"ABEL Alarms." If you grew up in Dublin in the 1970s and 80s you know the glamour that phrase conjures on a cold St Patrick’s Day.
Those days of two-channel TV land began with Mass. We didn’t go, because my mother was a sceptic with a husband who left that sort of thing as her department of parental responsibility. But everyone else did, and our neighbour would bring me as she feared a little for my soul with such non-dedicated parents. A weekday with Mass and a disruption to the solemnity of Lent set the day off. Coming out meant that adults you did not know, who spoke to the well-intentioned neighbour, would peer down asking the same thing: “Are you going to the parade?”
This was not straightforward, and I couldn’t be sure. It was hit and miss as our house was close to the parade route, but also close to the pub which would have the racing on. And parade attendance, while definitely in my father’s department of parental responsibilities, meaning significant negotiation.
So, with the fry made by my mother for my return and my father’s descent down the stairs, I began my tactical negotiation. "Can we go to the parade pleeeaaase?!” Probably on reflection I might have led into the question with more suggestion, and waited until the first fag and second cup of tea were finished, but time was of the essence. RTÉ was already broadcasting from St Stephen’s Green.
My mother was of course waiting for the answer with less energy but equal interest, as the answer would dictate her day too. Given my father only abstained from the pub on two days of the year, Good Friday and Christmas Day, those being the only days the pubs actually closed, the timing of his departure was always a matter of topical interest in our family home.
So, when my father raised his Romanesque nose from the Indo’s pages and declared we would leave in half an hour, the unexpected joy created unholy whoops and yells of excitement. “Dress warm!” I wasn’t sure what to do with the Mass clothes that were not warm but my only smart clothes. This was not a time to be pulling on the jeans and a jumper. So, I went out the door just as I had gone to Mass. A coat, a scarf, and my school shoes with tights. While wholly insufficient, I was dressed more warmly than the father, who never wore a coat, only a sports jacket over a jumper. And thus, we were away. Half walking, half running, totally frozen. Late, but in time to see the Abel Alarms floats.
They were the only floats. They had on board superstars like Judge from Wanderly Wagon. And Forty Coats from Wanderly Wagon. And yer man from Wanderly Wagon dressed up like St Patrick. And they had music. And then, just like that, the glamour was gone. The bands between the floats and after the floats were of no interest. And it had started snowing. So, we raced home. Me to the lit fire of the house. My father to the heat of the 2.30 at Leopardstown.
Corned beef and cabbage for dinner and that was that. A fabulous St Patrick’s Day was had by all.
Beannachtaí Lá Fhéile Pádraig, gach duine.
