtic Crush, including The Mary Wallopers, Lankum, Fontaines DC, Lisa O’Neill, Bog Bodies, The Rumjacks, Jinx Lennon, The Snake Charmer, The Scratch, The 2 Johnnies and many others.

The big winners were three very new bands, Chasing Abbey, with 3 Top 100 entries, Amble with #2 song Mary’s Pub, and this year’s overall #1, Kingfishr with Shot in the Dark.

Interestingly, many new entries are from “culchie” artists, meaning that, like me, they come from beyond Dublin’s pale.

The success of Amble, Kingfishr & Chasing Abbey suggests that there’s much less difference between urban and rural nowadays. Due to Ireland’s investment in education, every year many rural teenagers leave for university, leading to successive waves of Irish economic mobility, self-confidence, and little or no crushing debt.

The country has changed. Kingfishr’s Eddie Keough, hailing from rural Co. Wexford, sees no need to ape a Dublin 4 accent, much less a New York one.

And what about the brilliant Lisa O’Neill? She’s as recognizably Cavan as Steve Duggan; in her early songs she took inspiration from Cork born, traveler-balladeer, Margaret Barry.

Look out! There’s a renaissance in Irish music, just as there was a Scottish one a generation ago with such artists as Runrig, The Peatbog Faeries, and Simple Minds; while new bands like Beluga Lagoon, Mánran & Skipinnish have picked up the Scottish musical mantle.

So, next time you want to seem cool to your kids or grandkids, ask them what they think of #5, Boygenius & Ye Vagabond’s haunting collaboration on The Parting Glass, or why does Seán Ó’Ríada’s remarkable Aisling Gheal continue to grace the Top Ten 60 years after he recorded it?

Read on for more ice-cool, cultural ammunition - courtesy of the Celtic Crushers!

 

