Evening Echo, Saturday, July 12, 2008  - Mattie Kiely -  Article written by Jimmy Crowley&nbsp

I MET Brian from the High B at my Monday gig at the Whiskey Bar (formerly the Phoenix), Union Quay.
“That place of yours is an institution,” says I; “don’t ever change it; too many Cork icons have bit the dust and vernacular pubs and eating houses might be uncool in Tigerland, but we’ll be kicking our arses in the future for throwing so much heritage out the window. If as much as a new picture is hung on the walls of either the Long Valley or the Hi Bi,” I continued, “I’m imposing eternal exile on myself in protest.”
Brian, of course, was in complete agreement and assured me that the wheels were turning and already people were becoming more conscious of identity.
But will that kind of talk bring Mattie Kiely’s chipper back?
About a month ago I had the good fortune of hearing Mick Lynch sing a couple of ineffable ballads at Seánie Driscoll’s wonderful Sunday Afternoon session at Charley’s, Union Quay. The singing was straight from the heart; out of his own imagination, to quote John Spillane. The warm ears of love for the musical pulse of the Beautiful City and the cold clinical ears of the ethnographer drew me to Mick like a drawing pin to a magnet.
“I must have that song for the column,” says I. “Indeed ’n you may,” he assured me generously, “and I’ll give you a few more as well.”
Mick Lynch is hoping to be in the studio soon to record an album and his stage show is called Don for Chickens. His influences range from ballad to punk, reggae and country and this rich pot pourri would make a dog strike his father, to quote piper Willie Clancy. There is no nicer theme for a song than the demise of Mattie Kiely’s gorgeous fish and chip shop in Maylor Street. which until quite recently fed us all, and fed us decently and economically. You’d never know whom you might meet at the rail and how I loved that photograph of the sleeping pussycat with the Good Book, no less, for his pillow.

On a cold December evening
it’s Cork, it’s mid-December,
I was waiting for the girlfriend
and I hoped that she’d remember,
conversations from the night before
the both of us were p*ssed,
we said we’d meet at 5 o’clock
or was that 5 a 6?
I thought I’d got a fifty
when the clock read half past 5
when my mobile rung
it was your one,
she was rough but still alive;
I’ve only just got up, she said,
my eyebrows must get lined,
i’ll meet you there at half past 8,
no make that 8 a 9.
As I stood there in the shelter
at the front of Roches Stores,
perused the permutations
and beneath my breath I swore,
I hadn’t had my breakfast;
I hadn’t had my tea,
I was feeling numb I was feeling glum
when a thought occurred to me.
Just go around the corner
to a place where you’ll get fed,
lay out some dosh
for some handsome nosh
by my stomach I got led,
he’s maybe not as tall as me
but he looks a lot like mylie:
ooooh! Mattie Kiely.
I reached my destination,
took my hat off stepped inside,
the temperature was toasted,
the aroma deeply fried,
the atmosphere had a whiff of beer,
the light a battered hue,
I took my place
in the space proscribed
and turned to see the view.
A section of humanity
predominantly older
in a line at ease their mushy peas
their chips their Coca Cola;
for those who chose the cutlery
a plastic fork at most,
their tablecloth a single page
of last week’s racing post.

So come on down to Maylor Street
to a place where you’ll get fed,
lay out some dosh
for some princely nosh
by your stomach
you’ll get led,
he shuts up shop at 9 o’clock
he lives the life of Reilly:
oh! oh! oh! Mattie Keiley.
An order quickly taken;
our hero moves with speed,
it’s passed along with assured aplomb
so the process can proceed.
another thirty seconds and
your table’s deftly laid
and with no delay I can safely say,
your bill is tilled and paid.
Along the polished counter top
your elbow slowly slides
as the tension mounts
you do all but count
the amount of broken tiles,
a wave of paranoia makes
you think you’ve been ignored,
a later ordered burger
disappearing out the door.
And up the length of Maylor Street
from a place where you’ll get fed,
lay out some dosh
for some princely nosh
by your stomach you’ll get led,
in unemployed society
he’s spoken of quite highly:
oh! oh! oh! Mattie Keily.
You raise your hand in protest
as our hero re-appears;
but you bite your tongue
cos the fare he’s brung
is the best you’ve seen in years:
a box of floury fried potatoes
drenched in mushy peas,
on top there floats in a crispy coat
fresh fish from Irish seas.
To finish off this masterpiece;
a healthy dose of salt
shook in and drenched with vinegar
the clear stuff or the malt?
your lips are licked;
your chip is picked,
you spear it with your fork,
it’s raised aloft and a bite bit off
of the finest chip in Cork.
But no more down on Maylor Street
is a place where you’ll get fed,
can’t spend your dosh
on some princely nosh
by your stomach
won’t be led;
he shut the shop in February
quietly and shyly:
oh! oh! oh! Mattie Keily.

Article reproduced here with thanks to John Dolan, Features Editor, Cork Evening Echo