Amalgamation, consolidation and rationalisation are big words. They look and sound very impressive, but I’m afraid they’re the sugar coating on what can often be bitter pills, especially in rural Ireland.

Two institutions dispensing this treatment at the moment are the Catholic Church and the GAA. They’re ‘amalgamating, consolidating and rationalising’ parishes and clubs in a process that involves asking sworn enemies to forget about centuries of rivalry.

To be frank, the two institutions are doing this out of sheer necessity. The Catholic Church is suffering an ongoing decline in clerical numbers and church attendance, while GAA clubs are being decimated by the mass emigration of young people.

The reality of these developments was recently brought home to the people of Killdicken and surrounding areas.

The AGM of the Killdicken GAA club took place last Monday night, a heated affair that boiled over when the proposal to amalgamate with Glengooley and Bally was tabled. Whatever about our tense relations with the Glengooley natives, the crowd from Bally are regarded with absolute fear and loathing. On a political note, the latest changes in the electoral boundaries mean that Bally is now part of my area and I’ll have to canvass it, Cantillon suggested that I should hire an armoured personnel carrier for the job.

Micksie Dunne, former chairman of the club, never loses an opportunity to attack those who plotted and executed his downfall in the coup a number of years ago.

The proposed amalgamation was an opportunity he grasped with the relish of a cat devouring fresh salmon, so when he got to his feet at the AGM everyone had a fair idea of what was coming.

“Mr chairman,” says he, as he licked his lips. “Let me say that this is one of the saddest nights in the history of this parish. Our fathers and grandfathers founded this club in the 1920s, when the country was on its knees after years of war and deprivation.

“Their bellies were sown to their backbones, they had rickets, scabies and chilblains, yet they found the energy to carve this club out of nothin’.

“Now in these times of plenty, when we have more grub than we’ll ever eat, more clothes than we’ll ever wear and more time on our hands than we’ll ever use, we are givin’ away our hard won identity and dilutin’ the heritage handed on by our hungry fathers.”

“Bad enough to be throwin’ in our lot with them patsies from Glengooley,” he thundered. “But joinin’ them mad hoors from Bally is a mile too far. Their only claim to fame is the record they hold for the most red and yellow cards consistently awarded to any one club. Their nearest rivals for that particular laurel got a quarter the amount of cards. Over my dead body will ye take what our father’s handed onto us and throw it to patsies and bowsies.”

Durin’ the speech the officers at the top table sat with their heads bowed, as they prayed earnestly that Micksie might suffer a combined bout of rickets, scabies and chilblains. The club voted for the amalgamation and Micksie walked out for the fifth time in his turbulent career.

“Sure ’twill keep him fit,” said Cantillon.

In another tale of attempted conjoining, I was phoned by Mickeen Slattery, the sacristan in Glengooley, a hoor for news whose speciality is clerical gossip. He had the story that a new pastor is about to be appointed, not to Killdicken but to the combined parishes of Killdicken, Glengooley, Honetyne and Bally.

“Now Maurice,” says he. “That’s a job for a saint or a tyrant.”

“Or a cute hoor,” says I.

“Like yourself,” says he. “But whoever gets it will be driven to the drink. The Bally crowd on their own are capable of doin’ that. The mad shower up there is fit for anything.”

“What names are in the runnin’ for the job? I asked.

“The hottest tip,” says Mickeen. “It’s a clergyman of the cute hoor variety, Father Sylvie Coughlan from over the Waterford side. They say he’s a psychologist by trainin’ and an expert in conflict resolution.”

“He’ll need more than that,” says I. “Tryin’ to pull these three parishes together will take a direct act of God.”

“Well,” says Mickeen. “I heard that a delegation from Bally has been to see the bishop and told him if he doesn’t give them a priest of their own they’ll advertise the job and hire one themselves, they might even set up their own church.”

“Tipperary’s version of North Korea,” says I.

“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” says he. “Then we could ignore the daft hoors.”

“But Mickeen,” says I. “What about doin’ the Christian thing and lovin’ your neighbours?”

“That’s a job for politicians,” says he. “At election time.” CL