Yucky stews and nude protests - my garda training memories

I had a nostalgic moment recently while reading the latest issue of Síocháin magazine, a publication for retired of An Garda Síochána.

There was a photograph of a young Garda Moses. P. Maguire, in full uniform taken around 1960. It took me back because he was my first sergeant when I went to Blackrock in Dublin in May, 1980.

M.P. Maguire was widely respected with a reputation for being a decent and competent policeman. Looking at the photo, I was reminded how quickly time es.

December 5 this year will mark 45 years since I first walked through the gates of the Training Centre in Templemore, and a lot of water has ed under the bridge since then.

 That photograph set me off on a journey down memory lane.

I was a 21-year-old recruit and came from a background of self-employment, working with my father who was a small-time building contractor. Suddenly, I was in a disciplined organisation with a hip of about 12,000.

There was a specific chain of command and I soon realised I was at the very bottom of it. Being told when to go to bed, when to get up, and when to get your hair cut took a bit of getting used to. My plan was to keep the head down during training and follow orders, but that didn’t last long.

We had our meals in a large mess hall. There were a few hundred recruits there at the time plus a large staff so cooking for that amount of people must have had its challenges. Most of the time the food was OK, but there was an occasion when stew was added to the menu, and it wasn’t going down well - literally.

It had a peculiar taste. Not nasty, just unusual, and it appeared on the menu three days of the week. 

Usually, we had a choice of two main courses, but the alternative course was always snapped up by those at the head of the queue, leaving the stew for the rest of us. Everyone was moaning about it.

In the classroom one day, I happened to mention it to our training sergeant, Dan Corrigan, an experienced man who put many recruits through his hands over the years. He told me to lodge a complaint.

I immediately regretted opening my mouth, but I was committed now. He showed me how to compile an official written report, which he countersigned and sent to the staff office.

A few days later, while sitting in the classroom, there was an announcement over the tannoy system instructing me to present myself at that same office. This is it, I thought to myself. This is where my short life in An Garda Síochána comes to an abrupt end. 

I’m about to be dismissed for daring to question authority. The commissioner himself would probably take a personal interest in the matter.

What would my parents think? I had brought shame on the family. I would have to change my name and I was mentally going through the various countries that might grant me asylum.

Surprisingly, there was no drama. I received a cordial reception, presented my case, and the stew disappeared. I was the new hero.

I survived the training period and was sent to Blackrock in Dublin in 1980 where I met Sgt M.P. Maguire for the first time. He showed me the ropes and we got on well, until later that year when there was an incident that could easily have ended our relationship.

We were working the night shift, and there was a plan to have a dinner in the early hours of the morning when things had quietened down around the city. I don’t what the occasion was, but all the food had been prepared in the kitchen and it was just a matter of cooking it up.

At the briefing before going on duty, the sergeant reminded us about the meal and arranged the breaks accordingly. He also advised us that it would be useful if we could avoid filling the cells with prisoners as that would only complicate things. That made sense.

I was on beat duty in the Stillorgan area, and the night was relatively quiet. In the early hours, when the pubs and clubs had closed, I made my way back to the station. I strolled along casually, looking forward to my dinner.

As I ed the South County Hotel, I heard a commotion. It sounded like raised voices, but I pretended not to hear and quickened my step. 

The thought of getting involved in an incident and returning to the station with a prisoner had me in a panic.

Suddenly, a man appeared in front of me. He was excited and pointing in the direction of the hotel entrance.

What was unfolding in front of me was not good. There was a guy, completely off his head, dancing on the roof of a taxi. He was shouting and roaring and threatening to beat the world. There was no reasoning with him, and it was obvious there was only one course of action to be taken.

I called for a patrol car, arrested him, and conveyed him to the station.

He caused havoc when we were placing him in the cell, and it didn’t end there. Not long before we were due to have the grub, the prisoner acted up in the cell. 

He stripped naked and urinated everywhere.

Sgt Maguire entered the cell area and duly ended up on the floor having been knocked by the prisoner. His clothes were in a bit of a state.

I don’t much about the dinner after that. I think I spent the entire time going over the asylum application in my head.