100	Carolina Rua	The Chieftains & Imelda May
99	Íorónta	Chasing Abbey
98	This is the Life	High Stool Prophets
97	Cold Old Fire	Lankum
96	Dirty Old Town	The Pogues
95	Lonely Island	Amble
94	Ordinary Day	Great Big Sea
93	Streets of London	Ralph McTell
92	The Band Played Waltzing Matilda	Tommy Makem & Liam Clancy
91	Whiskey in the Jar	Metallica
90	An Irish Goodbye	Willie Nile
89	An Poc Ar Buile	The Rumjacks
88	Fields of Athenry	The Dropkick Murphy's
87	Shine on You Crazy Diamond	Christy Moore
86	Carrickfergus	Van Morrison & The Chieftains
85	Downpressor Man	Sinéad O'Connor
84	Oro Sé Do Beatha ‘Bhaile	Sinéad O'Connor
83	Over the Rainbow	Eva Cassidy
82	Summer in Dublin	Bagatelle
81	The Green and Red of Mayo	The Saw Doctors
80	The Homes of Donegal	Paul Brady
79	Cod Liver Oil and the Orange Juice	The Mary Wallopers
78	Madam George	Van Morrison
77	Starburster	Fontaines DC
76	The Season's Upon Us	The Dropkick Murphy's
75	Oran	Runrig
74	The Parting Glass	The High Kings
73	The Wind Doesn't Blow this Far Right	Lisa O'Neil
72	Isla	Beluga Lagoon
71	Toward the Harvest	Bog Bodies
70	Yeah, Yeah, Yeah…	The Pogues
69	Young People	Lankum
68	Jackaroo	Jerry Garcia & David Grisman
67	Carrying A Torch	Van Morrison
66	Come Down from the Mountain Katie Daly	Dessie O'Halloran
65	Goodnight World	Lisa O'Neil
64	In These Shoes	Kristy MacColl
63	Old Lady	Sinéad O'Connor
62	Proud to be a Nobody from Co. Louth	Jinx Lennon
61	The Cruel Sister	Old Blind Dogs
60	Whiskey in the Jar	Thin Lizzy
59	Wintergreen	The East Pointers
58	Waltzing Matilda	Liam Clancy
57	You and I	Skerryvore
56	Back Home in Derry	Christy Moore
55	You and I in the One Bed Lie	Cathie Ryan
54	Blue is the Eye	Ye Vagabonds
53	Red Cortina	The Saw Doctors
52	The Patriot Game	Liam Clancy
51	Funky Ceili	Black 47
50	Building Up and Tearing England Down	The Mary Wallopers
49	El Aqua de la Vida	Salsa Celtica
48	The Island	Paul Brady
47	The Storm	Moving Hearts
46	Shipping Up to Boston	The Dropkick Murphy's
45	Into the Mystic	Van Morrison
44	Uncle Jim	Black 47
43	Zombie	The Snake Charmer
42	Galway to Graceland	Richard Thompson
41	London Town	Kevin Burke and John Brennan
40	Ar Ais Arís	Seanchaí & The Unity Squad
39	Haunted	The Pogues
38	Soldier	Francis Dunnery
37	Margo & Barry	Beluga Lagoon
36	Dublin to Wicklow	Dylan Walshe
35	Life's Like That, Isn't It?	Larry Kirwan
34	Streets of Edinburgh	The Proclaimers
33	Galway Girl	Steve Earle
32	Alive	Skipinnish
31	I Useta Lover	The Saw Doctors
30	The Big Fellah	Black 47
29	Old Note	Lisa O'Neil
28	Learning to Dance (Lanigan's Ball)	Chasing Abbey
27	Neidín	Tommy O'Sullivan
26	Killeagh	Kingfishr
25	Who'll Stand with  Us	The Dropkick Murphy's
24	Open Letter to You	Tuatha Dea
23	Arís is Arís	Chasing Abbey
22	Fields of Gold	Eva Cassidy
21	Cello Song	Fontaines DC
20	When a Good Man Cries	CMAT
19	The Foggy Dew	Sinéad O'Connor and the Chieftains
18	Streets of Minneapolis	Bruce Springsteen
17	Autumn Song	The Manic Street Preachers
16	Mr. Rock & Roll	Amy McDonald
15	First Light of Day	Paddy A Go Go
14	James Connolly	Black 47
13	Caledonia	Dougie Maclean
12	Óran Na Cloiche	Mánran
11	Mayo Moon	Bible Code Sunday
10	Stardust	Shay Healy
9	Sleep Tight in NYC	The Screaming Orphans
8	A Rainy Night in Soho	The Pogues
7	Another Round	The Scratch
6	Aisling Gheal	Seán Ó'Riada
5	The Parting Glass	Boy Genius & Ye Vagabonds
4	The GAA, the Ska and the Ra	The 2 Johnnie's
3	The Whole of the Moon	The Waterboys
2	Mary's Pub	Amble
1	Shot in the Dark	Kingfishr

JAMES CONNOLLY & THE WEXFORD LOCKOUT OF 1911

 

Towns change. We leave them one way, and find them so different when we return.

 

Wexford is a case in point. So many people now live on its outskirts, you could almost call them suburban. The accent sounds closer to South Dublin than the medieval street patois of my youth.

 

Wexford itself more resembles a pleasant European town than the Breughel-like teeming burgh I emerged from.

 

But if Wexford in the 2020’s is different than its 1960’s version, what about Wexford in 1911? That was the year the owners of the three iron foundries closed their gates to  employees who wished to join a union.

 

Perched strategically on Ireland’s South-East corner, Wexford had for long been a thriving international seaport. My great-grandfather, master of a sailing vessel, regularly undertook voyages carrying goods to Odessa in the Russian Empire.

 

Sailors tended to live in the south side of town in an area called The Faythe. There too lived foundry workers employed by Pierce & Sons and The Star Iron Works. Though the town’s population was then over 11,000, close to 1000 were employed by those two firms and Selskar Ironworks on the north side.

 

There’s barely a trace of this industrial base now, though even in my time, burly muscled men still strode to and from the south side foundries.

 

There’s no sign either of ships or vessels, though some sturdy looking trawlers still moor within view of Commodore John Barry’s statue, the local lad who went on to become “Father of the American Navy.”

 

In 1911 however, Wexford was a major manufacturing and export center. It was close to the heart of political affairs too, as another local lad, John Redmond, led the Home Rule Party in the British Parliament.

 

But things were changing. Though the employers did well financially, and the clerical staff enjoyed a decent standard of living, the same could not be said for the regular foundry employees who put in 60-hour workweeks in hazardous conditions for a pittance that could barely maintain their large families.

