Tom Cantwell recently auditioned for a TV talent show in Cork. He came back with a story to tell.

Cantwell has a lovely tenor voice and on the rare occasion he sings, he’d make the hair stand on your head. He has decided that middle age is a time for licence rather than restriction, so he treated himself to a season of singing lessons when he hit the half century.

On a fine Saturday morning about three weeks ago, he found himself in Cork and in a queue with hundreds of youngsters, all a fraction of his age, waiting his turn to be auditioned for Born to be a Star. It’s a pilot TV talent show that a new, local company hopes to sell to RTÉ or whoever will take it.

Cantwell’s grey mop stood out in the sea of blonde, black, brown and multi-coloured heads. The jumper, the shapeless trousers and the sensible shoes certainly set him apart from the techno generation around him who were lost in their world of screens and headphones.

He was convinced he’d do well, believing his decent tenor singing voice would put him ahead of the posse. For people like Cantwell, Susan Boyle’s breakthrough made it all possible. When she waddled her way from middle-aged obscurity to the heights of popular culture, she carved a path for all undiscovered divas. Cantwell was prepared for a rough passage through the queue in the expectation that having a good laugh at ‘grandad’ would keep the young hopefuls entertained. But they were too busy rehearsing, texting or chatting to bother with him.

As the queue shuffled forward, a steady trickle of those who had already auditioned emerged from the hotel ballroom where the auditions were being held. Some beamed with delight, having got through to round two, while most shook their heads and swore vengeance on the judges.

Cantwell refused to allow any bad vibes to get to him. He had done his yoga that morning and was ready to embrace his Susan Boyle moment.

“Hey, Grandad, you on your own?” The young lassie beside him had taken off her sunglasses and was looking up at him. Even in this colourful crowd she stood out with her luminous green fedora, yellow body top, pink too-too, purple tights and red shoes.

“Yes I’m on my own,” he replied.

“You’re auditioning, like?”

“Yes, I’m going to sing.”

“Fair fecks to you. My Granda would do nothin’ like that, stuck in the pub coughin’ his feckin’ lungs up. I’m singin’ too, none of the modern shite though.”

“And what are you singing?”

“Let it be a surprise, Grandad.”

Just then the tin can tune of an ice cream van tinkled around the nearby estate.

“Jaysus, I’d kill for a cone. Will you hold my place and I’ll get you one too?” says she.

“Here, let me give you money,” said Cantwell.

“No Grandad, I’m feckin’ loaded, got paid for singin’ at a crappy weddin’ yesterday. Do you want a 99?”

“Oh I don’t know.”

“Go for it Grandad, feck the cholesterol.”

She dashed across the road to the red and white ice cream wagon, but came back downcast.

“The bastard has no fresh ice cream. Just as well, his van is manky. Just two Cornettos.”

Before they knew it, they were in the ballroom. Every act before them was getting short shrift from the judges.

After about 30 seconds of performance, the sound was cut off and a voice from the darkness would shout: “Next.”

It was the turn of Cantwell’s newfound friend and she handed him her ice cream.

“Hold this,” she says, “and don’t eat the feckin’ thing.”

“What’s your name love?” one of the judges asked

“Mitzie Monaghan?”

“And what are you singing for us Mitzie?”

She pulled the fedora down over her eyes and let the song answer the question,

“Moon river, wider than a mile…”

They let her sing every word until the last note wafted into the rafters. The applause lifted the place. Cantwell wanted to clap too but he was holding the two ice creams and, besides, he was too stunned to move. When the applause eventually subsided, the main judge spoke: “We’ll certainly see you tomorrow, Mitzie.”

She bowed ostentatiously and bounced back to where Cantwell stood holding her cone.

“Thanks Grandad. Good luck.”

“Next.”

As he walked across the stage, readying himself to perform his best party piece, Oh Sole Mio, a high pitched whistling sound stopped him in tracks, ’twas Mitzie.

“The feckin’ cornetto Grandad, give it to me.”

He was still holding his own ice cream. She ran out and took it from him.

He turned to the microphone but when he opened his mouth to sing, the occasion and the ice cream had clearly got to him,

“Just one cornetto,” he sang. “Geeve eet to mee. Deeleecious ice creeeam of Italeee.”

“Next.” CL