Sunday Independent 21 January 2007

Tributes from Fr Tom Stack and Ruth Dudley Edwards

I remember, some years ago, after the funeral of the historian the late Máire de Paor, I noticed a woman in the church approaching Seán Mac Réamoinn, who had read a lesson during the memorial mass. His reading had been the renowned passage from St Paul, in which he lyrically counsels and affirms the primacy of love in the life of all Christians.

Guessing that the lady who had spoken to him might have been somewhat fulsome in her praise, I remarked to Seán that she had surely been complimenting him on his rendition of St Paul's famous Letter to the Corinthians.

"Yes," he replied smilingly. She had indeed expressed her admiration for his performance, and then he added with a coy twinkle: "And do you know she then said to me: 'Dr Mac Réamoinn, I take it that you also composed those lines as well.'"

He was clearly pleased with his new fan's outlandish, though well-meaning gaffe.

Seán Mac Réamoinn was, in his own way, nothing short of an institution during his long and varied life span. He represented a galaxy of varied gifts to different people. In so many ways he was a figure larger than life.

He was equally at home in the company of Irish-language enthusiasts, visiting scholars of every description, young traditional musicians and theologians.

A litany of his anecdotes and bons mots have passed into the folkore of his huge circle of acquaintances drawn from the worlds of scholarship, broadcasting, entertainment and ordinary citizenry.

The shining thread that ran through his engagement with whatever audience happened to be at hand was humour; both exuberant and wry. Invariably, people of all stripes left his company smiling, and often eager to pass on to posterity the roguishly profound puns or deliciously irreverent yarns which Seán had fashioned for their delight. This would be true whether the venue had been the Tower Bar in Henry Street (near Radio Eireann) or Madigan's of Donnybrook (near RTE), St Peter's Square in Rome or in an obscure country churchyard.

In addition to all that, as a broadcaster his gravelly gravitas was a familiar experience for generations of Irish radio listeners, whether Seán was covering on air a solemn state occasion or tentatively dissecting the finer points of some abstruse philosophical radio discussion, with the likes of the late communications guru Marshall McLuhan or the theologian Hans Kung.

For the aficionado of the Cumann Merriman Summer School in particular, Seán Mac Réamoinn will be fondly remembered from many Co Clare resorts, for his traditional annual introductory lecture entitled Scoil Merriman: Its Cause and Cure.Born in 1921 in Birmingham, of an insurance executive father from Boolavogue, Co Wexford, Seán Mac Réamoinn was educated at the Galway Jesuit school Coláiste Iognáid, and later at UCG, where he studied French and Irish, graduating with a master's degree in the latter.

He wrote scripts for Taibhdhearc theatre productions, including its annual Irish-language pantomimes, which were reputed to have been unfailingly witty and ingenious, as he transposed the stories of Irish saga literature into latter-day political satire and his own special brand of knowing fun.

Notably in the Sixties, he reported on the Second Vatican Council from Rome, conveying his well-researched conviction that the potential of this singular event could bring to birth a fresh and exciting vision for the life of the church in the world, as it finally buried the former culture of that institution, within which, as he memorably quipped (perhaps a little in caricature), "everything was forbidden, except what was compulsory".

May Seán Mac Réamoinn's gifted soul rest in peace, as he departs our company ar shlí na firinne.

Fr Tom Stack

I didn't share Irish, or God, or politics with Seán Mac Réamoinn: I just adored the fun, the wonderful talk, the breadth of his interests and his joie de vivre - not to speak of his cuddliness.

He insisted on buying me champagne for breakfast the day I was to receive my D Litt, told me a priceless story about an embarrassing youthful experience of the president of UCD and tried to persuade me to whisper the punchline to the pres as he gave me the parchment (I wimped out).

Seán's use of language was a joy. He was the true begetter of the response to "How are you" that has been claimed by others: "I'm like the census: broken down by age, sex and religion."

Listening with distress to a cross friend railing against a difficult colleague, he responded with his customary compassion: "She may be a cow, Aideen, but she's not all cow."

I treasure the memory of an episode with a mutual gay friend, whom I will call Louis. When Louis saw a message in Irish in a library toilet, he rang Seán for a translation, and so began Louis's wall-correspondence with a Finnish Irish-speaking gay, which involved daily calls to Seán for translations back and forth.

Despite his rising embarrassment at the increasingly intimate nature of the messages, and his own bewilderment that any man could sexually prefer men to women, it was not in Seán's nature to disoblige a friend, so with much grumbling and laughter, he meticulously transformed the aspirant lover Louis's prose into mellifluous Irish poetry.

It was in the same spirit that this devout but relaxed Catholic ("His Holiness's loyal opposition") fought for ecumenism. "You lily-livered Protestants," he once bellowed during a meeting, "will you never stand up for your rights?"

Seán knew hundreds of often filthy but always hilarious limericks, many of which contained his mix of earthiness and lightly-worn erudition. The limerick he concocted with a group of Irish theologians about Jayne Mansfield's attempt to smuggle her chihuahuas in her bra was a classic testament to Seán's ability to subvert any gathering.

He also enjoyed challenging people to finish 'listowels' (the first two lines of a limerick - Listowel being smaller than Limerick): "I once knew a bastard like you/ He was caused by a hold-up at Crewe," was a favourite.

The last time he stayed with me in London, when he went to the bank he knocked his leg and, because of a side-effect of his steroids, he bled copiously. When he finally hobbled back to my house, he immediately composed a (clean) thank-you limerick for the young cashier who had mopped him up and generally mothered him.

Today, though, I especially remember him sitting with a group of my dazzled English friends when someone asked if he were afraid of death.

"Why should I be?" asked Seán simply. "Won't I be with my beloved Jesus?" And his tone was so simple and sincere that even the atheists were moved.

Ruth Dudley Edwards