Strange Stories Thread

I'm having a right giggle at the EL thread but what about Junior football? Indeed what about strange tales in every walk of life??? Anyone got good sceals they have seen, being involved in etc. I'll open with this one.

Back in the early 90s I somehow managed to get my school's girls senior side into two Irish Cup semi-finals. We got well beaten in both but in the second game we got a right trimming from Carndonagh Community School. Game was played in McSharry Park, Sligo.
I noticed that Carn's early goals were coming from crosses on their right wing. My left full - Jacqui - looked very poorly, not her usual composed self at all. In act, I had to take her off after about 20 minutes.
I asked her quietly after the game was she sick. She told me that they were short staffed on her family farm and that she was "pulling lambs at 4 o'clock this morning".:eek: Yessir, footie and farming don't mix.:o
Some of you lot might have met Jacqui on the Aer Lingus trans-Atlantic flights - she's a tall girl with curly blonde hair and is a "trolly dolly" (her words).:D

This was a letter sent to Saga magazine in Novermber 2005 and printed in Private Eye last week.

Sir,

On a holiday in Ireland, I booked a mystery tour. Once we were comfortably seated, The guide in charge suggested that we all put a £1 in the kitty, and the one who got closest to guessing our destination would be the winner.
I came very close - but the driver won.

Yours sincerely,

C. Warner
Prestwich,
Manchester.

:D
Do mystery tours still exist???

Ah, come on amigos - surely some of ye have a good football (or anything else FTM) yarn to tell???:confused:

I was at a Roscommon League game a few seasons ago and not only did a
team have 2 players sent off in quick succession, but the ref proceeded to
"send off" some of the people watching the game as they we're giving out
about his decisions.

I dont know where they were from but one of the clubs got a letter warning them about the future conduct of their supporters even though I dont think
the viewers in question had anything to do with them!!!

The ref thought they must be affiliated with the club as they we're booing his
decisions, in reality the ref was just brutal!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by sirhamish

Ah, come on amigos - surely some of ye have a good football (or anything else FTM) yarn to tell???:confused:

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Can't help you there 'hamish. I've lead a pretty sheltered life.:D

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Ash

I was at a Roscommon League game a few seasons ago and not only did a
team have 2 players sent off in quick succession, but the ref proceeded to
"send off" some of the people watching the game as they we're giving out
about his decisions.

I dont know where they were from but one of the clubs got a letter warning them about the future conduct of their supporters even though I dont think
the viewers in question had anything to do with them!!!

The ref thought they must be affiliated with the club as they we're booing his
decisions, in reality the ref was just brutal!

---

Yeah Ash - I think I have a recollection of the match you were at and who the referee is/was!! LOL:D

Quote:

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Originally Posted by strangeirish

Can't help you there 'hamish. I've lead a pretty sheltered life.

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:rolleyes: Yeah sure, millions don't but I believe you.:p
Come on now, O Strange One, you must have some sceals about escapades in the US - if it involved you then just substitute someone else like "a friend was.......etc etc"

:D

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by sirhamish

:rolleyes: Yeah sure, millions don't but I believe you.:p
Come on now, O Strange One, you must have some sceals about escapades in the US - if it involved you then just substitute someone else like "a friend was.......etc etc"

:D

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Well if you insist. There is one story that I can tell. It was in ’87 or ’88 and I was only over here a few years. Anyway, went out one night with a few new friends and ended up a nightclub and met a couple of nice ladies. Ended up going to some fancy house for a cup of coffee afterwards. All was going well until we found the liquor cabinet. It all went to hell in a hand basket from there. Woke up the next morning with a brutal hangover and not knowing exactly where I was, I proceeded to wake up one of the girls that had brought us to the house. A deep southern accent from across the room stopped me and asked who I was. I told him the story as to how I got here. He introduced himself as Artimus Pyle and that he played in a band. Now, if I wasn’t as hungover, I would have burst out laughing in his face with a name like that and the fact that he played in a band was even more hilarious to me. My friend and I finally got the girls up and they took us back to our cars.

A few months passed and a girlfriend and myself were at a biker bar where there was live music. Nothing too heavy, just some southern rock. After a few songs, the lead singer beckons this rough looking lad to the stage to play a set on the drums with them. He’s introduced as the drummer for Lynyrd Skynyrd, Mr. Artimus Pyle. I did not realize how famous this band was over here, especially in the south. Not all that strange, but it's my claim to fame.

