![Seán Moncrieff: 'I did manage one real-life sighting [ of Gilbert O’Sullivan] at Christmas midnight Mass.' Photograph: Dara Mac Dónaill/The Irish Times](https://www.irishtimes.com/resizer/v2/IF4YIOMFHFAKVHFHVEN7REJUSE.jpg?auth=2493570fbdbec1a43b0ebb7757ac8f9d463a0252c0ff4fa156ed6e7ae6ad6c4f&smart=true&width=1024&height=675)
Me and the singer Gilbert O’Sullivan have a spooky connection. When he was seven, his family moved from Waterford to the town of Swindon in Wiltshire. When I was a child, I lived there too.
Not at the same time: when my family arrived, he was already having international hits, and among the Irish community in Swindon, was the local-boy-made-good. I had a friend whose parents were friends with him – he would occasionally call into their house – but I did manage one real-life sighting at Christmas midnight Mass.
He turned up wearing a huge fur coat. The congregation, being mostly Irish, pretended not to notice the star in their midst. I, however, was able to get a closer look. I was an altar boy and held the paten when he took Communion.
We’re practically cousins.
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This popped into my mind the other day when I heard an advert for a forthcoming gig of his: which in turn reminded me that we would have gone to the same secondary school. I wonder what his experience of that place was like. Mine was one of fear and violence.
I arrived there with my primary school friends. One of them had an older brother, so we already knew what to expect. During break times in the schoolyard, there would usually be a fight. The other boys would gather around it in a tight circle and repeatedly chant, for reasons I could never ascertain, All Together Now.
Eventually, a teacher would break through the cordon and drag off the combatants, while everyone else would analyse what happened: who was the winner? Crying or begging for mercy were regarded as shameful, but putting in a good fight, even if you lost, added to your social currency: it pushed you up, or down, a Fighting League Table and would influence how others treated you.
The best fighter in our part of the school (first and second year) was universally feared. He had two friends, the second and third best fighters. His lieutenants would occasionally beat someone up, just to keep their hand in, but he never fought anyone. He didn’t have to. He and his friends would bully and humiliate and no one dared complain. Reporting him to a teacher was out of the question. The best survival strategy was avoidance. You never spoke to him or even made eye contact.
Halfway through the school year, a new kid arrived in my class. He was from Wales and so, with stunning originality, everyone called him Taffy. But he was different: confident without being cocky. He was also oblivious to – or ignored - the invisible hierarchies in the school. He was nice to everyone, and everyone liked him.
I don’t know how it happened, but during one break time, Taffy and the Best Fighter got in a scrap. This was a jaw-dropping development. Usually, the fights would quickly devolve into messy wrestling, with one or both just trying to hang on until a teacher arrived. But these two fought like boxers. They punched each other like people in films. And when the teacher broke it up, Taffy was still standing.
Although we still didn’t dare say it out loud, this was a seismic change. The Best Fighter had been bested, or at least equalled: and by someone who wasn’t a bully. His social standing had been diminished; perhaps permanently damaged.
The protocol was that you never took the fights personally: and afterwards the Best Fighter wanted Taffy to hang out with his group. Taffy refused, while managing to remain on friendly terms. Taffy continued being nice to everyone.
We moved back to Ireland shortly after that, so I don’t know what, if any effect this had on the culture of the school. I like to think that it did, that it showed the boys there another way. The best way to defeat your enemies is to make them your friends.
