true greatness and its apposites

Coffee in the Tearman cafe with cousin Hector the church organist.
His power struggle over the organ in Kilcullen church with Mrs Von Horst the organ mistress is on hiatus.
It must be.
He's still alive.
Today he is reminiscing about his musical training in Newbridge College.
He had been taught by the now deceased Henry Flanagan, a priest with a formidable reputation as a sculptor and choir master.
Not a fan myself you understand.
Father F's sculptings always look a bit too chunky for me.
And his expulsion of me from the Newbridge College choir try outs of 1978 was precipitous in the extreme.
I'd barely warbled two notes when he said: "Thank you little boy, that will be all."
But there's them that thinks he's great.
"You know he taught Christy Moore as well," recalls Hector. "I remember Father Flanagan saying about Christy that he was the most promising musician he'd ever encountered but somewhere he took a wrong turn and all was lost."
I digest this reminiscence.
I find it most quaint.
Christy Moore gentle readers is Ireland's most famous living folk singer and song writer.
Father F's comment reminds me of the old gag footballer George Best used to tell about himself.
George would recall sitting on a bed in one of London's top hotels with a hundred thousand dollars scattered around the room which he'd just won at a casino.
A rather comely Miss World, one Mary Stavin, was also sitting on the bed.
The hotel room service porter was leaving champagne on the table.
The porter looked around the room sadly, taking in the scattered bank notes and Mary Stavin with equal diffidence.
"Where did it all go wrong George?" he wondered.