Remembering Con and my brief stint as Jack’s gaffer in Cork

Profusion of May blossom evokes conflicting emotions. Overgrown boughs sway in winds gusting down The Boggy Road on a summer afternoon. Hawthorn branches bow to red and white clad throngs with smatterings of blue converging on SuperValu Páirc Uí Chaoimh. Riotous colour of surging people mirrors fast-flowing skies above the Marina. Cork and Waterford hurlers prepare for capricious squalls.

Con Houlihan, Castle Island’s finest, relished these scenes since his student days in Cork. Love for the city and its people permeate his reflections when, later in life, he came this way to chronicle epic contests ‘down The Park’. 

Rhapsody for ship masts passing by the old athletic grounds cascade into symphony for the maestro Ring’s most outrageous accomplishment - a sliotar launched in Cork landing in New York. 

For Con, present-day hurlers must take centre stage. Clashes registering on the Richter scale would lyrically portray Prunty, De Burca, Harnedy and Downey et al going for it. Such is the wizardry of the Hoggies and Bennetts of this world, exclusion zones over Páirc Uí Chaoimh would be recommended for the protection of air traffic.

Con’s pen is stilled, but today, May 25, 2025, his spirit sighs in branches that orchestrate nature’s requiem for Irish Press Newspapers. The Evening Press was last published on this date 30 years ago. In 1995, the Irish Press’s chaotic disintegration dominated national news.

Recollection of turbulent days blends with commemoration of happier times. May 29 is our wedding anniversary. Our anniversary was on a Monday in 1995. Morning dawned bright and sunny, perfect weather for a celebration. Sunlight sparkled on the rippling waters of The Lee’s South Channel when I crossed Clarke’s Bridge on my way to ‘sign on’, Twenty years with ‘ The Press’ ended abruptly the previous Friday. Apart from an afternoon in the Imperial Hotel when I masqueraded as gaffer, pressman was my only moniker. To borrow Con’s phrase, “Read on.”

Con’s stellar Evening Press career commenced in September, 1973. Two years later, mundane junior clerking began for me in the Irish Press Branch Office, Cook Street. Sean Lucey, “The Boss”, a 75-year-old veteran of the War of Independence, inspired awe. Absolute gentleman, Bantry-born Bill Cotter was office manager. Macrompian Pat Twomey was the district manager. A stimulating environment was further invigorated when reporters Tom O’Mahony, Andrew Bushe, and Jean Sheridan dropped in. By May, 1995, I was the last person standing for ‘ The Press’ in Cork. Throughout the summer of 1995, efforts to salvage the newspapers were thwarted. Xpress, published by employees defiantly occupying the Burgh Quay premises, maintained the spirit of The Press on life support. Some of Con’s best writing is in Xpress.

In my heart, I knew our phoenix of journals would not rise from the ashes; my focus switched to improving statutory redundancy terms. As honorary secretary of the Sales Marketing and Administrative Trade Union, steering this cause became a priority. Supported by Union Presidents, great Corkonians, the late Peter Barry and the late Denis Owens, we were successful. We advocated equitable resolution of grievances such as withholding first week wages, absence of a time in lieu policy, and more. Success brought a modicum of relief for 600 people.

Thirty years on, a sense of loss has not dissipated. Sadness melds into golden memories of a 20th century institution. Lasting friendships were forged. Personnel of rival publications, The Cork Examiner/Evening Echo, as they were then, The Irish Independent, and The Irish Times were comrades, not adversaries. Names are too numerous to mention, so too, newsagents, contractors, business partners, and others I was privileged to work with. Interaction with the vibrant community of news vendors always rewarded. Innate wisdom allied to the empirical nature of their profession endows The Echo Boys and Gals with indispensable insights, their commentary on city foibles brightened many days.

