Mixed feelings about this memoir as I couldn't shake the feeling that it seemed familiar. I enjoyed the family interaction but the Da kept reminding me of Mr. Rabbitt in Roddy Doyle's “Barrytown Trilogy”. I am not saying Da Sheridan was not authentic - possibly Dublin Das are similar in many ways- but it wasn’t until the final chapters of the book that he became more than a pastiche . The other strange thing was the complete lack of discussion of Peter's secondary school experiences, as it is not mentioned even in passing. Those highly formative years with the growth experiences are absent. The band episodes again –especially the parish hall- immediately brough to mind Doyle's “The Commitments”.
I was shocked in one particular episode when the trip by bike to the local bookies entailed a series of bets of nearly three pounds. Really...? In contrast he mentions that the lodgers were necessary and required for the educational fund for the kids. Three pounds in early 1960s wasn't an insignificant amount of money. With the average wage at that time about nine pounds a week, with C.I.E. not the top of the range in salary a bet of three pounds could easily represent half of a weekly wage packet. That Peter Sheridan would make no comment other than as comic relief of this scale of gambling, even in retrospect, is strange. He obviously admired his Da but criticizes him throughout for his many flaws but not for this? Lodgers (including a molester) stacked like firewood in the bedrooms to pay family school fees and his Da gambling hard earned money like a fool? Very strange!
Too harsh? I come to this perspective as I am the same age as Peter Sheridan, I was born and raised in the North Strand, a quarter of a mile from 44, Seville Place, I was baptised at St. Laurence O’Toole Church. My Da a C.I.E. employee like Peter's Da liked a flutter on the horses, but it was just a shilling each way or maybe 2/6 if it was the Grand National or Derby....that's why three pound in a single bet is a stretch in credibility, well at least worthy of a comment by the author. I enjoyed his stories and the familiar Dublin geography. But as a friend once said we as Dubliners are born with a gift of dissernment in that we can smell “bullshite” from a fair distance. In this case I enjoyed the read but with a fairly constant whiff of something!!