MY PIECE ON FRANK CARSON, IRELAND'S OWN, 8 MARCH 2022

 Borrowed from Ireland's Own, 8 March, 2022, my piece on Frank Carson.

Frank Carson, who died at 87 ten years ago, was a master rat-a-tat-tat gag man, a comedian with a distinctive Belfast accent, a cackle of a laugh and two memorable catchphrases, “it’s the way I tell ‘em’” and “it’s a cracker”. Jokes would pour out of him at a rapid rate, so if one fell flat, he was already straight into the next one. It was both his adopted performing style and a way to survive some of the rough, tough clubs and pubs on the comedy circuit in the 1960s and beyond.

 

Frank Carson.

He could be a bit of a nightmare for chat show hosts when he went on a riff, so much so that Spike Milligan is reported to have said, “What’s the difference between Frank Carson and the M1? You can turn off the M1.”
Frank was born in 1926, the son of a binman, and raised in working-class Belfast, in ‘Little Italy’, near the docks. As a young boy in the Great Patrick Street/Corporation Street area, he recalled watching sheep, cattle, horses and carts as the main traffic in the streets where he played.

His local church was St. Patrick’s and he attended the neighbouring St. Patrick’s Christian Brothers Primary School, both on Donegall Street.

In a television documentary, he told the story of one day when he was on his way home from school, he stopped to look in a shop window and saw his reflection. Looking at himself, he said out loud, “One day, you’re going to be famous.”

He left school at 14 and trained as an electrician before becoming a plasterer. He worked the trade on local houses and church interiors, amongst others. But his ambition for fame never left his head.

At 18, he joined the Parachute Regiment and spent three years of duties in the Middle East in the 1950s. He maintained that a military career was one of the easiest ways to get a job.

On one occasion, he was shot in the leg and, in another, narrowly escaped death when a bomb exploded very close to his squad. The seven men he was with were killed. He never forgot the time he shot dead an armed terrorist who was trying to shoot him. In all, he made around forty parachute jumps for his regiment.

Back in civvy street in the 1960s, and honing his talent as a comedian, Frank began to enjoy various jobs on Irish television. He moved to England to try the northern working men’s clubs, notorious for audiences that could make or break performers. It was both challenging and educational. He stuck at it and, in hindsight, it paid off. His big TV break and launch pad to the fame he craved came in 1968 when he entered TV’s Opportunity Knocks, a prime-time talent competition show hosted by Hughie Green. He won it three times.

On the back of that success, in 1971, he was hired by producer Johnny Hamp for a new Granada Television show called The Comedians.

This was a simple format. Hamp recruited a long list of club comics to do stand-up joke-telling routines which were edited into half-hour shows. Frank appeared with Bernard Manning, Jim Bowen, Stan Boardman, Jimmy Cricket, Mike Reid, Ken Goodwin, Charlie Williams and many more over the years. 
The Comedians show was a big success.

Frank also made regular appearances on The Good Old Days, Blankety Blank, Noel’s House Party, Celebrity Squares and The Wheeltappers and Shunters Social Club, to name a few. He was a guest on many talk and variety shows. He also dabbled in children’s television with appearances on the whacky Saturday morning show Tiswas, and took on occasional acting roles. In 1985, he was surprised at Heathrow Airport by Eamonn Andrews for a This Is Your Life episode.

Away from showbusiness, he devoted considerable time to charity work. He raised millions of pounds over the years and could claim credit for his part in the Variety Club of Great Britain’s efforts to fund Sunshine coaches for the underprivileged. He promoted integrated education. In 1987, Pope John Paul II made him a knight of the Order of St Gregory at a private audience in Rome.

Back in the 1950s he and his wife, Ruth, spent their honeymoon in Balbriggan, the Fingal coastal town, fell in love with the place and made the decision to live there. Frank served two terms as Lord Mayor and became a much-loved ambassador. He is quoted as saying, “Balbriggan is my favourite place in the world.” He wrote and recorded a song called Lovely Balbriggan with You’re a Cracker on the b-side.

