The Guards

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It’s almost impossible to be thrown out of the Garda Síochána.

You have to really put your mind to it. Unless you become a public disgrace, they’ll tolerate most anything.

I’d been to the wire. Numerous

Cautions

Warnings

Last chances

Reprieves

And still I didn’t shape up.

Or rather sober up. Don’t get me wrong. The gardaí and drink have a long, almost loving relationship. Indeed, a teetotal garda is viewed with suspicion, if not downright derision, inside and outside the force.

My supervisor at the training barracks said,

“We all like a pint.”

Nods and grunts from trainees.

“And the public likes us to like a pint.”

Better and better.

“What they don’t like is a blackguard.”

He paused to let us taste the pun. He pronounced it, in the Louth fashion, “blaggard”.

Ten years later I was on my third warning. Called before a supervisor, it was suggested I get help.

“Times have changed, sonny. Nowadays there’s treatment programmes, twelve-step centres, all kinds of help. A spell in John O’ God’s is no shame any more. You’ll rub shoulders with the clergy and politicians.”

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