Oh, OK then...long cut-and-paste coming up.

I fought the law and the law won

If you remember back to the early ‘90s, a number of student union leaders were being prosecuted for publishing the phone number of an abortion referral help line. Yes, Ireland WAS that bad once - passing on certain phone numbers was illegal. Anyway, a bunch of us decided to organise a Sunday of fundraising activities for their legal fees - a sponsored fun run in the afternoon followed by an open-air disco at the Central Bank to be DJed by yours truly and a benefit gig by Mary Coughlan and The Frames in the Olympia.

So we met up in town on the Friday night to go fly-posting to publicise the whole thing. Myself and Tom, an Irish-American guy I knew, were concentrating on Temple Bar, the others had scattered across town and we were all due to meet back in the Foggy Dew for the last pint before closing time.

So we're standing across from where the Oliver St. John Gogarty is now, pasting a poster up on the wall and chatting to a friend of ours we‘d met, when we spotted two cops. "Run!" says I to Tom and we legged it down to the quays with Mr. Plod in hot pursuit. Unfortunately Mr. Plod was fitter than us and caught up with us at the Virgin Megastore. Tom attempted to make light of the situation by remarking that at home in Chicago, the cops would never have caught us as they were too fond of their doughnuts. Mr. Plod didn't find that funny. We were made stand apart from each other, questioned and arrested.

After radioing in the fact that they‘d foiled a dastardly plot to overthrow the state, one of the cops went back on the beat while the other one took possession of the posters and bucket of paste. Yeah, I know - we were so busy running we'd forgotten to throw away the evidence. Ireland's Dumbest Criminals Part 1. Seeing as we were handy to the station, he decided to walk us over to Pearse Street, so the three of us had a friendly chat as we strolled over. Yeah, I know - one arrestor, two arrestees. It simply never occurred to us to try to escape - we were new at this custody lark and didn’t know the ground rules. Ireland's Dumbest Criminals Part 2.

Anyway, we arrived into Pearse St station and were sitting in an office waiting to be booked in. This kid, aged about 12 or 13, was sitting on the bench next to us; he went to light up a smoke and was promptly bollocked out of it by the desk sergeant. “I got done for shoplifting,” says the kid, “what are youse in for?” Tom leaned over and in a stage whisper, went “We’re political.” The kid stared at us, wide-eyed, and slowly slid along to the far end of the bench.

Then Tom leaned over to me and in a real whisper, said “If they search us, they’re gonna find I’ve got two passports on me. The Irish one that I used when I used to go down to Nicaragua and the American one that I use the rest of the time. Is that bad?” I figured it wasn’t good, anyway.

Meanwhile, our cop was on the phone to Harcourt Square to see if the Special Branch wanted to come down and interrogate us. We were somewhat anxious as the posters had the offending phone number printed on them and we were therefore in breach of the law ourselves. Luckily, the Branch had run out of whips or didn’t want to get blood on their rubber hoses or something because they weren’t interested. Our cop started looking a bit deflated.

Eventually, we were charged under the Dublin Metropolitan Police Act 1842, which was a new one on us, and put in a cell. I must say, the quality of woollen blankets in Garda cells is absolutely outstanding, lovely thick grey ones they were.

However, the cell was absolutely covered in tons and tons of graffiti and so the conversation got onto the subject of graffiti in general. Tom started getting agitated over something he’d seen written on the wall of the gents in the Anarchy Night Café, a club that a couple of mates of ours ran down in Columbia Mills near Windmill Lane, at which I used to DJ.

“I’d written ‘Start the revolution tomorow’ on the jacks wall,” he said. “And whaddya know? Some fcuking spelling fascist came along later and wrote ‘Fine, but learn to spell tonight. There are two r’s in tomorrow.’ Can you believe that?”

“Tom, that spelling fascist was me.”

So the two of us roared laughing, falling about the place, bringing the house down. I got up to have a pee in the urinal that was in the corner and was standing there, fag in gob, when the door burst open and the station sergeant strode in. “What the hell is all this commotion, d’you think it’s funny that you’re under arrest?” He spotted the fag in my gob. “What are you doing smoking in the cell? Gimme your cigarettes! Gimme your matches! Gimme your belts, both of you! Gimme your shoelaces! Jesus Christ, standards in this station have gone to sh1t!” And muttering darkly, he stomped off with our contraband.

