One Sunday morning, away back in the mists of time when it seemed most of the pa’s in Dublin were from Serbia. I was in my living room minding my own business. I was probably thinking about going to my local in a couple of hours’ time when I got a phone call from the knock, a nick name some of his Baldoyle friends had for Martin. Roasting a pig on a spit in the open air is a Serbian tradition mainly around Christmas time or New Years. There was much talk of doing it in Ireland in honour of our Serbian pas. Martin bit the bullet and decided to have it in his pocket-sized garden. The pig was bought, but the neighbours in Baldoyle immediately objected to the smoke. So the phone call was made to me. As everyone knows when the Knock knocked doors opened, and so it was I became the accidental host to a barbeque with a difference. I had a lot of firewood in my shed , most of which was commandeered for the fire. James Brosnan was the Leader I knew living close enough to me, so I gave James a call and he came along.
The cooking of the pig took longer than I thought and so it was a ritual in itself. I remember Natasha Spremo picking flowers from my garden and putting them in her hair. It wasn’t meant to be a hippy convention.
It would have been around 2.30 when I saw my neighbour Ollie Hand pass my gate on his way home from the pub. Within a few minutes the bould Ollie was back around with a small crate of about ten bottles of Heineken which he left on the grass for us. People couldn’t believe it. Everyone wanted him to stay, but I knew his tank was full and Alice probably had his dinner on the table.
Potatoes where wrapped in tin foil and thrown on the fire to roast. When the meat was cooked it tasted good but somewhat greasy.
It ended perhaps around 6.30, and like most things that happen unexpectedly it was most enjoyable. The respectable people went home and after about an hour I went to the pub.