 

In 1910 the new militant Irish Transport & General Workers Union (ITGWU) came to town. Led by Big Jim Larkin, and James Connolly who had recently returned from the US after some years of organizing for the Industrial Workers of the World (The Wobblies).

 

The dockworkers were first to join, but soon the foundry workers began signing up. This was met with some alarm by the local political, business, and church leaders, none of whom cared for this new proletarian power base barging its way into Wexford’s class-conscious stratosphere.

 

My maternal grandfather, an ardent Irish republican and small businessman, was of the opinion that James Connolly was “nothing but a little Scottish troublemaker.” He wasn’t the only one with such views for the foundry bosses let it be known in no uncertain terms that union members would not sweat on their floors.

 

By September 1911, 700 workers were locked out and soon thereafter scabs from as far away as Belfast and Britain were hired to fill the union members’ jobs. This led to great disquiet in the back lanes of Wexford.

 

Over 150 extra RIC men were drafted in to protect the scabs from the fists, pegged stones and insults of the townspeople, and in one baton charge Michael O’Leary, an innocent bystander, was clubbed to death.

 

The lockout dragged on through the bitter winter; the families of the locked out workers suffered great deprivation. In the end the scabs saw the light, or had it beaten out of them, and began to withdraw from the town.

 

With dwindling profits the employers showed signs of relenting but still refused to accept the ITGWU. Connolly, who had battled American oligarchs, proposed a compromise - Wexford workers would form their own union. The employers grasped at this semantic straw and the workers returned to their jobs in February 2012.

 

Oh, that we had more “troublemaking” compromisers, the like of James Connolly, in our contemporary world of fearless social media warriors.

 

If you ever visit Wexford, take a walk down the narrow Main Street and up to The Faythe. The natives may look blandly modern, but look behind their eyes and you’ll catch a glimpse of the men of iron and their courageous women who held firm for their right to organize during the great Lockout of 1911.

SEND 'EM HOME SWEATIN' - IRISH SHOWBANDS

 

“Send ‘em Home Sweatin’!” was the battle cry of Irish showbands during their rambunctious dancehall reign back in the 1960’s.

 Or, as Ben Dolan of The Drifters waxed poetic one night backstage in Wexford’s Parish Hall, “As long as the floor is black, you and me are on the pig’s back.”

 

Meaning, if you couldn’t see the floorboards from the stage, it meant the hall was packed like sardines with paying dancers.

 

“Paying” being the operative word. Showband musicians made a living, and if you managed to finagle a gig you played with real musicians 4 hours a night, on hit songs in every key imaginable.

 

Such “artistes” would be beyond disdainful of your skinny inexperienced ass, but you couldn’t help but pick up some musical chops while in their exalted company.

 

You also got to wear bizarrely-colored jackets, the thought of which makes me blush even now.  These were owned by the band, the first one I wore was about 5 sizes too big with all its buttons missing; ever the improviser, band leader Johnny Reck looped a yard of agricultural binding twine around my waist to hold the offending jacket together.

 

We were rock bottom bad and employed a number of names, including The Palladium and The Liars. Yet, we played often and for decent money, as Mr. Reck had enrolled us in the Irish Musicians Union, thus forcing all national acts to hire us as support in the union-run halls of County Wexford.

 

That’s how Pierce Turner and I get our start in the paid entertainment business. Pierce went on to some fame, but little fortune, as a member of the Arrows Showband, and was paid the princely sum of 25 pounds per week for 6 nights slogging all over Ireland; while I defected to the less glamorous “singing pubs,” where one could drink free and still get paid a couple of quid a night.

 

But I never regretted my showband days where the craic, as they say, was mighty. Showband heads (members) were first-class comedians. Every disaster suffered became an epic laugh-a-ton that can still bring tears to my eyes.

 

You can get a glimpse of those times when reading Rebecca Miller’s magisterial “Are You Dancing?: Showbands, Popular Music, and Memory in Modern Ireland.” 

 

Though she was never part of the scene, this astute Irish Trad head/academic used a keen eye and scrupulous research to get to the very soul of the showband era. The pictures alone are worth the price of the book.