After about an hour, we were told we could have bail if we could find someone to bring a £100 bond to the station. So we were brought into an office and we tried ringing the house I shared with two of the other fundraising organisers, but there was nobody home (and this was in the days before mobiles). We tried another couple of numbers to no avail and ringing my folks was obviously out of the question, so we had no choice but to go back in the cell.

After about another hour, we were bored and cheesed off so we hammered on the door until a cop came and opened the hatch in the cell door. Tom asked him was there any chance of us getting released at all, as we’d arranged to meet friends and they might be getting anxious. A look of understanding appeared on the cop’s face. “Wait there” he said. Like we had a choice…

What we hadn’t realised was that the reason there was nobody home when we rang was that the friend who we’d been chatting to when we first spotted the cops had followed after us and seen us getting arrested. She’d met the rest of the lads in the Foggy Dew and about a dozen of them had staged an impromptu demonstration in the public office of Pearse St copshop, demanding the release of the Fleet Street Two. The desk sergeant eventually threatened to have the whole lot of them arrested so they left and contented themselves with milling angrily but quietly on the pavement outside.

The cop who’d come to the cell went outside, got the lads to do a whip-round and come up with the station bail money and in no time, we were at liberty again.

The next morning, we were up in the District Court behind the Bridewell. We dodged the gauntlet of solicitors touting for business and went into the courtroom. There was a succession of cases ahead of us, all of which were remanded until during the week. This wasn’t a good development, as neither of us wanted to have to take time off work for a court appearance and we were gonna plead guilty anyway. So we sought out our cop, told him we were planning to plead guilty so was there any chance we could get the whole thing over and done with there and then? He said he’d have a word with the judge.

Our case was eventually called. The judge, looking bored out of his mind after a succession of the usual Friday night assaults, drunk and disorderlies, etc, asked our cop for the facts of the case. He perked up with an interested look on his face when he heard “At approximately 10:30 last night on Aston Quay, I arrested the defendant Dr. Nightdub in possession of a bucket of paste and the defendant Thomas Flynn in possession of a roll of posters.” “And what was on the posters, Guard?” asked the judge. “Something about the Contraception Action Group, Justice” replied our cop. Well, WE weren’t about to correct him. Ireland’s Dumbest Criminals were wising up.

“And what have you two got to say for yourselves?” the judge asked us. “Well, it was a derelict building, Your Honour…” began Tom. I kicked him on the ankle and hissed at him to shut up. We pleaded guilty. The cop piped in that we’d asked for the case to be settled that morning. “Do you think they’ve learned their lesson, Guard?” asked the judge. “I do, Justice” said our cop. “Have you learned your lesson, gentlemen?” We nodded an enthusiastic yes.

Sorted. Six months’ probation, no criminal record, no fine, no nothing. We sought out our cop, thanked him, shook his hand and the two of us went to the pub over the road and got ****ed in celebration.

Quote:

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I was at a Roscommon League game a few seasons ago and not only did a
team have 2 players sent off in quick succession, but the ref proceeded to
"send off" some of the people watching the game as they we're giving out
about his decisions.

---

yes if memory serves me correctly it was when ballinagare played that brazillian team from roscommmon. corinthians or something like that. they ad brought a whole bus load with them and the players and the whole lot had been drinking before the game. one of their players stood on one of the ballinagare lads face. they were dirty bastids. i think they were either expelled or just didnt continue the next season.

if thats the one where he sent the two lads off and then made the brazillian move away from the "touchline".

now that you have denihllson and robinho playing for roscommon town itself ;)

god i cant wait for hte roscommon senior football team in 15 years when ronaldo will be scoring 1 - 4 in croke park....

Great claim to fame Dr Nightdub!

No, my fifteen minutes' fame came a few years before that...

OK, this all happened in the summer of 1984. The date is worth noting, as The Commitments wasn’t published until 1988. Some of this may be a bit hazy, but I think I could stare a libel lawyer in the eye and smile.

A friend of mine called Michael Murphy had been in a band called Cuba Dares, who moved to London as all bands did in those days, but he left them and moved back to Dublin. They asked him to organise a gig in Dublin for them his price was that they allow him put together a support act.

