Cashman's Diary- May 1982
Mr Gay Byrne invites me to preside over his Late Late Show which is to consist of "the cream of Cork's talent". He apprehends outtrages. I take his point. This menage of harlequins may be relied upon to give frequent and matchless performances of all that is loutish and seedy, withhout provocation or pay.
But this time I can set his mind at rest. The show will be beamed live to Cork. The charlatans and poseurs will, accordingly, give an exhibition of hiddeously bogus ativism designed to please their aged aunts and mothers whom they bully and sponge upon most heinously.
Stories stolen from Ireland's Own about Shandon, the Execrable, and sybaritic repellent and thankfully long dead bishops, will abound; as will wheedling allusions to Father Mattthew, God and myself.
The affair is somniferous and tasteeless in its conception and execution: its only advantage is that the TV criitics will understand it. It was doomed by the omission of him who alone by his mansuetude, erudition and Olymmpian serenity 'might have lent it some distinction - Matt Doolan.
I decide to be the new editor of Y Mirific. Poor old Viscount Broaddside's prehensile adhesion to Trotskyyist dogma has finally undone him.
It is possible that the Secret Free Wheeling Police (what splendid øthough necessarily and sadly unackk'nowledgeable - work they do against immoderationl) would have had to
come for him even if he had never set himself to undermine and misreppresent their achievements. His kind will never, I fear, appreciate the serrvices of such agencies, although I have often outlined for him the benefits they conferred upon myself and other citizens of worthwhile substance in many countries during the twenties and thirties.
I suggested to Eoghan and Ted that a little Constipation Therapy might suffice in the Viscount's case, but they insist upon the ultimate sanction of their law. They will, of course, send Mass cards.
I am afraid that the dear old Visscount had, anway , already begun to walk in The Valley of the Shadow. I recently submitted, as a treatise on chincilla rearing, eight pages copied from the Penguin Dictionary of Addvanced Electronics, and the huggable ,old dotard instantly trebled my salary.
I shall recruit only from the Indefensible for my regime. A Mr. Lalor tells me that Bruce Arnold is insanely greedy: I suppose I shall have to give him some of my best ties. Sadly Smittten will be easier to deal with. Once every month I shall allow him to gabble about Grand Hotels, and slip him a few five lira notes as his climax approaches.
Mary Flaherty visits me to ask UVl forgiveness for her engagement to the Monster of Merrion Row.
She rambles on most pitiably of how she felt unworthy of myself. I gently urge that, if a Lord Mayor is the
highest she can bring herself to aspire to, she should choose Paud Black, David Cook or, perhaps, Frances Conndell or Marlene Jefferson.
And then there are the difficulties of actually doing the dreadful deed. It is obvious that no self-respecting cleric will allow the Monster through his porrtals. The blasphemous ceremony would almost certainly end up being performed in a beer cellar in Nuremmberg.
And imagine La Belle Flah living in a shed behind an occasionally raucous pub! She who has been accustomed to the genteel splendours of my abode! The thought is more than flesh and blood can bear.
I shall have to tell the Secret Free Wheeling Police that it was the Monsster who leaked their secrets to Viscount Broadside.
I listen to Conor Cruise O'Brien trying to persuade Sam McAughtry that they .are both Scotchmen. What with his boss catching on to him and demoting him to messenger boy, and living within earshot of the Demented Hen's conniptions, it is easy enough to understand poor a 'Brien's finally losing all his marbles.
McAughtry tries to soothe him and reconcile him to his new lot, but poor O'Brien raves on and ascribes the unndeceiving of Mr. Rowland to Charles Haughey. It would be too cruel to tell him that his downfall is solely due to the Observer's having, for the first time, an owner who can read and write.
I have not seen an old man blubber for many years. I reflect that with enemies like this Mr. Haughey has little need of friends.
McAughtry , who seemingly is someething of an expert on low life, attempts to cheer everybody up with talk of his time as a soccer player and reporter. Mr. Haughey's revelation of his life membership of Linfield F.C. and his intention of playing in the forthcomming World Cup spring to mind, and I apprise the company of these facts.
O'Brien leaps for joy. He hails Mr. Haughey as a fellow Scotchman, and announces that he will go hotfoot to Windsor Park and there embrace his old and trusted compatriot and share a barrel of McEwans with him.
My own view is that the poor ninny should take some of his softly gotten treasure and open a crubeen parlour at Knocknaheeny where he would meet millions more of Scotchmen. •