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Larry Ryan: The measure of our dreams

We are reminded near daily now that sport and song will forever outlast profit and loss.

Sat, 02 Dec, 2023 - 07:15

For many years, the MacGowan family home was in the Silvermines, across the border from us in Templederry. A fine two-storey set-up, on a tidy acre, previously owned by the late Doctor Maurice Ahern, a stern but kind physician to a wide radius of patients. He had croquet hoops on the lawn and applied his vocation in the traditional way by knocking on our chests in various rhythms until he had his solution to our ailments. Often, the prescription was oranges and a regular teaspoon of icing sugar and a week off school, which suited grand.

Later, Shane MacGowan wrote songs upstairs in that house, finding a rhythm to his diagnoses of the human condition and its frailties. Shane was always drawn to Tipperary but wasn’t gone on borders either. “People are talking about immigration, emigration and the rest of the fucking thing. It's all fucking crap. We're all human beings, we're all mammals, we're all rocks, plants, rivers. Fucking borders are just such a pain in the fucking arse,” he is quoted as saying.

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