He made a few friendly jokes about Balbriggan. “On a clear day you can see the Irish sea. On a rough day, you’re in it.” “It’s fifteen miles from Sellafield. You can put your arm in the water and get a free x-ray.” The song is sentimental: “Oh Balbriggan, lovely Balbriggan, jewel by the sea, though I’ve done some roamin’ I’d rather be home in Balbriggan by the sea.” The pop charts were untroubled by the record, but the people of Balbriggan loved it.
Frank Carson was a comedian to the very end. In 2011, he was diagnosed with stomach cancer but happily accepted an invitation to attend a Variety Club dinner at Claridge’s Hotel in honour of the Duke of Edinburgh’s 90th birthday. After lunch, there was an afternoon of comedy. Frank took it in his stride and though unwell, went down a storm with the audience and especially with the guest of honour.

Frank never lost his connection and love for Belfast. As his career progressed, the family moved to Liverpool and later set up home in Blackpool where he succumbed to the cancer and died at 85 on 22 February 2012. He was a great family man, comedian and humanitarian. 

He really was a cracker!

HAS ANYBODY HERE SEEN KELLY? MY BOOK

 

World Book Day 3 March, 2022

In 1960, my father, John Cushnan, left our Belfast home, his wife and seven young children and vanished, The next we heard of him was when we were told he had died at 57 in 1982, in Clapham, London.  In his Clapham years he reinvented himself as John Kelly from Derry. Apart from anything else, he left us with a mystery of 22 missing years. This is a story of his cowardly abandonment of his family and of my heroic mother, Rita, who raised seven children single-handedly.

This memoir can be purchased here:  https://www.amazon.co.uk/Has-Anybody-Here-Seen-Kelly/dp/1803022450/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3F2NZ9WTVWAAE&keywords=joe+cushnan&qid=1646335908&s=books&sprefix=%2Cstripbooks%2C51&sr=1-1

 

A FORCE LIKE NO OTHER: THE LAST SHIFT BY COLIN BREEN

 

A Force Like No Other

The Last Shift

 

By

 

Colin Breen

 

https://blackstaffpress.com/a-force-like-no-other-3-the-last-shift-9781780733319

 

 

This is book 3 in a compelling and important trilogy comprising stories and memories from officers who served in the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) during Northern Ireland’s so-called Troubles.

 

Some of the recollections describe the horrific events of those times, of cold-blooded murder, attempted murder, severe injuries, mental anguish, and police officers’ lives always on alert, always on guard whether on or off duty.  Any mistake in a routine or misstep on a procedure could have resulted in death or injury, and sometimes did.

 

The everyday duties combatting terrorists were coupled with routine crimes like burglary and robberies, but often behind a hedge or in the shadows someone’s finger was on a trigger or close to pressing a detonator whenever and wherever the police attended an incident.  Hoax calls to lure officers to an ambush were frequent.  Sometimes the outcomes were safe enough but other times officers weren’t so lucky.

 

The mental pressures were enormous as officers had to look at dead bodies, badly mutilated bodies, bodies with missing limbs and, occasionally, body parts scattered over a wide area after full impact explosions.

 

Police officers’ families too had to be aware of the risks and dangers of someone ready to attack homes. Wives and husbands of officers would hope and pray that their loved ones would return home after their shifts.  “Sitting at home listening to the clock tick, dreading a knock on the door, having to keep feelings bottled up …………..”  Nothing was certain, except worry and anxiety. 

 

But, not everything in this fine book is as serious as described.  There are moments of humour. (When you buy the book, look out for the officer who went for a pee behind a bush and then witnessed the bush walking away.  Or the Chief Constable and the pheasant.  Or the one about elephants on the road.)  In addition, there is much evidence of camaraderie.

 

Colin Breen has achieved something remarkable in this trilogy by recording the memories and feelings of the contributors, human beings doing their jobs in difficult to impossible circumstances.  There is honesty here, heartbreak and everlasting sadness, but hard as it is emotionally to read at times, this latest book and its two predecessors are significant and important chronicles of specific aspects of Northern Ireland’s grim recent past. 

