It Occurs To Me: Snug or WC?

The late and much lamented BBC NI broadcaster Gerry Anderson had a great love for Donegal, where his mother was from. Sometimes - just to get a rise - he would inform listeners that he wasn’t from ‘Stroke City’ but that he was a Donegal man.

One of his favourite yarns was about a pub we both knew in Inishowen, where the owner decided to do a bit of refurbishment on the cheap.

One major priority - under pressure from family - was to improve the look and quality of the toilets. However, despite advice to the contrary, he decided to keep the old snug intact as it had catered for women who wanted a wee drink on the quiet, and he refused to believe that such quaint habits were fast disappearing.

One of Gerry Anderson’s  favourite yarns was about a pub in Inishowen, where the owner decided to do a bit of refurbishment on the cheap

The old snug door was of very good quality, so he decided to swap it for the one in the ‘Gents’. Unfortunately, he dithered with the new signage and for some time, ladies had to be informed that the snug read ‘Gents’ on the door, but that it was only temporary. What made it permanent and urgent was when a visiting football team - not knowing the protocol - not only made a beeline for the Gents, but as is the habit with some bucks, started loosening the galluses a bit early!

Consequently, there were gasps and screams of horror, as the sherry sipping ladies were confronted in their snug by sights that would have forced the late Oliver J Flanagan to move a motion in the Dáil.

Within days, ‘Gents’ had disappeared and the local ladies were secure once more.

Any chance of a pint?

Here is yet another great Gerry yarn about a Donegal ‘hostelry’, as first told to the Belfast Telegraph: “There is a pub in Co Donegal that shall remain nameless. I first came across it one late afternoon whilst passing through with a showband. Two of us were somehow separated from the pack and found ourselves idly walking down the one and only village street. All was silent. Viewing the local architecture, we couldn’t help but notice a note tacked to a stout door. It read thus: ‘This is not a public house. If you wish to enter, please turn the key.’

"And, indeed, a misshapen key protruded from the door.” “I turned it and entered a gloomy hallway that led to another door on the left from which wafted the sound of muffled talk. Peering in, I found, under a perilously low, antediluvian ceiling, a small room crammed with men who looked exactly the same. All conversation ceased abruptly. When I uttered a furtive, feeble ‘hello’, they turned away to resume their talk.

"A tall, attractive girl made her way across the floor, stooping to avoid the overhanging beams. She had very dark, wild hair and the unblemished alabaster skin of the innocent. ‘Come in,’ she snapped in a businesslike manner, and moved away to talk gently to a shrivelled ancient man who sat on the edge of a wooden bench. She removed a pipe from the top pocket of his grimy jacket, placed it gently in his mouth and held a lit match to the business end. He had to puff it alight himself.” “We edged our way forward and stood in the middle of the floor. Interior of a cozy pub with patrons sitting at the bar and tables, chatting and enjoying drinks in a warm, dimly lit atmosphere.

"Despite what the note on the door said, this was a pub all right. I gently pushed my way through to the bar counter. There was no-one behind it. I thumped the counter a couple of times. I had seen this done before in Co Cork boozers. Everybody stopped talking again. The girl re-appeared by my side:’“What d’ye think yer doin’?’ she hissed sharply. ‘Trying to order a drink for me and my good companion,’ I replied. ‘Couldn’t you read the note on the door? This is not a pub!’ she whispered. ‘Everybody else is drinking,’ I observed. ‘Who are ye, anyway?’ she asked. ‘We’re musicians, playing tonight in Whatyoumaycallit up the road,’ I said. She bit her lip then appeared to concede. ‘All right, then.’ ‘What’s going on here?’ I enquired.

“She narrowed her eyes, looked us up and down and nodded towards the old man with the pipe. ‘It’s me father’s pension. He thought he wouldn’t get the pension if he still had the pub when he retired so he closed down the business and gave up the licence but he wanted to carry on ‘cos he knew he would miss the craic and he wanted to put one over on the Government ‘cos he worked hard all his life and why shouldn’t he get a pension ‘cos it’s no skin off their noses and he deserved it ‘cos even those who have nothing and never did a tap are getting the pension and why shouldn’t he benefit like the rest of them so he kept the place going on the sly but it’s not the same ‘cos we’re not a pub but it’s as near a pub as a pub can be without actually being a pub, don’t you know? Officially and legally, we’re not a pub at all. We’re just not.’ It took us a few seconds to take this in.” ‘So, we can’t buy a drink then?’ ‘No, you can’t,’ she replied. ‘But I can ask you if you’d like something to drink.’ ‘And if you do ask us that, what would you say if I told you we would require two large whiskeys and two Monks by the neck?’” I was getting the hang of this.” ‘Well, in that case, I’d pretend I didn’t hear you. I would then enter my private parlour behind the bar where I would prepare two large whiskies and procure two Monks by the neck. I would then rejoin you – my house guests – carrying a tray.’ ‘And will there be any charge for this hospitality?’ ‘No,’ she answered. ‘But you’ll need to go to the toilet straight away. En route, you’ll come across a slotted wooden box labelled “Lepers In Africa” in which you may place an offering. I will advise you as to what amount you should contribute.

“We stayed longer than we should have, became familiar with the system, sang a few bawdy songs, and got to know a cross-section of the clientele. Eventually, I told her that I thought she was very beautiful.” ‘Funny, she said, tossing her glorious mane. ‘All the strangers say that…’.

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The presidential benediction

 The great poet TS Eliot once observed that “Half the harm that is done in the world is due to people that want to feel important”. 

Well, there’s one buck in the White House who certainly qualifies but closer to home, some of those who were considering running would pass the test too.

 I’m glad Joanna Donnelly saw the light but maybe that was as a result of being skewered by Kieran Cuddihy on The Tonight Show. She said: “I don’t think I’m going to surprise anybody.. I’m going to go mathsy again but the population is represented by a bell curve and 90 per cent of the people of any district are represented by nearly a homogeneous set and there’s only about five per cent on the edges. I’m right under there, I’m right in the middle. I have some left ideas and I have some right ideas, like everybody, but I think my views, for example, every single referendum I ever voted in was carried, I voted with the majority, so I’m not in any way on one side or another side, I’m right down the middle.”

God love her…I wasn’t mad about her as a weather forecaster - too much ‘Here’s me and who’s like me?’ - instead of telling me if it was going to rain in Glen at the weekend!

Ah, notions, the craythur. I see her husband is called Harm…he should have warned her earlier.

 As regards some of the others, if they were bananas, they’d peel themselves.

 One in particular is so boring, he’s dry the snots of a wet horse.