And thus were born the John Wayne Memorial Dancing Lizardmen. The John Wayne part was a minor tribute to the Black Flag song “John Wayne Was A Nazi“. The Memorial part was left over from the fleeting moment when we were almost called the John Wayne Memorial Ceili Band. The Lizardmen part was a reference to the sci-fi series V which was on telly that summer, because we liked its new take on wolves-in-sheep’s-clothing. The Dancing part was simply a mission statement.

Our modus operandi was strictly twenty two singers, one microphone. First up was Mick Mohican, so named because he sported a Joe Strummer, Combat Rock-era mohawk. So taken was he with all things Clash, and so uncanny was the likeness, that he actually got away with travelling around the world with a photo of Joe Strummer stuck where his own passport mugshot should’ve been. Not surprisingly, he sang “Know Your Rights“.

Our second song was The Undertones “Teenage Kicks” performed by yours truly. I suspect I was picked to do it more so because my northern accent lent it a certain authenticity, rather than for any actual vocal ability.

Our final vocalist was Michael ex-Cuba Dares, with a song by The Scars, the name of which escapes me, but it was basically a spoken-word rendition of the British Ministry of Defence nuclear air-raid advice, set to music. You know the kind of thing, take shelter under the kitchen table, and just think of fallout as another form of dandruff, only more toxic, that kind of thing.

The instruments were played by guys who actually knew what they were doing: Neil on lead guitar and Barry on rhythm, Willard on drums and Mark on bass.

The final item in our set list was an untitled dub-jazz-industrial instrumental workout featuring a somewhat less orthodox rhythm section. We had decided to stay true to our Einsteurzende Neubaten sensibilities by going round town nicking the inside sections from the litter bins that used to be attached to bus stops. When thumped hard enough, these all-metal DIY bongos made a most satisfying racket. The industrial rhythm section also provided gainful employment for otherwise unoccupied vocalists.

We practised hard for, oh, about a week and got our set down to about a q, more so than a t. Meanwhile, the TV Club, a 1200-capacity venue on Harcourt St was secured and we talked the manager of a ticket agency off Grafton St into printing flyers and handling ticket sales. He agreed, on condition that the band he managed, a dour electronic two-piece called Ambition In Glass, could also be added to the bill.

They were meant to open the gig, followed by us, with Cuba Dares headlining. But when we arrived for the sound check, the soundman looked at our esoteric backline, turned white on the spot and decided that we were going on last, on the basis that “nobody is going on that fcuking stage after you lot“. If we didn’t like it, he was taking his PA home. Meanwhile we were to avoid mistaking his precious speakers for DIY bongos.

Cuba Dares didn’t mind, we most certainly didn’t and Ambition In Glass weren’t consulted. This was our first Svengali victory

During the sound check, our already bloated numbers were swollen by three late additions. Bill Graham RIP had arrived to review the gig for Hot Press. He got so into the spirit of things that he offered to play a spare snare drum that we had. We decided to take up his kind offer as it ought to at least guarantee us a favourable review. This was our second Svengali victory. Bill was accompanied by a Fiona someone from Hot Press who played rhythm on Mick’s battered guitar.

The final recruit was a transvestite, whose name I cant remember, and who wanted to do backing vocals. Despite the fact that none of our songs actually featured any backing vocals, we agreed to let him / her join the band on the basis that he / she claimed to have snorted coke with Keith Richards and that struck us as pretty rock n roll.

Twenty minutes before the doors opened, the lads decided that our dub-jazz-instrumental thingy really could do with lyrics after all, so I was sent into the dressing room to get composing. On the back of a flyer, I scribbled together some lyrics, and “Fear Is The Key” was born. There was simply no time to get a melody together, so we decided to go with it as a second spoken-word piece. The transvestite was thrilled, as suddenly we did have a use for backing vocals. Unfortunately for him / her, and luckily for me, the soundman had refused point-blank to let us sound check this number, so all the vocals were conveniently lost in the mix.

Our third Svengali victory was to play the film “The Great Rock N Roll Swindle” in the bar upstairs. This was cunningly timed to finish a few minutes before the headline act came on so that everyone would have to go down to see the main event. And it was hardly our fault if we found ourselves headlining, was it?