 

Imagine being a callow 18 year old playing to packed halls before The mighty Miami or Joe Dolan & The Drifters, and meeting the likes of Brendan Bowyer and Dickie Rock. Legendary names, now rarely mentioned, but superstars back in the sexy 60’s.

 

There are some naysayers in Rebecca’s book, including Bono and Geldoff, ashamed of the corniness and lack of originality. But remember, both Rory Gallagher and Van Morrison served their time in showbands, and any of us who toiled in bands containing brass sections had to learn to play in every key - not just the standard A, E, G, C & D beloved of guitarists. 

 

On a personal note, when I came to play with Black 47’s sterling sax, trombone, and pipes players, I had some sense of how to harness such soulful instruments.

 

The showband ethic was still strong in The Bronx when Turner & Kirwan of Wexford arrived. We were greeted by Dermot Henry, Paddy Higgins, Colm Graham, Dermie Mac, Tommy Mulvihill,  Gerry Finlay, and Joe Nellany, all great heads who could turn the floor black with the first notes of a dance tune. 

 

One note, however - from our years of jamming on long synthesized pieces in Greenwich Village clubs, we had forgotten the magic words that resounded after 3 songs in every ballroom.

 

It was in Durty Nelly’s on Kingsbridge we were brought back to earth by owner Phil Delaney from Carrick-on-Suir. I opened my stoned eyes one night to behold the normally unflappable Mr. Delaney storming through the audience as he roared at me, “Did yez never hear about ‘Your Next feckin’ Dance’, Please?’ The women are sick of the same fellahs hanging out of them for 30 minutes straight, and there’s not a sinner in the house drinking!”

 

Ah yes, those glorious dancing days in Da Bronx!  Phil was dead right, but at least we sent ‘em home sweatin’!

DRINKIN' IN AMERICA

 “It’s 6 o’clock and it’s time to rock, and me head is beatin’ like a drum

In the cold daylight, I feel like shite, and I can’t remember last night’s fun

Then the foreman says, ‘C’mon now, boys, stick your fingers down your throat and get to work’

 

And I wish to Christ, I’d stayed home last night, instead of drinking in America.”

 

“Drinking in America.” I bet that phrase summonses memories, the kind you never forget.

 

I thought I had put in some first-class imbibing before I moved to New York City. But that was akin to being a sprinter who’s suddenly tossed into a marathon.

 

4am closing time was a revelation. I remember thinking: Americans must do nothing but drink.

It was so different in Ireland. “Time, gentlemen, please!” would resound through pubs at 10:50pm in the winter and 11:20pm in the summer. Speed drinking would ensue, how many pints could you down before you were banished out the door by a frenetic barman?

 

Apart from the occasional tear, by American standards no one drank that much in Ireland, who had the money? To paraphrase Brendan Behan, “Getting stocious wasn’t a disgrace, it was an achievement.”   I mean, the pubs were actually closed on St. Patrick’s Day.

 

Women, as a rule, didn’t frequent pubs until the mid-1960’s, when lounges became fashionable. Up until then, working class ladies might squeeze into snugs, while their upper-class sisters sipped Babycham or the occasional cocktail in hotel bars.

 

Remember ballroom culture, up to 1000 women and men, many sporting pioneer pins, soberly throwing shapes. And what showband dared drink on stage with the parish priest presiding?

 

But right from the get-go, when the Irish came to America it was a whole different ball game.

During the Great Hunger years, many Irish immigrants settled in the downtown Five Points area. After some trepidation, they fit in well with free African-Americans who already ran dance halls; soon inter-racial bands were playing a mix of Irish jigs and African Juba music.

 

With little or no licensing laws, the shenanigans went on all night, and the Irish built their reputation as a drinking/dancing/romancing type of people who left the footprint of their saloons all over this country.

 

Part of the reason was economic. Immigrants and their large families rented small rooms in tenements. Most space was used for sleeping and eating, so there was need for a sitting room – often the nearest saloon or síbín. Not to mention that water was scarce and often contaminated. Beer was far safer.

