Back to Crossmacglynn

By AM Thursday, March 10, 2011

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Tonight the Pensive Quill carries the next two chapters of Thomas "Dixie" Elliott's satirical story, Crossmacglynn.

Ballycrossmacglynn
Thomas "Dixie" Elliott

Chapter 3


MacGlynn’s ancestors, the MacGlynns, owned almost everything in Ballycrossmacglynn and made up most of the local IRA, from OC to lookout. They even owned all the safe-houses in the local area. Big Dan Mor MacGlynn, the thick bearded OC and bar owner, was also the local school teacher who taught his pupils in Irish. The problem was that none of the pupils actually spoke Irish therefore they learned very little or nothing.

“Sure it is better to learn nothing in Irish than it is to learn anything English,” he was often heard saying.

Big Dan Mor was proud of his grandson Tomas. This was the first time he had fired a shot at a member of the British Crown Forces since he had finished weapons training over the border just three months before.

“Someday lad you’ll grow up to be OC but you’ll have tay grow a beard first,” he said as he produced a pipe from his inner pocket.

Tomas stood to attention and saluted his grandfather. “And kin I get to smoke a pipe as well Granda?” he replied with all the innocence of a boy his age.

Big Dan Mor held a match to his pipe and sucked until it lit. “It’s not a bit good for your health lad, but neither is firing an armalite at the Queens occupying forces.”

In Ballycrossmacglynn there is a tradition that comes between being baptised and making the First Holy Communion and that is the swearing in. All children must be sworn into the junior IRA between the ages of being born and seven. After swearing in they are allowed to carry weapons in their school bags in case they happen upon a passing foot patrol. Thus when Godfrey Templeton was in the middle of changing mags Tommy‘s hand was reaching into his school bag for his Walther PPK.

“You were good lad, but me ole Ma, your great granny MacGlynn fair finished him off with that double barrelled shotgun of hers.”

Without warning the door of the bar crashed open and in came Big Dan Mor’s cousin, Red Sean MacGlynn, so called because of his mop of unruly red hair and drinker’s nose. He was panting for breath as he tried to speak.

“For feck’s sake would you spit out that fag and say what ye have tay say!” Ordered Big Dan Mor.

Red Sean took the cigarette from his mouth and managed to splutter out, “The dead body’s gone!”

“Gone where?”

“Gone away!”

“Away where?”

“That’s a good question Big Dan Mor,” said Red Sean. “I can’t rightly say where it‘s gone.”

Big Dan Mor thought to himself for a moment, then a thought hit him.

“That fecker Peadar McAnally and his lot stole the body and took it away to claim for themselves. It’ll be all over the news tonight that they shot a Brit for feck’s sake!”

He rose to his feet, anger written all over his face.

“Meeting!” He ordered “Get those useless feckers in here now!”

“Er, Big Dan Mor,” mumbled Red Sean. “Sure aren’t they here already?”

The OC looked around, the bar was as full as it had been when Godfrey first entered it.

“And would you look at them drinking me out of house and home instead of fighting the fecking Brits!”

A second cousin of Big Dan Mor who had consumed too much drink and not enough sense interrupted. “I’ll have you know we were out from six o’clock this morning firing at the big watch tower over on the hill.” He looked around smugly at those nodding in agreement. “And if I may also inform you, we are hardly drinking you out of house and home if we are paying you for it. Are we?”

He looked around again to see everyone still nodding. However this time they were nodding for him to look out because Big Dan Mor was coming towards him with clenched fists. One broken jaw later the meeting began.


Chapter 4


Small and rotund with a bespectacled face that had a fixed dour expression, the Right Reverend Reginald McClure was a God fearing Christian man who regarded all Catholics as being members of the IRA. He refused to eat potatoes because they had, he claimed, their roots in Ireland.

Commonly known as Reg he was proud to be a bigot, sure bigotry was in his blood, his father before him was a bigot and he could trace his bigotry back to the bigots in bygone days of yore.

“Those mor-dorin’ scum will not be able to brew their divil’s mead as long as I live ’n breathe,” he muttered as he scoured the landscape through binoculars.

