heelers purgatorio

Evening in the heartland of South Kildare.
The town of Kilcullen basks in the dusk.
Voices merry with rumbustion rise from the local theatre and drift along the riverside.
Hark!
Rehearsals are underway for the forthcoming production of Poets In Paradise.
My classic play is being produced to raise doubloons for a charity run by O'Donoghue of the River.
Some of the charity's acolytes are due to spend the Summer building houses up the Zambezi.
Due to a series of unfortunate events, the noble Heelers himself is directing the production.
Not the least of the problems arising from this scenario, is that I am now directing an actor called Maurice O'Mahoney who was formerly my school teacher in Fourth Class.
It's very hard to give orders to your old school teacher.
And it's very easy for the school teacher to ignore any orders I do give.
"Maurice," sez me painedly when some directorial intervention becomes regrettably necessary. "When you deliver that line about buying stamps, try to savour it. Deliver it slowly, don't throw it away."
There was a pregnant pause.
Maurice pondered silently on what I'd just said.
Then he shook his head.
"No," quoth he. "I prefer to do it the way I've always done it."
Ah yes.
That old gag.
I took Maurice to one side.
"Is it impossible for Irish actors to take direction from someone who won't have tantrums with them?" I enquired.
"What do you mean?" wondered Maurice innocently.
Cecil B De Heelers took a deep breath.
"I mean it just seems to me as if Irish actors refuse to obey anyone who speaks to them reasonably and in a kindly manner. It seems as though if a director doesn't shout and rant and rave, that Irish actors just presume he's not worth listening to. It's as though Irish actors interpret civility as weakness. Is that what I'm dealing with here?"
"What are you on about?" quoth Maurice quothily.
"Have you ever taken direction from a director who didn't yell at you like a psycho?" I challenged.
Maurice weighed my question.
"Well," said he, "John Martin never indulges in that sort of behaviour. And he's perfectly able to direct without any histrionics or intimidation."
My eyes glazed over.
"John Martin is a Brigadier General in the Irish army," I stated with near cosmic exasperation. "He's the fourth best man in the country at giving orders. He's commanded a UN battle group in bandit country.There's only three people in the Republic of Ireland who are better at telling people what they want done and being absolutely sure that it will be done. You might think he's not intimidating you, but in fact that's exactly what he's doing. He doesn't shout. But you're still obeying him because you're afraid."
Maurice looked at me pityingly.
"Not at all," he expostulated. "People take direction from him out of respect for his experience and ability and track record. There's a certain credibility there."
My handsome preraphaelite features went momentarily gothic.
"Maurice old bean," I said softly, "you cannot begin to know how insulting your last statement is."