 

Being a musician, I got to study “drinking in America” close up. The days of the Five Points were long gone by the 1970’s. In the Irish bars of The Bronx, say Durty Nelly’s on Kingsbridge, there was still a cultural connection to showbands and ballrooms, the men wore suits and ties on weekends, the ladies looked divine in their dresses; after 3 songs, you called out, “Your next dance please.”  And though the clientele was far from sober, a mannerly decorum was called for, and observed.

 

Oh man, did that change in the nihilistic 80’s with the huge influx of young immigrants from the jobless South and battle-torn North where the youth had already gone toe-to-toe with the British Army.

 

At the end of that decade I wrote the above quoted song, Livin’ in America, about young immigrant life around Bainbridge Avenue. Since many were illegal, there was a roaring cash culture and economy. 

 

I never witnessed such drinking – you had to tread carefully entering a darkened pub with your guitar and amp, for fear you’d trip over some client taking a post happy-hour nap to revivify himself before heading off to the Archway for a night’s dancing - and some serious imbibing.

 

That all changed when the Celtic Tiger began growling back home. Plenty of heavy drinkers still remained, but Bainbridge without bars became just another lonely avenue.

 

Though many pub owners would love a renaissance, it’s just a pipe dream. Young Irish don’t fancy the U.S. anymore - Australia, Canada and the EU are more welcoming and better reflect modern Irish values.

 

Besides, everyone wants to live longer, and affordability is all the rage. The good old days of “drinking in America” are receding in the mirror.

 

Ah well, I’m off to the bodega for a 6-pack. It’ll soon enough be “six o’clock and time to rock...”

OSPREYS, KNOW-NOTHIN'S, GERRYMANDERING & THE STATE OF THE UNION

 By the time you read this the Ospreys should have returned to my little patch of the Long Island Sound. However, it’s been a strange year for birds. They practically disappeared over the frigid winter months.

Normally, the red berries on the local holly trees would have been devoured by late January, yet they were still glistening during St. Patrick’s week.

 

Still, the Clapper Rails, in their long-beaked glory, have been click-clacking away in the nearby marshlands for weeks, and gloriously colored American Finches are cavorting amid the new leaves on the maple trees.

 

But no sign of the imperious Ospreys. Have they grown tired of us and our political shenanigans?

 

I still enjoy living in the North-East’s four seasons. But I’m less patient with the long winters. I try to take a vacation now in mid-March, something I could never do in my Black 47 years.

 

Last year I made it to Morocco and this year to Egypt, both countries where the sun can braise you and the dollar goes a long way.

 

The friends I made in both countries were reluctant to speak about the US. But when tongues loosened they were puzzled by our erratic foreign policy, the casual rejection of long-time allies, and the fear they might get denied entry when seeking to visit family members living Stateside.

 

It got me thinking of the times we live in and a country that was once considered a beacon of hope. What happened?

 

There’s no point in blaming politicians. We vote them into power. That’s what a democratic republic is all about.

 

I’ve always found the two-party system limiting, even restrictive; although I tend to vote Democrat, I don’t totally identify with either party. It’s a common immigrant complaint. Jan, my Czech landlord in the East Village, was the exception. A confirmed Republican, he used to proclaim, “Why should I vote poor people party, I come here be rich man!”  

 

However, the current Republican Party brings to mind the 19^th Century Know-Nothings. While the Democratic Party is still coming to terms with its failure to deal with Joe Biden’s geriatric ego. 

 

I consider myself a small “d” democrat and a small “r” republican. I believe in democracy and the principles of a republic.

 

With regard to the first, why do we allow self-serving Republicans and Democrats to gerrymander our states and districts as though they own them? Talk about appointing the fox to police the hen-house!

 

It’s not that long ago Catholics and Republicans in Northern Ireland refused to accept the rampant gerrymandering of their sectarian state. And yet here in the US of A, states are casually gerrymandered by both parties, often with the assent of a partisan Supreme Court.

 

As regards, small “r” republican issues: Why do we allow Democratic and Republican politicians to serially increase the National Debt without the least murmur of dissent?

 

Yes, I did indeed bring up this issue only months back in this column, but since then our current US Federal Debt has zoomed past 100% of our Gross Domestic Product, and shows not the least sign of slowing down.

 

Have you ever heard President Trump even mention the word “deficit?” 

 

Hardly, for if the word was part of his vocabulary, he would have thought twice about blowing the hell out of Iran in a war of choice whose massive bill has not even begun to become due. 

