John McCullagh

1975 Kilmorey St People (1)

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 1       Margaret Larkin
           George Larkin
         Patrick Larkin
 1A     Francis Trainor
         Mary Trainor
3       Patrick Gorman
         Mary Gorman
5       Alice Ruddy
         Terence Ruddy
7       Bernard Larkin
         Mary Larkin
9       Mary Kelly
         Susan Kelly
11     Richard Rodgers
13     Angela Downey
15     Robert Fegan
         Irene Fegan
17     Michael Rice
51     Peter McCourt
         Mary McCourt
         Ann McCourt
52     Mary Hughes
         Thomas hughes
53     Mary McLoughlin
         Patricia McLoughlin
         Michael McLoughlin
         Henry McLoughlin
55     Margaret Turley
57     Thomas O’Hare
         Annie O’Hare
59     Mary McClure
61     Agnes keenan
         Elizabeth Keenan
         Josephine Keenan
63     Owen McLoughlin
         Mary McLoughlin
65     Eamon McCaul
         Edward McCaul
         Annie McCaul
          Gerard McCaul
67     Anne Doyle
         Francis Doyle
69     Patrick Loughran
         Ursula Loughran
71     Rose Burns
73     Maureen leather
75     Bernard Golding
77     John Hughes
         Robert Hughes
         Kathleen Hughes
85     Thomas McEvoy
87     Patrick McAteer
         Mary McAteer
         Bernadette McAteer
         Patrick McAteer (Jnr)
2       John O’Neill
4       Charles Hickland
         Mary Hickland
6       Robert Martin
         Patrick Martin
8       Gerard Toner
         Patricia Toner
10     Hugh Finnegan
12     Gabriel O’Hare
         Anne O’Hare
14     Mary Gallagher
         Susan Gallagher
         James Gallagher
16     Mary Warrinnier
         Camilla Warrinnier
18     Noel Collins
         James Collins
20     Gerald McLoughlin
         Thomas McLoughlin
22     Bridget Rocks
         Anthony Rocks
24     Mary Smith
26     Lucia White
         Martin White
28     James Hughes
         Dorothy Hughes
32     Mary Hagan
         Denis hagan
         James Hagan
34     Elizabeth Sheridan
36     Dominic Donnelly
         Maureen Donnelly
38     Mary Keenan
46     Desmond Murphy
         Mary Murphy
48     Margaret hart
         Eileen O’Reilly
         Thomas O’Reilly
50     Rose Smith
54     Catherine Hillen
56     James McGovern
         Mary McGovern
58     Patrick Rooney
         Jean Rooney
         Jeanette Rooney
60     Susan McAteer
         Michael McAteer
62     Mary Manly
         Francis J Manly
         Patrick Manly
         William Manly
64     Emily Woods
         Patrick Woods
         Patrick Woods (Jnr)
         Bridget Woods
66     Robert Lundy
         Mary Lundy
         Robert Lundy (Jnr) 
 
 
 

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She’s a humpy one!

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There was a time when most weddings of these parts were 
arranged and success depended mainly on the size of the dowry.  Love matches then on’y had a chance if the young couple became ‘runaways’.  But that’s another story.
 
 
There was a match made and the oul’ fella was going to give one hundred pounds of a dowry with his daughter! 
 
One hundred pounds!! 
 
Now that’s when one hundred pounds WAS one hundred pounds, I can tell ye!
 
But anyway, he says,
 
‘When you see her, you might not like her!’
 
‘And for why?’ says yer man.
 
‘Why do you think I wouldn’t like her?’
 
‘Well,’ he says, slowing down a bit,
 
‘I’m giving you one hundred pounds, along with her,
 
for she’s got a wee bit of a hump on her!’
 
‘Tell me’, says yer man,
 
‘You wouldn’t have one wi’ two humps on her, would ye?’

I’ll put horns on ye!

