clerical
outfitters in Dublin and which flapped gaily about his legs as he chased the greasy leather football across the moistened expanse of the junior field, crying aloud with all the excitement of a
young child: ‘Ah, lads! Pass it to me, will youse, lads! Give me a welt of it!’ How we laughed when a near-superhuman effort on his part to intercept – especially on damp days
such as this – the oft-recalcitrant orb as it made its way across the leaden skies ended in disaster as he completely misjudged the path of its trajectory and ended up face down in a very
large patch of sodden earth in the centre of the field which had the consistency of the blancmange regularly served up to us for dessert, and then raised himself up on his fists as best he could,
appearing for all the world as some kind of primeval Mud-Man of whose exploits you might read in a child’s penny comic. Little did we know, of course – how could we – that this
was but an exasperatingly cunning ploy designed to win our sympathies and affections – which it undoubtedly did, for it is to that single incident the heart-warming cry which was to become a
feature of the college’s corridors and quadrangles, ‘Good man, Packie!’, may attribute its genesis. It was to be the first of a number of many conniving strategems spawned for no
reason other than to completely obliterate any suspicions that might attach themselves to the person of Packie Cooley and reveal his true identity – His Satanic Majesty, Diabolic Walker Among
Men!
All of which were truly successful, for not once did the truth occur to myself, or my esteemed second-in-command in those days, Fr Buttkins McArdle. With whom I earnestly found myself in
agreement when, having poured the Dubonnet for our nightcap one evening in my study, he angled his elbow and, leaning on the heavy marble mantelpiece, turned to me and with his eyes glittering,
said: ‘Do you know, your grace? I think the calibre of men we’re getting is improving every year. I quizzed that young Packie Cooley up and down in Latin class and be cripes if he
didn’t come up trumps every time! As true as I’m standing here with my elbow on this mantelpiece, I don’t think there’s a Latin verb in the dictionary but he’s
conversant with it!’
Of course, if Buttkins were to say the exact same thing to me now, I know what my reply should be, ready and waiting to leap off my tongue. ‘Aha!’ I would cry. ‘But do you know
why that is, Buttkins? Because he is the Devil! And if the Devil is not knowledgeable in the art of the ancient languages, then I ask you – who is? Who is, I ask you!’
But Fr McArdle isn’t here today, of course, having thrown himself off the roof of St Mackie’s some years ago in the throes of a mid-life crisis concerning the validity of his faith
and his relationship with his Maker, and so my words are as wishful thinking, nothing more. And the truth is, dear reader, that the reply which I made to my gentle deceased friend and colleague in
faith on that occasion long ago was: ‘Packie Cooley is as brainy a scholar as ever strode through the portals of St Mackie’s, Father. And as far from committing the sin of pride as
Castlebar is from Dingle.’ And to which my old friend, tilting the meniscus of his dark beverage, mused softly: ‘Now you’ve said it. You’ve said it now and no mistake, me
old butty!’
I would soon come to rue those words! How can I begin to impress upon you, dearest reader, how it galls me to this day to think that I, who had been – not a rock! but a virtual
slab
of
granite
to my beloved students, should have been deceived by the smiling cherubic complexion of a football-playing ‘angel’ whose heart seemed to burst with passion for both
his peers and the human race in general. But who, in truth, was the leavings of the celestial barrel, a handful of Mephistophelian scrapings whose soul was as nothing more than a piece of canine
excrement you
outfitters in Dublin and which flapped gaily about his legs as he chased the greasy leather football across the moistened expanse of the junior field, crying aloud with all the excitement of a
young child: ‘Ah, lads! Pass it to me, will youse, lads! Give me a welt of it!’ How we laughed when a near-superhuman effort on his part to intercept – especially on damp days
such as this – the oft-recalcitrant orb as it made its way across the leaden skies ended in disaster as he completely misjudged the path of its trajectory and ended up face down in a very
large patch of sodden earth in the centre of the field which had the consistency of the blancmange regularly served up to us for dessert, and then raised himself up on his fists as best he could,
appearing for all the world as some kind of primeval Mud-Man of whose exploits you might read in a child’s penny comic. Little did we know, of course – how could we – that this
was but an exasperatingly cunning ploy designed to win our sympathies and affections – which it undoubtedly did, for it is to that single incident the heart-warming cry which was to become a
feature of the college’s corridors and quadrangles, ‘Good man, Packie!’, may attribute its genesis. It was to be the first of a number of many conniving strategems spawned for no
reason other than to completely obliterate any suspicions that might attach themselves to the person of Packie Cooley and reveal his true identity – His Satanic Majesty, Diabolic Walker Among
Men!
All of which were truly successful, for not once did the truth occur to myself, or my esteemed second-in-command in those days, Fr Buttkins McArdle. With whom I earnestly found myself in
agreement when, having poured the Dubonnet for our nightcap one evening in my study, he angled his elbow and, leaning on the heavy marble mantelpiece, turned to me and with his eyes glittering,
said: ‘Do you know, your grace? I think the calibre of men we’re getting is improving every year. I quizzed that young Packie Cooley up and down in Latin class and be cripes if he
didn’t come up trumps every time! As true as I’m standing here with my elbow on this mantelpiece, I don’t think there’s a Latin verb in the dictionary but he’s
conversant with it!’
Of course, if Buttkins were to say the exact same thing to me now, I know what my reply should be, ready and waiting to leap off my tongue. ‘Aha!’ I would cry. ‘But do you know
why that is, Buttkins? Because he is the Devil! And if the Devil is not knowledgeable in the art of the ancient languages, then I ask you – who is? Who is, I ask you!’
But Fr McArdle isn’t here today, of course, having thrown himself off the roof of St Mackie’s some years ago in the throes of a mid-life crisis concerning the validity of his faith
and his relationship with his Maker, and so my words are as wishful thinking, nothing more. And the truth is, dear reader, that the reply which I made to my gentle deceased friend and colleague in
faith on that occasion long ago was: ‘Packie Cooley is as brainy a scholar as ever strode through the portals of St Mackie’s, Father. And as far from committing the sin of pride as
Castlebar is from Dingle.’ And to which my old friend, tilting the meniscus of his dark beverage, mused softly: ‘Now you’ve said it. You’ve said it now and no mistake, me
old butty!’
I would soon come to rue those words! How can I begin to impress upon you, dearest reader, how it galls me to this day to think that I, who had been – not a rock! but a virtual
slab
of
granite
to my beloved students, should have been deceived by the smiling cherubic complexion of a football-playing ‘angel’ whose heart seemed to burst with passion for both
his peers and the human race in general. But who, in truth, was the leavings of the celestial barrel, a handful of Mephistophelian scrapings whose soul was as nothing more than a piece of canine
excrement you
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