 

Yet, in all these macho Republican war games, how often have you heard a Democratic politician rail against the annual one trillion bucks cost of interest or the ever-growing size of the debt.

 

Nah, that can wait until the next Democratic Administration is forced to cut social security benefits in 2032, while our retired King of Debt looks on benignly from Mar-a-Lago.

 

When did we as a country decide to use the national credit card rather than pay as we go like other generations?

 

Back in January 1835 President Andrew Jackson totally paid off his national debt, while after 8 years of the Clinton presidency, we owed less than $6 trillion. The good old days!

 

Ah well, if I’m lucky enough to be still pontificating in 2032, I promise I won’t criticize our Republican and Democratic rulers when the fiscal chickens finally come home to roost. 

 

No way, I’ll be too busy scouring the skies above the Long Island Sound for sight of some common sense and the long-missing Ospreys.

PETE HAMILL - FAREWELL TO ALEXANDRIA

I had been meaning to visit Egypt for the last 40 years or more, so last month I bit the bullet and went.

 

No big deal, except shortly beforehand Messrs. Netanyahu & Trump decided to blow the hell out of Iran. Everybody thought I was around the bend, but I had a feeling if I didn’t go then, I might never. Besides, my travel agent said I’d have the place to myself, and how bad could that be?

 

I needn’t have worried. You’re never alone in Cairo, a city of 22 million people with traffic so dense it makes Manhattan seem like a stroll in the park. I might add there are no pedestrian walk signs, hence crossing streets is up to you, your sense of adventure, and fancy footwork.

 

But it has the nearby Pyramids and the Sphinx, though every Tik-Toker in the universe seemed to be using them as backdrop for their narcissistic posturing. Not to worry, close by is the recently opened Great Egyptian Museum, designed by Mayo’s Róisín Heneghan.

 

You could spend a week there basking in the shadows of the various Pharaohs’ statues while weeping over the remains of Tutankhamun, the boy king, and what might have been.

 

Then down to Luxor where the Valley of the Kings can overawe you, or the Valley of the Queens and their sometimes still-born children show the more achingly human side of ancient Egypt.

 

But I had an ulterior motive – I wanted to walk the streets of Alexandria, and catch any remaining echoes of a series of books set there by Lawrence Durrell, the Anglo-Irish writer. (Durrell always referred to himself as an “Irishman” and considered England “the grey death.)

 

The Quartet books, Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive, and Clea are set circa World War Two. They explore a romance influenced by a brooding portrait of the atmospheric city founded by Alexander The Great.

 

Justine gives a thrilling account of the love the narrator Darley has for Justine, the wife of his aristocratic Coptic friend, Nessim. As satisfying as the book is, it leaves you wanting more, and most people turn to its immediate sequel, Balthazar.

 

That’s where the real thrill is, and it becomes apparent that truth is relative as it unfolds in fits and starts over the course of the remaining books.

 

Pete Hamill and I shared an admiration for the Alexandria Quartet. We had both been introduced to it by women no longer alive, perhaps part of the fascination.

 

If Joyce masterfully captured the essence of Dublin in 1904 with Ulysses, Durrell did no less with Alexandria though in a more mysterious and hallucinogenic manner. But each writer’s city is more a character than just a backdrop.

 

Joyce’s Dublin is still glaringly there courtesy of the Irish people. You have to dig deeper in Alexandria as the Greeks, Jews, and British departed around President Nasser’s regime in the 1950’s and are barely an echo now in this bustling Muslim city leavened only by Coptic Christians.

 

But the Cecil Hotel still looms large. Darley, a penniless English schoolteacher, and the glamorous Justine met there, and its storied Monty Bar (Field-Marshal Montgomery) still reeks of a decadent colonialism.

 

One of the great bonuses of immersing yourself in the Quartet is that you become familiar with the poetry of C.V. Cavafy, “the poet of the city,”  a master at transmuting love, loss and life.

 

“One afternoon at four o’clock we separated

for a week only... And then,

that week became forever.”

 

Within strolling distance of The Cecil, Cavafy’s apartment has been turned into a miniature museum replete with photos, furniture and intimate artifacts of this Greek-Alexandrian’s life. He was Jacqueline Kennedy’s favorite poet, and fittingly the museum was founded and is supported by the Onassis Foundation.