Highly recommended.

SOME FREELANCE WRITING SUBJECTS

Over the last few years, I have written and had published pieces on these subjects, amongst others.

Hollywood's Stephen Boyd

Film and TV star, Sam Kydd

Coco the Clown

Collecting Autographs

James Ellis, Actor, Director, Writer

Ben-Hur at 60

Famous Christmas birthdays

Cinemas's Biblical Epics

Alan Whicker and his (lost) Belfast episodes

Hollywood's Burt Lancaster and his possible Belfast roots

Ballykissangel's Birdy Sweeney

Hollywood's Don Murray in Mullingar

Hollywood's Thelma Todd's tragic story

Character actor Eddie Byrne

Z Cars 60th anniversary

Frank Carson, 10 years gone but still the gag man's gag man.

And quite a few family pieces.

Much more.

Books:

Retail Confidential (2010) a career retrospective

Stephen Boyd: From Belfast to Hollywood. A film star biography

Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly? A personal memoir about my vanished father and heroic mother.

If you are stuck for a freelance writer on any subject (research is FUN!), contact joecushnan@aol.com

MINOR INCIDENT BETWEEN MY MOTHER AND THE REVEREND IAN PAISLEY

This happened sometime in the early 1970s in our Belfast living room.

In an uncharacteristic burst of anger,
my mother once took off her slipper,
concentrated hard, took careful aim
and let fly at the television set.

On impact, the vase on top wobbled,
we kids tranced between gasp and cough,
and the reason for mother's missile -
Ian Paisley shouting his mouth off.

WINNIE JOHNSON - SOME THINGS JUST GET TO YOU - MOORS MURDERS

 

News item Saturday 18 August, 2012: "The mother of Moors Murder victim Keith Bennett has died, her solicitor has confirmed.  Winnie Johnson, 78, fought a long campaign to get her son's killer, Ian Brady, to reveal his grave.  Twelve-year-old Keith was abducted on his way to visit his grandmother in Manchester on 16 June 1964."

Forty eight

of the long, long, longest years,

grieving, waiting,

grieving, waiting,

mother grieving,

mother waiting.........

1964 to 2012, of her son Keith, 

nothing, nothing at all,

no truth, no sign, no clue,

just prayer to pray, her quest to pursue.

His whereabouts -  

secret of the vile,

secret of the repulsive,

secret of the wicked,

secret of the heinous,

secret of the dead bitch,

secret of the live bastard.

And today,

the news of Winnie's Johnson's passing,

a mother who never gave in, gave up or gave way,

lays a new layer of sadness on her story.

Life is finite and thus at some point must cease,

even if her one question remains unanswered,

we think of her and hope she rests in peace.

 

BEFORE AMNESIA - SOME OF THE THINGS I REMEMBER

I remember being told that I was stung in the face by a wasp when I was a baby but I don’t actually remember the sting. Apparently, I sobbed for ages, not for the last time.

I remember the click-click of my mother’s knitting needles and, as if by magic, jumpers, hats, scarves and gloves appeared.

I remember my father bringing home triangular tailor’s chalk. He had a job as a cloth cutter.

I remember Sally from the upstairs flat bringing us a bag of fruity sweets every Monday and some magazines for my mother. I liked Sally as much as I liked the sweets. I liked Mondays too.

I remember Farley’s rusks and someone on the TV singing that there was all-round goodness in them.

I remember my mother baking apple and rhubarb tarts, curn squares on Sundays and stew on Tuesdays.

I remember at a young age wanting to be a writer but I had no idea what to write about, so I doodled instead.

I remember Coco the Clown visiting our school.

I remember my father leaving home when I was six or maybe I am remembering someone else’s memory. Whatever. He never came back.

I remember horrible Camp Coffee.

I remember ho-ho-hoing along to The Laughing Policeman record when it was played on radio’s Children’s Favourites.