At a remove of 30 years, involvement in iconic cultural and sporting events seems surreal. Adjudicators like Oliver Hynes and the late Brian Boydell embellished national choral competition finals at the City Hall and the Aula Maxima, which were graced above all by student talent and teacher dedication. A plethora of sporting events, from tennis tournaments to the Tall Ships Race in 1991, segues in kaleidoscope. I was honoured to present awards to outstanding exemplars of all that is best about Cork, Brian Corcoran, Pat Morley, and the late Mick McCarthy of Skibbereen. Memories hurtling from the past weave their magic, unleashing two colossal characters who capture the imagination. First, an educator, philosopher, art connoisseur, theatre and literary critic, and nonpareil of sportswriters. Second, an Englishman who won the heart of the nation.

On an August Sunday in 1986, I took an early train from Heuston Dublin to Kent station. I was more than keen to return to the young woman, who is now my wife. Razor-sharp Con spied me, “Convinced Cork will win in Jones’ Road, you choose to vet Kilkenny in Tom Semple’s field,” he quipped. “Cork will have their hands full with Antrim. It will be closer in Croke Park than Thurles,” I returned. In that idiosyncratic way, Con put his hand closer to his mouth, “You expect a Cork, Kilkenny final?” “Galway will have too much for The Cats. I expect Cork with Johnny Clifford at the helm to win a cracker of a final.” Eyebrows arched, sotto voce, Con said, “Shh! Only you and I know this.” “And Kerry for the football,” my rejoinder complimented his hilarious digression in a piece filed from Mexico earlier that summer. Endeavouring to predict World Cup outcomes, he consulted a seer who pronounced, Cork for the hurling, Kerry for the football. Con volleyed back with his original observation, “Explain your Croke Park desertion, I was expecting a report,” a reference to comments I used to send him, I was gratified to learn he read them. I answered, “Most urgent business.” “Affairs of the heart?” I nodded, he continued, “You are excused then, until September 7.” On our way out of Croke Park, rejoicing in Cork’s victory, Nuala and I met big-hearted Con. I was delighted to introduce Nuala, the lady I passed up the semi-final for. Con’s beloved Kerry won their thirtieth football title two weeks later.

During his tenure as Irish soccer supremo, Jack Charlton had a column in The Sunday Press, and the newspaper sponsored regional events featuring Jack. In 1990, the Imperial Hotel was the venue for Jack’s visit to Cork. A PR company oversaw planning. My brief, assist as required. Staff were setting up the ballroom in theatre format when I arrived. Seats were about to be arranged in serried ranks. A golden opportunity for people to meet and greet Jack was about to be spurned. I advised that, spacious as the ballroom was, the chosen format was not ideal because of the numbers expected. Courteous rebuttal on grounds that, “Mr Charlton’s schedule is tight, this is the requisite format,” greeted my reservations. An awkward stand-off was pre-empted by Jack’s arrival ahead of schedule. Complete absence of fanfare heralded his entrance. John Givens, Jack’s ‘minder’, kept discreet distance. Jack glared at the dais dominating the room. He asked, “Who is the Gaffer?” PR people looked at each other. John seemed resigned. Eyes glinting determinedly, Jack rephrased, “Who is the

Sunday Press

person?” “Me,” I volunteered. He said, “Tell me what you want me to do.” I asked for a table and chair to be arranged mid-way at the far wall of the Ballroom, “People want to meet you, Jack. They will queue. Do you think it will work?” Twinkle in his eyes, he replied, “You’re the gaffer.”

Displaying local knowledge or Liam Mackey’s briefing, he wondered if many would show up, given Cork was a ‘Hurling and Gaelic city’. “And we are sports mad,” I said, “You and the team bring great happiness.” I did not add that this would be the only time most of us would meet a World Cup winner.

Over the next few hours, children of all ages, women, and men filed past. People took their time, Jack was unhurried, shared jokes, laughed, posed for photographs, signed autograph books, match programmes, jerseys, shirts, an arm in plaster of Paris, a leg in plaster. He was like a father figure, like everyone’s favourite uncle, or beloved grandfather, except too young-looking. My abiding memory is of a sea of smiling faces, Jack’s distinctive voice cackling, asking for details, what name to write.

