Back in the showband days

ANY TV programme featuring former showbands trigger wonderful memories. All music lovers would concur that it is highly evocative, prompting precise, exact memories.
People who danced to showbands are of a certain age now, so I’m happy to say I was too young to ever see one live. I say “happy” because we get a bit protective about our age as we get older, don’t we?
Although I never actually saw a showband live, there was a TV show called The Showband Show, featuring a different band weekly. It was unmissable. Showbands performed cover versions of American and British hits, so it was a way of hearing The Top 20 in pre-MTV days.
Although reluctant to criticise anyone, stuff like I Gave My Wedding Dress
Away gave showbands a seriously bad name. Derek Dean and The Freshmen, with the late, great Billy Brown, were world class. Their main hit, Papa Oom Mow Mow, a reworking of the original Rivington’s hit, could hold its own proudly with any song before or since. The Dixies were brilliant and Joe Mac a hoot. I thought Brendan O’Brien of The Dixies, the handsomest, sexiest man alive and was glued to the telly when they appeared.
Giddy, fun-loving schoolgirls, we were boy mad and, when not endlessly playing the few records we owned, were out chasing fellas.
We were devout churchgoers – it was the only excuse to escape, if you had strict parents. And, boy, were my parents strict. So Sunday mass, Lenten mass and miraculous medal devotions were exceptionally well attended, albeit with an ulterior motive.
The Saw Doctors encapsulated that religious period perfectly in I Used to Love Her. To my delight one night at benediction, through the haze of incense, it dawned on me that this particular guy I fancied, fancied me too – you just know these things. Back then, fancying was as far as it went – you just eyed each other up. So, I floated home on incense cloud nine, ecstatic at the realisation that my romantic feelings were reciprocated.
Tantum Ergo and O Salutaris Hostia acquired bizarre new connotations. Oh, the joy of it! I hugged my secret thrill closely. Dreams and thoughts of this guy lent my feet wings until I switched on the telly for The Showband Show that week. The format was the band on stage whilst in the foreground couples swayed and smooched. So, there I was, lost in love-struck dreams, as Dickie Rock and co sang The Candy Store.
With a sudden, sharp shock I spied my dream lover swaying and smooching with another girl. Sonny and Cher and Bang, Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) was nothing compared to that first shattering of my heart.  
Anyway, more than musical memories spring to mind watching such programmes as The Showbands or Reeling in the Years. My first job was in the Department of Agriculture and, although a Dub, I took an inordinate interest in store cattle, dairy herds, friesians, herefords and charolais, field men and the AI guy. So, I was well educated when I moved to the middle of nowhere 10 years ago. Farming Week and Ear to the Ground are mandatory listening and viewing for me still.
Now, I was the only Dub working with Carol from Clare, Bridget from Bagenalstown, Winnie from Wexford, Ciara from Cork and dozens more. How I envied those country girls. Living independent lives, alone or sharing a flat with others, they were free as birds, flitting from this dance to that club and bringing fellas home.
Me – I was never allowed to those dens of iniquity. I was allowed attend the local weekly tennis club disco and that only following much begging and beseeching. And forget about bringing a fella home. I can still see myself scurrying home, invariably late, heart hammering. Ringing the bell whilst looking through the letterbox, sure enough, there they were – my father’s bony legs at the top of the stairs, checking it was me home safely, as my mother opened the door. Bring a fella home? You gotta be joking.
Another reason I envied the country girls was because they were skinny. Skinny, skinny, skinny. See, they spent their money on everything except food and so had figures to die for. They compensated at weekends, when they went home to Ballyde-whatever-you’re-having but always maintained their sylph-like appearance. Me? Feeds of bacon and cabbage or similar every evening regardless, whilst my friends subsisted on a tomato and a slice of haslet – a processed meat that my mother wouldn’t deign to give to the dog.
Since moving to the middle of nowhere, I’ve had many chats and laughs with a male neighbour, who was at college (naturally, the Ags) in Dublin at that time. He tells me, with a belly laugh, that he wouldn’t have given me a second glance had our paths crossed. Not because I’m that ugly but for two other reasons. First, I didn’t have my own flat so he knew he’d get nowhere with me. Secondly, I lived outside the limit of walking distance from town and so that required a taxi. This guy and his friends were interested only in girls who had their own gaff and wouldn’t cost them anything. So, I certainly didn’t qualify.
The awful irony is that decent country folk sent their pride and joy up to college or work in Dublin, dire warnings about Dublin Jezebels ringing in their ears. At the family rosary each night, with a sprinkling of holy water, they surely prayed that their pure, innocent sons would not be led astray by those slappers above in Dublin, God between us and all harm. And the wolves were right next door, figuratively speaking, and the Irish mammies never suspected it for a moment.
And us Dubs? I always say that we were as pure as the driven snow. Sure, how else could you be with your da patrolling at the top of the stairs whenever you stepped outside?