“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, That woman has her clothes out again”

That Woman was Mrs ffrench -two small ffs no capitals, please, and her clothes were her family washing which had welcomed the sun rise, and now flew defiantly on the washing line at number 55 Clonturk Park. We lived at 51.

“I swear to God but she must do her washing on Sunday night to get it out that early’’

My mother was getting upset again about the goings on of Mrs ffrench, breaching the rules of proper housewifery by unfair means, namely by washing on Sunday. Her anger wasn’t so much about breaking the Sabbath but the injustice of her winning the “washing on the line” race each week.

Mrs ffrench -two small fs no capitals please -was a very large proud loud woman with a miniature husband called John.

Her son Paddy was my best friend.

Paddy went to a school, which taught all its lessons through Irish with the exception of English and Religion. Religion was taught through Latin and English was allowed to take care of itself. Paddy would argue for hours over matters of history, geography or mathematics and, unless you were a native Irish speaker, he had you confused and beaten within minutes.

Paddy took violin lesson each Wednesday from a grey man called Mr Hackett.

Mr Hackett used to arrive on his bicycle with his violin case strapped to his back. He looked like a cross between Ned Kelly on horseback and a flying fox. After the hour lesson he would emerge looking a little older and sadder. Slowly mounting his bike he’d cycle carefully back to his cold home steeped in deep sad concentration.

Mr Hackett was the first of all the lonely people I've met.

Paddy, my friend, was tone -deaf, loved sport, and hated music.

“Come in and meet the nephew and his friends from Liverpool.” Mrs ffrench said as she sailed past our house that famous Saturday morning. “They’re a pop band and they’ re are awful funny”.

My mother groaned silently and said, “Sorry but I have to visit my sick friend in hospital”.

‘‘Then sent young Brian--I’m sure they’ll have a lot in common’’ she said.

“Young Brian,” turned down Frank Sinatra‘s “Swinging down the Lane” record, nodded “OK” in a petulant pose, trying desperately to look like Ireland’s answer to James Dean.

Later when I saw the girls and newspaper reporters outside no. 55, I began to think that today might be part of tomorrow’s history.

We were lined up in the frenche’s small drawing room to meet the Beatles. Paddy and I, Mr & Mrs ffrench, Paddy’s sister let out of the convent for the occasion, Mr Hackett and, of course, Father McKenzie the Parish Priest, a great asset to the community and a very big favourite with the youth of the parish. That’s what the Parish Newsletter said.

They arrived.

‘‘Will you take a look at them,’’ whispered Paddy ‘‘They look like white golliwogs in dark suits.”

He was right. They looked so alive and happy falling out of the taxi...except for the one with the glasses.

The first words spoken were by Ringo who put his head round the door and said “Where the friggin loo?”

After that things seemed to go up-hill.

There was lots of shaking of hands and false laughs. Energy had arrived and filled the room just waiting to explode.

The pot of tea was brought out along with the cream cakes. The guests were asked to sit down and help themselves and they did. Ringo kept saying, “This is Magic” to which Mrs ffrench would say “Only a few bits and pieces I put together for my nephew, George and his friends”.

John Lennon answered but his reply was drowned by George’s fit of coughing. This happened quite a few times over the tea and cakes.

It became obvious that John Lennon was not one for small talk. He floated around the room looking at the religious pictures hanging on the walls and muttered to himself as if in deep prayer “Jeasus”.

Ringo charmed everyone and kept the room entertained with long rambling stories, which had a secret punch line, known only to his fellow visitors.

Paul became deeply involved in conversation about Chastity and Truth with Paddy’s sister, until Mrs ffrench sat down between them and said, “Isn’t this nice” while handing Paul a sugared doughnut.

George Harrison talked with Mr Hackett and began to show him how the violin can capture the moment of sexual climax with only a stroke of the bow. Mr Hackett’s violin case seemed to glow with excitement at his feet, while Mr Hackett`s face grew paler in comparison.

Smoking was a harmless friendly pastime in the sixties. So when the tea drinking was over the cigarette were brought out. The Beatles refused the “Goldflake” and the “Players” and offered their own brand around.

A new smell filled the room.

“You boys must love them foreign cigarettes, I’m partial to a Sobranne myself ’’ said the world wise Fr. McKenzie puffing on the newly acquired joint. ‘‘I'm sure this will help me concentrate when I'm alone writing tomorrow’s sermon.’ The famous four thought this was hilarious.

The rest of the afternoon is a hazy memory. I remember the following snatches of conversation.

Father McKenzie, a man of the world and abreast of world politics: -

“Isn’t great how President Kennedy got the Russians to halt loading that mad man Castro with bombs?”

The effect was as if one of the bombs had been dropped in the room.

“He should be shot” said John Lennon

“Ah, no’’said Fr McKenzie, “I’m sure there are better ways of dealing with Castro”

“Not Castro, the other Fucker”

The framed picture of John F. Kennedy shaking hands with the Pope seemed to shudder.

At the other side of the room Ringo and Paul were using Mr Hackett’s violin case to belt out “She got a ticket to ride”. They had hypnotised Paddy’s sister, the nun. who was using her nun's hood to get a better hoot from Paul’s cigarette.

Mr ffrench and Ringo got into a heated argument about birth control. It was finally settled when Ringo gave him a big kiss on the lips. Mr ffrech fainted.

Fr McKenzie proposed that before the guests depart he would like to say a few prayers to ask for our Lords blessing on their good work. In a fit of inspiration he said that they would become more famous than Bing Crosby.

“Jesus Christ” Said Paul,

“No Bing” Said Fr McKenzie and began to bless the comical congregation.

Ringo got sick over the dinning table but with great aplomb kept smiling at everyone and, raising a hand said, “Make money not love”. He then fell into a deep sleep, his head in vomit over Mrs ffrench’s best Irish linen tablecloth.

Paul laughing and turning in circles, knocked over most of the furniture and began crying out “I’m leaving home.” If this was a complement to Mrs ffrench’s hospitality, it didn’t work. She screamed at the top of her lungs “You never arrived”

John relieved himself into the bowl of flowers on the windowsill and muttered softly "Grey concrete Street." He had changed his muttering to "Yellow concrete Road" while being led to the taxi.

With that the fabulous Four set off on their own magical tour of success and death.

The latest news of Paddy was that he is doing very well in Irish politics. His sister has a large family and lives in South America. Fr McKenzie runs a small parish there too.

The story of what later happened the Beatles is well known.

As for me I still listen to Sinatra.