There's only one Cónal Creedon
One would have to wonder how difficult it must be for the other Denis Lehane when mistaken for me, ponders Irish Examiner Farming columnist Denis Lehane.
I went to Cork city on Saturday to listen to the words of playwright Cónal Creedon, and to drink a few pints in the process.
Cork city was celebrating all things literary, and it was in Callanan's Bar on George's Quay that I toasted the greats of the pen and paper with a pint of Beamish and a bag of crisps.
Cónal is well able to talk, and I am well able to drink. So, it proved to be the perfect mix.
Obviously, being a man who isn't afraid of the pen myself, it was bound to happen at some point that I would be singled out. And sure enough, towards the end of the day, a lady came to my side and shook the hand of old Lehane in a vigorous fashion.
"I just want to tell you, Mr Lehane," says she, "I'm a great admirer of your work. Your writing style is simply superb."
I thanked her, of course, nodding my head in the way that Shakespeare might after someone congratulated him for writing King Lear.
It's not often I receive a compliment; in fact, it's next to never.
Anyhow, she went on, "Your book 'Mystic River' put the heart sideways in me, and as for 'Shutter Island,' I thought Leonardo DiCaprio was superb in the movie adaptation."
Alas, the poor soul had me confused with the other Denis Lehane, the famous crime novelist from the United States, a man who is known all over the world.
So delighted was she to meet me, that I didn't have the heart to tell her that it wasn't me at all.
The Denis Lehane she thought I was, is a multi-millionaire who has had more books published than I've had hot dinners.
So famous are his books that some have been made into movies starring the likes of DiCaprio.
I, on the other hand, am the famous agricultural writer who lives in Kilmichael with a few bullocks, and who writes on Thursday’s about farming... and perhaps the odd frightful fancy about Kate Winslet.
Of course, we are both very good writers; it's just that he is restricted to writing about crime, whereas with me, the world is my oyster.
Anyhow, while still shaking her hand I assured her that DiCaprio would soon hear all about my trip to Cork and my meeting with her in Callanan's Bar.
"And what will your next book be about?" she then asked with some trepidation.
I told her it would be about a murder and a fellow who goes off his game.
Yerra, I told her a lot more things too.
My mind at that stage was fuelled with enough Beamish to take me to the moon and back.
I was like a car revved up after having an oil change; I couldn't resist and I was firing on all cylinders.
"Oh I can't wait," she sighed, before waving goodbye.
And while it might be easy for me to bluff my way out of a corner when mistaken for the crime writer, one would have to wonder how difficult it must be for the other Denis Lehane when mistaken for me.
For it must happen to him all the time.
There he is, going about his business in Boston or somewhere else, when down the road comes a man anxious to know how cattle are doing at Kanturk Mart.
Or if "yer man O'Leary (with the planes)" still has a few Angus cattle for sale.
And while the famous crime writer might be able to hazard a guess at what way the trade is progressing, chances are he'd slip up somewhere along the line.
The crime writer you see, with the famous Lehane name, is but a one-trick pony. Whereas, Lehane, the farming journalist, has more hats than Kojak. I'm a hard man to pigeonhole.
Anyhow, luckily for all, there is only one Cónal Creedon, and on Saturday last, in full voice, he entertained young and old with fantastic tales.
Wonderful tales from a life spent in the city. Tales that 20 Denis Lehanes, no matter where they are from, would struggle to conjure up.