Reg was speaking to a camera as he lay hidden in a thicket of gorse overlooking the surrounding fields. The cameraman, Greg, was a member of his congregation who did weddings when he wasn’t traipsing round the countryside after the publicity seeking Reg. That particular day Reg was searching for the IRA’s illegal poteen distillery, he knew it was hereabouts somewhere and was determined to find it .

“You’ll get us killed one of these days,” whispered Greg turning off the camera to say it.

“I know that mor-dorin’ IRA Fenian Big Dan Mor Ma Glynn is making the divil’s mead somewhere in these hills and I’ll get him if it’s the last fing I do!”

“We’ve been coming here for weeks and theres nothing here but sheep, cows and their crap,” said Greg.

This last statement made Reg stop and think.

“That’s it!” He exclaimed.

“What’s what?” Asked a puzzled Greg.

“They’re smuggling sheep and cow crap across the border, right under our very noses.”

“But how can you tell?”

“They’re IRA Fenians aren’t they? And IRA Fenians smuggle everything, even crap.”

“Now think about it,” continued Reg. “Animal crap makes good fertiliser and fertiliser is used in the making of bombs.”

While the camera was turned off and Reg was lecturing Greg on the evil ways of the IRA Fenian scum and bomb making, he didn’t notice the two cars pulling up on the road away below. Nor did he notice that one of the cars belonged to Reginald Junior, his son. More important, he didn’t notice that the other car, hijacked earlier that day some twenty or so miles away in Newry was driven by Cathal MacGlynn, eldest son of Big Dan Mor MacGlynn. He was the local IRA quarter master and the boot was filled with weapons. Even more important, the two were engaged in a clandestine gay love affair.

Reginald Junior was, unfortunately, the spitting image of his father and this has been an afflicting characteristic of the McClure family since those bygone days of yore; they were all ugly wee fat fuckers. However Reginald Junior to his credit was not a wee fat fucking bigot like his father, he was gay and proud of it.

Cathal MacGlynn had his father’s height and broadness of shoulder, he also had the early stages of a beard and a mullet haircut. And he was minimally good-looking.

“I’ll meet you after work,” Cathal told Reginald Junior after they had a loving embrace. “I’ve a load of stuff to deliver then we can meet up in Pedro’s bar in Newry.”

“I wish you would take me on some of your jobs,” said Reginald Junior as they got into their cars.

“Jeeze imagine the furore if our fathers found out we were lovers,” replied Cathal. “You’d get a right bible-bashing from your ole man.”

“Aye he’d beat me to death with it,” bemoaned Reginald Junior.

They blew each other a loving kiss before they drove off in separate directions.

Reg was still conducting his pointless verbiage about the criminality of The IRA and luckily didn’t see that his own son, who he hoped one day would follow in his Fenian hating footsteps, was engaging in what he would call sodomy with an enemy of Ulster.

Reg must however have sensed the sodomy because he got a sudden shuddery feeling which went up his back. The sort of feeling he got when around sinners and Papists.

“I can feel the divil’s work afoot hereabouts,” he exclaimed all of a sudden.

Some crows relaxing in nearby trees took flight, alarmed by his outburst and Greg fell backwards into the prickly gorse. His swearing was an ungodly violation to the ears of a piously outstanding personage such as Reg. However it also caught the attention of Jed MacGlynn and Padraig Duggan who was married to Big Dan Mor’s other daughter Mary Margaret. Jed was Big Dan Mor’s nephew and right and handy with an ole armalite rifle he was too. Padraig Duggan had his favourite AK-47 slung across his shoulder. They were on the look out for something British to shoot at.

“Did you hear that ficking screechin’ comin’ from yon thicket of gorse Padraig?”

“Sure as hell did Jed. Could be the SAS hiding out.”

At that Reg began to rant about profanity and how only the followers of Rome swore so profusely and shame on a good Christian, God fearing man for allowing himself to give in to such sinful acts.

“If it isn’t that wee ficker Reg the Reverent Ranter himself,” said Jed.

“Giving a sermon from the mount by the sounds of it,” replied Padraig.

“Naw, ficking spyin’ as usual, the ficking ficker!” retorted Jed as he cocked his weapon.

There was a rapid staccato of gunfire as both IRA men sent a volley in the direction of the gorse thicket. And more sinful swearing you wouldn’t hear than that which came from the mouths of Reg and Greg as they ran like the hammers of hell down the hill.

A sinful day indeed.