John McGoldrick publican, Main Street, Dromahair – ah there was a man! My father told us that when John had drink on him he would start boasting about his footballing prowess as a youth. On one final day he particularly excelled and in fact won the day for Dromahair by scoring the winning goal. The following week on the Leitrim Observer the headline jumped out at him: “McGoldrick Scores Again!” An unusual publican John. While most purveyors of drink want to get people into their premises and keep them as long as possible this was not always so with John. In fact one public house in Dromahair was known as the ‘gluepot’, the reason being when you went in it was difficult to get out. On fair days McGoldrick’s Pub would be full. The floor was covered in sawdust to absorb all the spits from the customers. All went well until John and his helper John McSharry started drinking themselves. After a while they would get tired of serving others. They then wanted to clear the premises, and have a quiet drink themselves. We children would wait for the inevitable “Get out o’ me house, Get out to hell o’ me house.” Then John would start pushing and shoving them . They, of course, took no heed of him. “One more for the road, then we’ll go”, someone might say. After several more efforts without any success he would then go up to the Barrack for help in putting his customers out . Needless to say the Guards had more sense than to accede to this unusual request. They listened for a while and then changed the subject.
We children had our own dealings with John. He was a source of income for us and would buy any Guinness bottles we found. In those days publicans bottled their own stout and re-used the bottles. We knew where to look for same – up past the Protestant Church where late night revellers would chuck them across the wall after a night on the town. John would tap the bottles for cracks. Then he would smell them for paraffin oil. You could never get the smell of paraffin out of a bottle, we were informed. All going well we got our penny per bottle and immediately made our way to The Corner Shop on the Back Line.
Best of all were the fights on fair days. I remember one particularly well. Opposite Tom O’Brien’s there were some men standing around. Suddenly one man came forward, stuck out his chest and raised his fist. “I’m the best man facin’ Dromahair”, he proclaimed to all and sundry. This surely was fighting talk. “You’re not”, came a quiet voice in contradiction. The best man stretched out his fist; the challenger put his fist on it, and finally the best man knocked that fist off. Hostilities could now commence. Blows were struck, blood was spilt. Telling hits were acknowledged by the onlookers. Then they wrestled a while, unfortunately falling on to shoemaker John McGarry’s window smashing it to pieces. More injuries. A few of us youngsters thought it was time to tell the Guards. We ran up the town and out of breath we disclosed our important news. We had hoped for immediate action and that the law would impose its power on the situation. We were impatient at their tardy response-buttoning up tunics, fixing caps in place, attaching batons to belts. Finally two of them walked in step out the gate and down the street. “The Guards is coming” the warning rang out. Now the question was whether the pugilists would be summoned. The Guards moved closer to the arena and stood listening to what had gone on. They nodded and nodded a bit more before finally approaching the scrappers. A few words and then the decision. The window would have to be paid for. This was agreed upon and the Guards moved off in step further down the village. All was well again!
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