The best was yet to be. The room emptied, Jack took out the ubiquitous cigar, smiled, raised his cigar, asked, “Do you mind, Gaffer?” John Givens looked exasperated; getting Jack to Limerick on time would tax Einstein. Jack grinned, pointed to me, “He’s the gaffer.” Out of the corner of my eye, I discerned a family supporting a young wheelchair user. Jack was about to light up, I asked if he would mind talking to the youngster. Jack’s face broke into a welcoming smile. He greeted the family warmly, sat near the boy, jokingly offered him his unlit cigar, his famous flat cap. Martin, the boy, had an extraordinary personality, his presence filled the room. When the family group departed, they could have levitated all the way home. Italia 90 put ‘em under pressure had begun. Con’s wry observation encapsulated the giddiness of that long-ago summer when a nation held its breath, “I missed Italia 90, I was in Italy at the time.”

Summer glory lingered into autumn for Rebels as Cork completed what Jack might have called the ‘Hurling and Gaelic’ All-Ireland, double. Con’s wit debunked the myth that Cork teams lacked fortitude when commenting on 14-man Cork’s defeat of Meath in the football, he remarked, Cork had loads of bottle, “Beamish, Murphys….”

Prior to World Cup USA 1994, The Sunday Press reprised Jack’s visit, this time at the Capitol Cinema. Jack swept onto the stage with Liam Mackey. While the question-and-answer format was entertaining, Jack wanted to be in the stalls face-to-face with football aficionados. He made this obvious when looking up at ‘the gaffer’ standing at the back of the auditorium, he said, “I’d love a pint, one of yer local brews.” I had no need to desert my station. Faith in the conviviality and generosity of Corkonians is never misplaced.

Teetotaller Jim Kelleher, who rode shot gun for Evening Press deliveries in Cork, disappeared saying, “I’ll sort that.” In jig time, flotillas of Beamish and Murphys materialised through willing roundswomen and roundsmen. I would be wealthy if I got a punt (€1.03) for every time someone informed me that they served Jack a pint in The Capitol.

People miscalculated when they envisaged that the Capitol’s cavernous environs would deter people from getting up close and personal with Jack. They never got Rebel Cork the way Jack and Con did. When the session ended, people swarmed around Jack. As in the Imperial Hotel, he thrived on the interaction. Having posed for the umpteenth photograph, and signed his last autograph, which was on a hurley, he asked, “That it, Gaffer?” Mischievous eyes dared me to curve one from left field. “Message on my pager, two busloads from West Cork outside, one full of soccer fans, the other full of anglers.”

With his minders on the verge of apoplexy, Jack’s guffaw disarmed them. His last words to me were, “See you next time.” There was no next time. On Thursday, May 25, 1995, the last Evening Press rolled off the presses at Burgh Quay. Jack took charge of an Irish soccer team versus the Netherlands at Anfield for the final time on December 13, 1995.

In the mayhem of that final year, Big Jack’s gaffer never got to report to Con on the Capitol adventure. December 6, 2025, is the centenary of Con’s birth. A day to savour a treasure trove of press cuttings of his brilliant prose. Cork features prominently. My home place is referenced.

Describing a chance encounter with my brothers in Croke Park, he famously wrote of the hurling knowledge of the boys from “Prosperity Square, Barracka, to speakers of the Queen’s English, that is Barrack Street.”

He passed away in August, 2012.

Decades whizz past with the velocity of a sliotar struck by Christy Ring. Good people create golden memories that endure.

• Note: The Irish Press debuted Saturday, September 5, 1931, eve of the Hurling All Ireland final between Cork and Kilkenny, a duel that went to two replays before The Rebels were crowned champions.

This article originally appeared in the 2025 Holly Bough.