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There was a man one time these parts, be the name of Sheepman.  This was on account of he’s working for sheepmen in Camlough.
 
Sure he was all over the country and when he got home he was all the time drunk.  The priest came up to him one night,
 
‘How about going home to yer wife and family?’ he shouted.
 
‘The next time I see you in this condition, I’ll put horns on ye!’
 
‘Ah sure, now Father, that wouldn’t do at all, at all.’  The Sheepman said.
 
‘The work would never be done!
 
Sure every time I’d pass, I’d be tearing the ar*e out of yer trousers!’

Bottle of Spirit

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Ah, the power of the priest!  There was a parish priest one time that lived in Dungooly but his church was in Urney.

  Anyway in the course of his many duties, he had this once to perform an exorcism and he managed to isolate the evil spirit and trap him – as was the custom then – in a glass bottle.  He secreted the bottle in a cupboard in the parochial house.
 
Some years later he was transferred to Balbriggan and didn’t he forget about the spirit in the bottle.  There was a young altar boy came one day and didn’t he take the bottle to play with?  To make a long story short, he broke the bottle and the spirit escaped.
 
Well his parents knew what had happened and knew the danger.  They sent for the new parish priest.  The poor man had to sarch all through the fields to find the spirit and him praying all the time. 
 
Despite all his powers it tuk him three hours to put that spirit back in the bottle, and the sweat running down his face the same as water flowing in a stream.  This time the bottle was buried nearby in a very deep hole. 

Rat on a string!

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Even to this day, people in nationalist areas react to a passing foot patrol of soldiers (or police) by ignoring its existence.  No reaction.  If a patrol member attempts to draw attention by calling out, or passing the time of day, he receives no response.  Even if there are ‘wolf-whistles’ directed at young females, the reaction is studied non-reaction.

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Strength in Unity

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An old poor man was dying and he grieved that he had nothing to leave to his three sons.  Still he called them to his bedside.  He asked them by name, one at a time, to go out and bring him in a rush – a common rush that would grow in a bog.

 He asked the eldest to bring him an extra rush for himself.  The rushes were brought to him at the bedside and he handed one to the eldest son and says,
 
‘‘Break that.’
 
Sure the eldest son had no bother in breaking the rush, catching it at the two ends and pulling.
 
‘You all see that’, says the old man.  They said they did. 
 
‘Now’, he says, ‘if yous all go till I call yous.’
 
They left him to himself and he took the three remaining rushes and he plaited them and when he had that done he called them up again to his bedside.  He handed the plaited rushes to the eldest son.
 
‘Break that’, says he.
 
Well if he was pulling till yet he couldn’t break the plaited rushes: or the second son couldn’t break it: nor the youngest son when it come his turn.
 
‘Now then,’ says the father, ‘that’s the way you’ll be when I’m gone.  If yous stay together yous can’t be broken’.

Sleep in her own bed

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A friend of one of my own offspring was a student in Belfast recently when his mother came to call, ‘just to make sure he was all right’.  It was obvious at once that he was not living alone in the flat, as he had claimed.

The mass of female undergarments drying on the clothes-horse before the fire might have been enough to give the game away, but to make matters worse, the owner herself was present, in less than her full dress!
 
A hurried explanation ensued that she was scarcely known to him, she was in fact staying for a few days because she was temporarily homeless, that there was no romantic attachment at all, indeed she was the girlfriend of a close friend and so on.  The separate sleeping arrangements in two different bedrooms were carefully explained and shown to the mother.
 
Mum listened nodding sagely.  A few days later the girl noted that a silver sugar-bowl, an heirloom of her mother’s, had disappeared on that day and no one else had been in the flat.  She finally inveigled him to write a diplomatic note to his mother.  The reply was swift, brief and to the point.
 
‘If she had been sleeping in her own bed, she’d have found the sugar-bowl before now.’
 
I know this mother.  Believe me, that’s the least she’s capable of!