I have just finished reading Egg on My Face, a pleasant little book about Irish VIPs and their most embarrassing moments. The Taoiseach Bertie Ahern describes his boyhood raid on the orchard of All Hallows College and Gay Byrne relates stealing an apple from a shop when he was five years old, egged on by his pals.
All very interesting, but not exactly riveting reading. Pretty harmless stuff really. You would expect people who have led such action-packed lives to provide more embarrassing moments than those recalled. But of course it was all tongue-in-cheek stuff and you could see they were just being discreet.
However, after putting down the book I began to think . . . What was my most embarrassing experience? Then it all came back to me, shaking me to my roots. It was as though I had been on a psychiatrist's couch, going back through the distant mists of time, looking for cringe events.
Walter Mitty
Even though it happened 40 years ago, the scar is still there. I was a "cub" reporter on a small newspaper in a little Irish provincial town. Of course, I knew some day I was going to make it to the big time in Dublin, work on a bigselling daily, maybe become editor. There was no end to my Walter Mitty imagination. When you are 20-years-old you are immortal and life is not a problem, it's a huge opportunity. All you need is some "can do" attitude and everything else falls into place, or so they say. Think big and be big. Think small and stay small.
Then my great break came. A newsagency, specialising in court reporting, was being set up in Dublin and it was looking for young, enthusiastic, hard-working reporters. Yep, that was my job description, all right. They could have added "poor, down-throdden and disillusioned and thinking of emigrating" and they would still have been on the right track. I shot off my application.
Shortly afterwards I was told I had the job. Would I be ready to start in three weeks? Would I what? No problem.
I rushed out into the streets of my little town and told anyone who wanted to hear, and even those who didn't, that I was "moving on" to the big smoke. Don't get me wrong, though. I didn't do this with any sense of triumphalism, but more with a sense of pride and anticipation. Somebody up in the city thought I was good enough to rub shoulders with the greats - the people with byines and picture byines, people who had opinions and were household names.
Friends shook my hand, clapped me on the back, invited me out for pints. Quite a celebrity was our little Frank. The man of the moment. It was a real case of Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Because of my big mouth the news soon spread to the upper echelons. The monthly meeting of the urban district council passed a resolution of good wishes to the young local reporter who had made good. I was, they said, a man of integrity who had diligently, accurately and comprehensively reported their meetings for the previous two years. This had been done in a fair and impartial manner, etc. The chamber of commerce echoed the compliments. I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Smaller groups and organisations rowed in with their tuppence worth to bid me bon voyage.
Whole country
And best of all . . . I reported the glowing tributes and put them into the paper that week. Now the whole county knew I was a great reporter. Wasn't it there in writing before their very eyes.
Alas, two weeks later came the sad verse (as they say in ballad circles). The wheels fell off. My dream hit a brick wall. A letter arrived from my new employers informing me the job was no longer there, as they had "run into some difficulties." My body literally froze as I held the letter in my hand. I was in a severe state of shock. I have never felt so low, so drained. I know it is a cliche, but I just wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. It was the end of my world. What would I tell my boss? Would he give me my job back? How could I go back out on to those streets and face the people who had so generously cheered me on? How could I ever again face the captains of industry in the chamber of commerce or the politicians on the Urban District Council? What about all my friends in the pub? God, won't they get a laugh out of this?
Humble Pie
My despair was complete when I heard that my paper was quite advanced in appointing a person to fill my vacancy. I crawled back to my employers and begged and pleaded with them to re-instate me. I choked on humble pie, I made promises I knew I couldn't keep, I told them I would produce a scoop every day . . . Basically, I grovelled on all fours. The job was only paying £6 a week, but in 1960 you were lucky to be employed. Without it I was a goner . . . gone on the boat.
Yes, my bosses made me sweat. They would have to speak to the young man who had been so brilliant in the interviews. They could not guarantee anything. I had to wait for about a week, which felt like a year, before they said they would take me back.
I was delighted and deeply relieved. Being a fair minded man, I felt sorry for that young person who nearly had secured a job - mine - but who had to look elsewhere because I had messed him up. I don't know who he was but I hope he got on successfully later in life.
And that, folks, was my most embarrassing moment. Even the writing of this horrible experience has left a few beads of sweat on my forehead. You could say I was shot, but the bullet didn't hit any vital organs.