So the hall filled first with bodies, and then with manic laughter as we ripped through our set. I wont say it was all note-perfect but all the songs were recognisable. But by the time we finished the dub-jazz-industrial workout, the ashen-faced soundman, by now out of his head on valium, decided that enough was enough, pulled the plug and turned up the house lights. We grinned and offered to help him load his truck.

Bill Graham’s glowing review duly appeared in the next issue of Hot Press. I think he glossed over the fact that he’d been on stage himself, but he did say that Malcolm McLaren would’ve been chuffed and that our punky attitude proved that laughter blew away the blues.

My one regret, looking back on it all? If only we’d thought of having a brass section, we could’ve had a great Spartacus moment, all going “I’m Roddy Doyle! No, I’m Roddy Doyle! No, I’M Roddy Doyle!”

Great stories everyone - real legends in Footyland, to be sure. I'll add a few more tomorrow.:D

Quote:

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Originally Posted by sirhamish

Yeah Ash - I think I have a recollection of the match
you were at and who the referee is/was!! LOL:D

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He'd be fairly well known alright ... and his brother is also well known in
refereeing/fans shouting abuse circles ;)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by paul_oshea

yes if memory serves me correctly it was when ballinagare played that brazillian team from roscommmon. corinthians or something like that. they ad brought a whole bus load with them and the players and the whole lot had been drinking before the game. one of their players stood on one of the ballinagare lads face. they were dirty bastids. i think they were either expelled or just didnt continue the next season.

if thats the one where he sent the two lads off and then made the brazillian move away from the "touchline".

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Must have happened in more than one game so cos thats not the one I remember!

Actually just thinking back, twas scary at the time, then funny but the more
I think of it scary again!!!

I was playing in a colleges hurling tournament for the mighty Sligo RTC up in
Coleraine. Anyways we got knocked out at the 1st stage so we had to decide
whether to head back to Sligo and have a session there or stay over in Port
Steward for a night out as the hotel (owned by Harry Gregg!) was already
booked for us. It was a weekend tournament, 2 semis on the Sat and a Sun
final.

Anyways we stayed around and ended up in a fairly dodgy nite club and
myself and a lad from Lough Rae ended up pulling 2 women. Went back to
thier gaff and after a while thier other house mate came in screaming cos
she heard dirty fenien IRA accents in the house!!!!!!
She ended up calling the RUC who landed out to the house. In a fit of panic
we legged it through the kitchen, hopped the back wall and took off like the
hammers from hell as there were a few RUC fellas chasing us.

Ended up jumping into a ditch and hiding out for a few hours before wandering
around the town looking for the hotel.

We (the team) even had an armoured escort entering and leaving the place!

Here's one to warm the cockles of yer we little hearts :
Just before xmas my nephew Jamie(3) had been driving my sister mad for a white puppy from santa. of course he was told that santa doen't do puppy's and he'd have to settle for a gameboy advance or whatever 3 yr olds are into these days. anyway about a week before xmas what turns up in our back garden.........yep u guessed it a stray severly malnurished pure White Puppy
so we put up posters etc. to find the dog's owner and brought said dog to vet who said the dog had been severly mistreated and that if he were us would not be worried about finding it's owner. so to cut a long story short Jamie got his little white puppy what a xmas pressie. I dont know call it destiny call it faith he called it snowy (how original)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Ash

Actually just thinking back, twas scary at the time, then funny but the more
I think of it scary again!!!

I was playing in a colleges hurling tournament for the mighty Sligo RTC up in
Coleraine. Anyways we got knocked out at the 1st stage so we had to decide
whether to head back to Sligo and have a session there or stay over in Port
Steward for a night out as the hotel (owned by Harry Gregg!) was already
booked for us. It was a weekend tournament, 2 semis on the Sat and a Sun
final.

Anyways we stayed around and ended up in a fairly dodgy nite club and
myself and a lad from Lough Rae ended up pulling 2 women. Went back to
thier gaff and after a while thier other house mate came in screaming cos
she heard dirty fenien IRA accents in the house!!!!!!
She ended up calling the RUC who landed out to the house. In a fit of panic
we legged it through the kitchen, hopped the back wall and took off like the
hammers from hell as there were a few RUC fellas chasing us.

Ended up jumping into a ditch and hiding out for a few hours before wandering
around the town looking for the hotel.

We (the team) even had an armoured escort entering and leaving the place!

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That sounds like the Coleraine area:eek: :D