 

Across the street from The Cecil is the Corniche, a long walkway by the Mediterranean where Darley, Justine, Balthazar, Mountolive, Cavafy and the hapless Clea gazed out across the sparkling waves, wondering if they’d ever escape the magnetic attraction of Alexander’s city, before they too would be swept away as his legendary library was.

 

It's strange how a book can have such an effect on you after so many years. But that’s the power and majesty of literature, isn’t it, and why writers sacrifice everything to capture one glimpse of its magic.

 

DO IT NOW!

 I was recently asked, “What was the best piece of advice you ever received.”

Though it was given to me way back in the last century, the simple words still resonate, as does the time bomb those words set ticking.

 

I’m usually loath to give advice myself, though in the fields I labor, it’s tossed about like confetti. Far better to develop your own sense of discretion, then judge any advice you’re receiving through that prism.

 

I received my life-defining advice back in my first year at Wexford Christian Brothers Secondary School - the equivalent of American high school.

 

We were a mixed bunch, wild rural lads who rode into town on heavy black bicycles, sons of factory workers confident they would soon join their fathers as apprentices, and the rest of us vaguely middle-class, though no one had a tosser, and everyone had emigrant relatives in London, Dagenham, or Birmingham.

 

In those tween-age years we were rowdy, but still constrained by the ever-present fear of corporal punishment. Still, the Christian Brother warned us to be on our best behavior, as our religion class would be pre-empted that noon by the visit of an important personage.

 

We all hoped it would be some hurling star, like Hopper McGrath or one of the legendary Rackard brothers.

 

To our surprise, in strode Brendan Corish, our local TD, and leader of the Labor Party. He came from storied stock, his father Richard had helped lead the foundry workers in the Wexford Lockout of 1911, and was a confidant of James Connolly.

 

Brendan would go on to become Tánaiste (Deputy Leader) and Minister for Health and Social Welfare in the Irish Coalition government of 1973.

 

A consummate constituency politician, he surveyed us keenly; however, he seemed troubled. Perhaps, he could already foresee our emigrant fates.

 

Nonetheless, he shook off his initial concern and breezily informed us that it had not been long since he sat in the same desks. He was then in his early 40’s, and by his own admission a socialist, though a Christian one, he added to the relief of our attentive Brother, who added, “Mr. Corish, like all Irish politicians, hews closely to our Holy Father’s religious and ethical edicts.”

 

Brendan took no notice of this well-intended compliment, and soon had us chuckling, having  quickly divined our sporting interests and favorites in the pop music of the day. 

 

And so things continued on an even keel, until the Brother intervened in a rare silence, “Mr. Corish, if you had one piece of advice for my students what would it be?”

 

This question summonsed the clouds back into Brendan’s face and he sighed. His shoulders sank for a moment and concerns of state seemed to swirl around the room. Then he gathered himself and smiled, “It’s very simple: three words, seven letters.”

 

He turned to the blackboard, picked up a piece of white chalk and wrote very deliberately, DO IT NOW!

 

The silence gathered and enveloped the sun-dappled classroom as we wrestled with this no-nonsense command. The Brother and Brendan, however, shared a glance of empathetic understanding.

 

“As good as this advice is, it will haunt you,” Brendan warned, “for in the end, the things you didn’t do will weigh far heavier than those you did. So keep it close to mind and, for God’s sake, act on it as often as you humanly can.”

 

The bell for lunch rang, but instead of jumping up in our usual jumble of delight and relief, we sat there as if nailed to our rough-hewn seats.

 

“Get on with you now,” the Brother hissed and we trooped out of the classroom into the noisy corridor, some of us still wrestling with both the advice and the conundrum it would apparently present.

 

I glanced behind and saw the Brother and Brendan sharing a long handshake, their political persuasions laid aside on a hallstand of human understanding.

 

They’re both dead a long time, Brendan after a distinguished career in public service – a Christian Socialist to the end; I can’t even remember the brother’s name, let alone how he fared in life.

 

But the advice still rings true, serviceable as ever, if troubling and occasionally haunting.

DO IT NOW! It may soon be too late.