Best Intentions: An essay for the time of year, by Cork author Billy O'Callaghan
It was so cold in Cork in January 1987 that the Lough froze over. 'Trying to avoid a snowball, I lost my footing and landed on my face on the road.' Picture: Irish Examiner Archive
The snow was bad in Cork back in January 1987. I remember Liverpool, my obsession then and to some extent still, playing Luton Town with an orange football on a snow-clad plastic pitch at Kenilworth Road in an interminable third round FA Cup tie that went to two replays before anyone could bother to score.
Even more painfully, the following morning, a Monday, with the schools wonderfully shut, I fell while playing outside and broke my nose. Trying to avoid a snowball, I lost my footing and landed on my face on the road. I hadn't long since turned twelve, and I remember a sound like a firework that must only have gone off in my head but which felt loud enough for the whole of Douglas village to hear. On my list of years to forget, that's in the running, and until this time last year it was very much the one to beat.
