I’m not drunk – it’s the movement of the train is making me burp

Never heard of this famous club? More and more are joining.

“What happened him at all? Not coming home ‘til the Monday after the All Ireland.”
“He got on the wrong train. Fell asleep. The ticket checker woke him up but by that time the train had just left Lisburn so he had no option but to go on to Belfast”
“He’ll totally deny that drink had anything to do with it.”

The good news for anyone who has had such a misadventure is that they are eligible for membership of the exclusive Railway Roisterers Club. It is open to anyone who has an entertaining story to tell about their personal experience of going to hurling matches by train.

This club was founded many years ago by a group of hurling followers who wanted to share their stories of mishap and adventure. The first meeting was held in Julia Lambe’s pub at Ballybrophy Junction.

Elected Honorary Secretary was a man famous for his own exploits; on one occasion, much the worse for wear, he had scrambled into the heating carriage of a train, unseen by the guard, and curled up asleep in a quiet corner; he was woken up next morning by cleaning ladies, wielding buckets and mops; the empty, silent carriages were in the sidings behind the station at Cork.
One of his roles was to record in a scrapbook the various incidents and anecdotes that were told. The railway station at Thurles features in many of them simply because Semple Stadium has been the predominant centre for big championship matches over the years.

One page records a bedraggled group of Clare followers staggering up to the station in Thurles after another Munster final disappointment in 1978. They were singing a rousing chorus of “Spancel Hill” as they emerged onto the platform. A weary and somewhat irritated porter held up one hand to silence them. “It’s ‘The Last Train to San Fernando’ you should be singing – the last train for Ennis is gone an hour ago.”

They had to disperse to little B & B’s for the night. One man appeared next morning with a red, sour face; he had had a sleepless night, having to suffer being assailed by a squadron of very active fleas.

The scrapbook contains a story from several decades ago when a crowd of roistering Tipperary supporters, celebrating an All Ireland win, tumbled into Heuston Station. They rushed on board a southbound train. Only when the train was thundering through the countryside did they discover, to their consternation, that it was a non-stop express to Cork.

They had a solution. When the flying train began to approach the woods of Brittas, just outside Thurles station, they crowded round a door and one of them pulled the emergency communication cord. As soon as the train slowed down they jumped off, one after the other. The last man was nearly caught by the train guard who grabbed him by the tail of his raincoat. But this intrepid fellow wiggled his way out of the coat and went racing across the field to the sanctuary of the woods, where his pals had gathered, panting.
“Jumping off a still-moving train down onto the limestone chippings can sober you up fairly fast,” recollected one participant.

An incident is recalled in Thurles station on the evening of a Munster Final in the 1980’s. There was a horde of followers, still excited by the game, milling about the platform. Then a Dublin-bound train approached. Almost before it had stopped it was rushed by many in the mob. The red-faced ticket checker, cap on back on his head, beads of perspiration on his forehead, was nearly trampled into the floor of the carriage. He got very annoyed. He accosted one lanky, middle-aged fellow and demanded to see his ticket in a loud accusatory voice. The man bristled at this; he refused to produce his ticket. The checker threatened to put him off the train. The man still refused. The train began to move but the checker waved out the window to the driver and it came to a halt after a few yards.

The Station Master was called. He came hurrying forward, settling his braided uniform cap on his head authoritatively. The two adversaries told their stories; the lanky fellow declared he would not be treated as a rail cheat while the checker insisted on his right to ask people for their tickets. By this time there were many interested onlookers both in the carriage and on the platform.

A diplomatic solution was found. The lanky man showed his ticket to the Station Master, who examined it and then formally confirmed to the checker that it was in order. As the train was waved off there was a final loud exchange between the two opponents, heard by all in the carriage.

Lanky Man: “I won’t allow you to take my character away.”
Checker:“ No, no. It’s tickets I’m after.”

The membership of the Railway Roisterers Club had been falling over the years. Now, however, it is increasing significantly because of our overcrowded roads, with more match-goers considering the benefits of letting Iarnród Éireann do the driving.

One of the newest members is a man with a suspiciously red nose and a thirsty look about his eyes. “It’s the driving is my main concern. All that traffic is a whore altogether. It would make your mouth dry even to think about it,” he said, licking his lips.