Skiparee Is Where?

The writer of “Page Two” in last week’s issue made a right hames of the lyrics to Johnny Cash’s “Forty Shades of Green.”

Not since the song “How are Things in Gloccamora” in the musical Finian’s Rainbow has the geography of Ireland been turned so upside down in song. That song described a leaping little brook that ran all the way down from Killybegs through Kilkerry to Kildare. As you can imagine that was some little brook!

“Page Two” outdid it last week. Cash did not picture “the fishing boats of Dingle to the shores of Dundee” but Donaghadee. Dundee is an entirely different place and is in Scotland.

Cash also wrote that he “missed the river Shannon and the folks in Skibbereen.” Now where in God’s name is that town “Page 2” described?

Cash may have found 40 shades of green in Ireland, but I doubt he came across a place with the rather peculiar name of Skipa-Ree!

Brendan Walsh, Queens New York

Let Priests Marry

I read Pat Daley’s letter to the Irish Voice in last week’s issue regarding problems facing the Catholic Church in terms of the future.

He disagrees with another letter writer, Mary Anne Carroll Ryan, who suggested in an earlier issue that the response to church problems should be to leave it. Daley disagrees with that, and so do I.

His suggested solution is that priests should be allowed to marry, and that women should be considered for priesthood as well. He is absolutely right.

There is absolutely no reason why clergy should not marry, or women serve as priests, as the American Episcopal Church —regarded by some as “almost Catholic” — has made clear by example.

Robert Cole, Logan, Utah

Not a Role Model

I have been reading the coverage of the late George Best in the Irish Voice and elsewhere, and I’m wondering what all the fuss is about.

I heard of Best before, but from what I understand he was more famous for his sad exploits with women and booze than what he did on the soccer field. How many good seasons did he have with Manchester United?

Once success came, Best didn’t know how to cope with it. He drank himself into sporting oblivion, and became fodder for tabloid headlines.

Why, then, does this make him a hero to so many? He was a lovable rogue, okay, but hardly a role model for the youth of today who are already inundated with sports “heroes” who don’t know how to behave.

I hope Mr. Best rests in peace, but he’s hardly worthy of all the saintly coverage that has come his way since his passing — a death, incidentally, that was prematurely brought on because of an unhealthy, hedonistic lifestyle.

Gary Sheridan, Fort Myers, Florida

Georgie Boy the Best

Many full-times ago I worked as a van boy for the Gold Medal Cleaners in Belfast. Long hours and very low pay.

But there was a wee sparkling gem amidst the daily trudge around the sleet-drenched streets under the smoky fossil-fuel filled northern skies — 33 Burren Way; a humble red-bricked terraced house. It was one of the many houses on our regular run to pick up and drop off dry cleaning for the housewives of the Cregagh estate in east Belfast.

And it was there at Number 33 I first met Mrs. Ann Best, a former field hockey player. Her son was a fairly good athlete also.

Did I say “fairly good?” He was the best. George Best. To us wans, the punters of Belfast, he was, and always will be, the best football player ever.

On our first meeting Mrs. Best, smiling and full of working-class warmth, invited me into her home to show me George’s medals, trophies, international caps, souvenir match jerseys of other famous opponents swapped at the final whistle on the world’s famous football fields. There were bulging bundles of fan mail, everything neatly stored in a china cabinet in the cosy living room.

Bashful, star-stuck, overawed, my mind bombarded with eager youthful questions, I managed to blurt out a timid, “So...umh….Mrs. Best…umh….what’s he really like…Mrs. Best?”

“Ah, son” she retorted, “he turns up unexpected then he’s off gallivanting till all hours and I just can’t get him out of bed in the mornings!” At least that’s the gist of what I remember.

There was more. But not what I’d expected to hear about my idol, my hero.

But exactly what you’d expect to hear mothers the world over say about their prodigals, even such a prolific and prodigious prodigal as her genius son. Of course it was all said with good humour and Mrs. Best was always very kind and friendly to me. Salt of the earth indeed.

Many more full-times later I was on a stopover in London visiting my older brother. My nephew was a session drummer and played the London clubs with a couple of bands. He also hung out with the Belfast Boy on occasions.

On this particular evening he was having a few bevies with George. I had just finished a concert tour of Europe, was in great form for a wee session, and so I set off to try and catch up with them with my sister-in-law as my trusted guide. Traipsing around various bars they managed to stay one round ahead of us and in the end.

So, well after quitting the game he loved, Georgie Boy was still as elusive and difficult to keep up with off the field as he had been on it. Even though I never got to see George Best that night I certainly saw him in his prime.

And what vivid vibrant invigorating memories; at Old Trafford (when it was Old Trafford), at Wembley, and best of all, on home turf at Windsor Park, Belfast.

Well, Georgie, the final whistle has blown. Perhaps it’s only half time. In any case there will be no shortage of replays and no end of ovations for the Belfast Boy.

A hearty Cead Mile Failte to you for all the exhilarating fun-filled moments of magic and for playing the beautiful game so exquisitely. God Bless you George Best. God Bless your mother Ann.

“Game ball, Georgie, game ball.”

Ray Collins, Brooklyn, New York

Thanks for Donation

On behalf of the Irish Guide Dogs for the Blind, I would like to thank all those who donated at our recent fundraiser. Your generosity will go a long way to help the blind live a more active and productive life.

Please be assured that your gift will make a wonderful difference in the life of someone who needs it most. Your kindness will be remembered in the form of a faithful and loving companion.

I would especially like to thank Rory Dolan’s, the Irish Voice, Martin Melody, John and Joan Clancy, and the Kill Tully Ceili Band.

Thanks also to Adrian Flannelly, Treasa Goodwin Smyth, Tony Jackson, and emcee for the night Dermot Henry, and to all our friends who supported the dance.

Kevin Kennedy, New York, New York

What’s Next?

Though the IRA has completely disarmed, nothing seems to have happened politically in the North since that momentous event.

I think the IRA was duped. Sinn Fein was a far more effective force for change when the IRA still had its arsenal. Republicans are no better off in the North today than they were before. It’s a shame.

What do the governments plan to do to solidify the peace in the North? Everyone right now seems to be all talk and no action. Something better happen soon, or I fear for the future.

B. Murtagh, Bennington, Vermont