An Irishman's Diary

WELL MIGHT Seán Óg Ó Ceallacháin’s long-running GAA results round-up on RTÉ be compared with the BBC’s nightly Shipping Forecast (Home News, May 9th). Because even though the latter programme specialises in predicting future events, whereas the former tended to confine itself to past ones, the two had much in common.

I've always thought that some of the Shipping Forecastareas sound very like GAA clubs, so that one could easily imagine Ó Ceallacháin's mellifluous tones incorporating them into his line-up, eg: "Rockall one eleven, Fitzroy nine points; Fair Isle seven fourteen, Cromarty one three ..." Equally, you could almost hear the Radio 4 announcer explain the demise of your local club in this year's county championship thus: "Erin's Isle. Veering south. Force 4 or 5, falling later. Blustery showers. Visibility moderate, becoming poor." Of course, Gaels (or "gales" as meteorologists spell them) were a central feature in both programmes. And maybe what they had most in common was the soothing effect of their statistics. Even, or especially, when they hinted at a grim reality in the faraway places they concerned.

You might occasionally spare a thought for the poor souls experiencing such conditions first hand. But when you heard something like “Rockall, Malin, Hebrides: severe gale 9 to violent storm 11” or “Crossmaglen Rangers ten points, Dromintee one six”, it made you appreciate being safe indoors and in no danger of being dashed imminently onto rocks, or onto a Crossmaglen full-back.

There was an hypnotic quality to both programmes too. In fact, a problem with Seán Óg Ó Ceallacháin’s broadcast often was that unless you concentrated hard, you could miss the results you wanted to hear. As he progressed through all the other counties en route to yours, the soothing cadences would sometimes mesmerise you until you stopped processing the information. And when you snapped out of it, it was too late.

I WRITE of both programmes in the past tense, but of course the shipping forecast continues. It's only Seán Óg's Sunday night results service we've lost, albeit after a run of such epic proportions that it has earned a place in the Guinness Book of Records.

Searching for his earliest mention as a broadcaster in this newspaper’s archive, I found it coincided with a story about government cutbacks. Which, given the context of his retirement, seemed to suggest a certain historic symmetry. But to put the length of his career in perspective, those earlier cutbacks were of post-Emergency “flour rations”. This was still the 1940s, after all.

SO THE start of his career takes us back to a different era: to the second World War almost, and to a time when, among other now unimaginable events, Cavan rivalled Kerry as the GAA’s great football power. Perhaps there are a few Cavan veterans still hiding out in the woods somewhere, refusing to surrender even yet. For everyone else, however, those events seem a very long time ago now.

Despite which, happily, Ó Ceallacháin never lost his “Óg”. Nor did it ever sound out of place. Over six-and-a-bit decades, he became the “Young Mister Grace” of Irish sports broadcasting, but without the implied joke. It was as if during all those years of reporting results from clubs called Eire Óg and Pearse Óg and even Tír na nÓg, he siphoned off some of their eternal youth.

More likely, he has benefited from the effects of his own sporting life, during which he played hurling, cricket, golf and (under the alias of John Callaghan, during the ban years) soccer.

Whatever his secret, I saw him only last week when he turned up to present prizes at the BHAA/RTÉ Road Race and he looked as lean and fit and dapper as ever. He also told a few jokes – self-deprecating ones on the theme of his great age – with such deadpan perfection that it struck me he might be retiring a bit prematurely at only 88.

In any case, he now follows the great Micheál Ó Muircheartaigh out the door. One must hope that, shorn of such experience in the dressing room, RTÉ’s young guns don’t fall apart in the heat of this year’s championships.

THERE WAS perhaps one thing missing from Ó Ceallacháin’s extraordinarily long career. Epic as it may have been, it wasn’t quite protracted enough for him ever to announce that my hometown club, Carrickmacross Emmets, had become Monaghan senior champions. In fact, never mind his career, not even his life has so far lasted long enough to witness such an event, since at the time the Emmets won their last title, 1919, he was not yet even a twinkle in his parents’ eyes.

It’s hard to explain why certain clubs thrive while others underachieve. But the fact is that Carrick’s hopes have too often perished against the Castleblayney Faughs, by far the county’s most successful club. The “g” in “Faughs” is hard, as is everything else about them. And maybe if, à propos of what I was saying earlier, Seán Óg’s programme had branched out into issuing Faugh warnings occasionally, history might have been different.

But it didn’t and a habit of running into Faughs at short notice has invariably reduced visibility of further progress in the championship to zero. Still, while there’s life there’s hope. I wish Seán Óg Ó Ceallacháin many years of health yet. And if the happy day comes to pass any time soon, maybe my home town will hire him out of retirement for a special commemorative results broadcast.