I remember thinking that Fry’s Turkish Delight tasted like soap.

I remember scraping my face on the rough bricks in the bus shelter and wearing my badge-of-honour scab on my First Communion morning.

I remember wanting to be the Milky Bar Kid but I didn’t have blonde hair and I didn’t wear glasses.

I remember someone gave us a puppy and on the same day a bastard called Sammy took it from us and drowned it. 

I remember showband records playing in our house including Joe Dolan singing The Answer To Everything, Dickie Rock singing From The Candy Store On The Corner To The Chapel On The Hill and Brendan Bowyer singing The Hucklebuck.

I remember my Granny’s snuff. Sniff, sniff, nose blow.

I remember my Granda’s stammer and his beautiful singing voice. Nellie Dean.

I remember the clink-clink-clink of the milkman and, every now and then his whistling.

I remember I preferred to play cowboys and indians rather than cops and robbers.

I remember our garden had an ideal slope for tumbling.

I remember watching The Range Rider and Dick West on TV, after the Saturday wrestling programme, in my Aunt Sally’s on the New Lodge Road, Belfast. She gave us a bowl of hot peas and vinegar, thick-sliced pan bread and butter and a huge blue-striped mug of dark brown tea.

I remember the excitement of hearing The Lone Ranger theme only surpassed by the exhilaration of the burning map of Nevada and ding-ding-a-ding opening of Bonanza.

I remember where I was when JFK was shot. I was in Fruithill Park, Belfast delivering groceries and trying to figure out how to get past a yapping dog.

I remember a woman called Jean (Metcalfe) on the radio on Sundays introducing a programme from London called World Wide Family Favourites and my jaw-dropping as she casually spoke to a man called Bill Paul in Toronto. They were thousands of miles apart. 

I remember my first primary school report (I’m looking at it now). St Teresa’s Boys’ School, term ending 31 December 1960. Name: J. Cushnan. Form: 3B. Number in class: 45. Position: 8^th. Marks out of 10: 7 for Sums, 10 for Spelling, 8 for Reading, 6 for Writing, 8 for Composition. Class Teacher: F. H. McKenna. Parent’s Signature: Rita Cushnan. Remarks: Pass.

I remember more than a couple of slaps on the hand by a leather strap-wielding teacher. I can’t remember my ‘crimes’.

I remember barber Owny Muldoon (my first stylist) gripping my young head in the palm of his hand and steering my skull like a joystick to complete a short back and sides, and a straight fringe. He was a bit rough but quick.

I remember hating clove rock but loving butter balls.

I remember warm school milk in the summer and iced school milk in the winter, the former torture to drink, the latter impossible.

I remember hating picnics.

I remember our neighbour, Mrs McAtackney, knuckle-rapping her window, a machine-gun rat-a-tat-tat, to get us off the wall between her garden and a field.  It wasn’t even her wall but we scarpered anyway. She lived alone and had time to look out of the window.

I remember telling my teacher that a sandwich was a funny thing to call something that you had for your tea.

I remember conning my brother Sean into taking me to the pictures to see Elvis Presley in Roustabout. I told him Mum said he had to. He was unhappy about it but he took me. I was excited but Elvis was cool.

I remember my mother knitted me a green bobble hat like Mike Nesmith’s from The Monkees.

I remember Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum for the rock hard sweet but especially for the little comic included in the pack.

I remember most Saturdays visiting my Aunt Brigid in her house on Maralin Street, Belfast. It smelled of biscuits and marmalade, and she gave me half a crown to share with my brothers and sisters. I’m not certain I always did.

I remember my Aunt Brigid’s catchphrase was ‘Bless the darlin’’.

I remember Radio Luxembourg’s signal fading in and out. Adjusting the dial made no difference.

I remember loving red, syrupy cough medicine.

I remember the first grown-up book I attempted was A Tale of Two Cities but I only got halfway through.  So, I’m unsure if it was a tale of one city or two halves of two cities.

I remember who got the most burnt skin from the top of a rice pudding caused a lot of arguments in our house.