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added Willie Henry wiping a tear from his cheek. “Jesus that sounds all right to me. And speaking of drink Master.” I was the master he was addressing here though of course I wisely ignored him.
    “I thought,” said Margie, “that the anti-treating league was to stop people standing drinks to spongers. After all, if you’re taking your turn to buy your round you’re not treating anybody, are you? You’re only treating somebody if you buy them a drink without expecting them to buy you one back.”
    “It’s a whatdoyoucall it, a misnomer,” agreed Seamus. “Is that what you call it, Margie?”
    “The very word,” said Margie. “A misnomer. Misnomer’s the word.”
    Bill was now giving me his full attention, determined I think not to let the Greek chorus sidetrack him. It was almost admirable the way he handled the situation but then he’s been dealing with unruly classes for more than thirty years. If you can’t beat them then pretend they’re not there.
    “Drink has been the curse of this country, Jeremiah, did you know that?” he said.
    I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. This hasty movement caused the room to spin a little and there and then I made up my mind to keep the head still.
    “I really think,” he continued, “that the time is ripe for a return to some kind of crusade. They used to have musical evenings away back you know and they’d have young women going round with temperance beverages and cream buns and pastry and the like. Tell me, did you ever hear of the blue ribbon badge? ”
    I looked straight ahead while he told me about its origins. It was created, he said, by a man called Francis Murphy who took a verse from the Bible as his inspiration. “I can’t remember the exact wording,” he said, “but I think it went something along the lines of ‘Speak to the children of Israel and bid them wear a ribbon of blue as an outward sign of their moderation.’ ”
    “I wonder would he be anything to the Frank Murphy from Buncrana that played for Derry City?” asked Seamus.
    “Your man Murphy that played on the left wing you mean?” queried Jim. “Sure he wasn’t Frank. He was Stan was he not?”
    “It’s actually the first instance of the pledge being taken, back around the turn of the century, and it was the only known predecessor of the pioneer pin.”
    “Aw Jesus, was it that long ago?” said Seamus. “Well it couldn’t have been Frank Murphy then.”
    “Stan,” corrected Jim. “Or wait a minute. I tell a lie. I’m thinking of Stan Murphy played the snooker down in the Ancient Order of Hibernians.” He waved an arm in the air. “But sure it doesn’t matter two damns anyway. The boy your man’s on about lived away back.”
    Your man as Jim impertinently described him then proceeded to tell me about the Catholic Association for the Suppression of Drunkenness, long defunct, and Father Theobald Mathew with one t the great temperance champion and also the reformed drunkard the Venerable Matthew Talbot, Matthew with two ts, who would have been anonymous had it not been for the cords and chains discovered on his body after he collapsed and died in a Dublin street in 1925.
    “Self-mortification,” Bill explained. At several points during this latest discourse he eyed the mourners opposite with some irritation as all of them except for Willie Henry who was now asleep had become embroiled in a what seemed like a heated argument concerning a brother of Frank Murphy, Mick by name, who at one time had been the best high jumper in the northwest having won money at sports meetings for years from Muff to Malin Head and who after retiring from athletics became known in Buncrana as Mick the taxi or possibly Mick the ambulance. It was this nickname that was the bone of contention, Seamus going with the first named moniker and Margie and Jim, especially Jim, with the second. I could have told them of course that Mick went by both names, the first when he drove a taxi for Buncrana