The following was written some time ago for a booklet that was to be put together in tribute to a dear friend who sadly died when he should have had another 40 years to live. It was too long to post on his Facebook tribute page. I don't know if the booklet was ever produced - if it was I never saw it - so I have rewritten my tribute to my good friend Padraig here. Rest in peace mate.
It's any mid-90s Sunday afternoon after a heavy Saturday in the Chap, Roxy & Battalion. The Brits are in the Sport Bar off Vaclavske Nam watching the footy. About 20 minutes before the end Padraig shuffles in, not long up, hair still wet from his shower, sheepish, hungover grin from ear to ear. Oblivious to the game, he immediately starts bollocking on. Mildly irked we tell him to shut up, we're watching the match. He continues, unperturbed; "you guys are always watching soccer. It's so boring. Why do you watch this crap? You should watch a real game..."
The footy finishes and we neck our beers and start digging our coats out from the 4ft piles of apparel, in preparation for the short, downhill march to the Chapeau, but The Simpsons starts.
"Hey, aren't you guys gonna watch this?" shouts Steve, as he notices we're leaving. "Isn't this why you came to the Sport Bar?"
Too hungover to point out the obvious, we disrobe, slump back into our chairs, get the waitress' attention and watch the The Simpsons. Steve laughs the loudest out of all the folk in the boozer, constantly turning to us saying, "you guys don't get that do you?" before going on to explain every political joke and dig in the show. We're going; "we know Padraig! We get it! We have heard of Dick Chaney in England you know!"
*
By coincidence Steve and I were reading the same book at the same time. It was Alan Bullock's Parallel Lives, a 1,000 page, side-by-side biography of Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin. My copy was in one piece on my bedside table. I discovered we were reading it simultaneously because Steve's copy was in tattered 80-100 page chunks that he tore out of the tome - photographic plates and all - and carried around in his coat pocket, discarding them when he'd read them, and ripping the next chunk out and stuffing it in his pocket whenever he got home. The way he read that book was the way he lived his life.
We had some brilliant chats about Parallel Lives and its revelations. When we first realised we were both reading it, I mentioned that I was beginning to find it hard work and he asked me where I'd got to. I told him I had reached roughly 1933. "Stick with it," he urged me, "you're about to get to the good bit!" He wasn't wrong and it became a staple subject of our conversation.
He knew a bit, old Padraig. Once, in the Chapeau, when I had woman troubles and the woman was there and I needed a distraction, I asked Steve to tell me a story. Without hesitation he launched into the tale of an American spy; he knew his whole life-story. I can't recall the exact detail now but it was a great yarn, he told it well and I was pleased to have him as a mate. The pleasure I felt then has been replaced over time with honour. I am genuinely privileged to have known him.
Padraig didn't really do electronic communication but, like everyone else who knew him, I just assumed I would see him again some time, some place, sink a few pivos and laugh till my sides ached. He phoned me out of the blue about 3 or 4 years ago and we chatted like no time had passed. And as always with Padraig, we laughed a lot.
Steven Padriag DeSha: Gentleman, raconteur, always a laugh. A true, dear and greatly missed friend.
It's any mid-90s Sunday afternoon after a heavy Saturday in the Chap, Roxy & Battalion. The Brits are in the Sport Bar off Vaclavske Nam watching the footy. About 20 minutes before the end Padraig shuffles in, not long up, hair still wet from his shower, sheepish, hungover grin from ear to ear. Oblivious to the game, he immediately starts bollocking on. Mildly irked we tell him to shut up, we're watching the match. He continues, unperturbed; "you guys are always watching soccer. It's so boring. Why do you watch this crap? You should watch a real game..."
The footy finishes and we neck our beers and start digging our coats out from the 4ft piles of apparel, in preparation for the short, downhill march to the Chapeau, but The Simpsons starts.
"Hey, aren't you guys gonna watch this?" shouts Steve, as he notices we're leaving. "Isn't this why you came to the Sport Bar?"
Too hungover to point out the obvious, we disrobe, slump back into our chairs, get the waitress' attention and watch the The Simpsons. Steve laughs the loudest out of all the folk in the boozer, constantly turning to us saying, "you guys don't get that do you?" before going on to explain every political joke and dig in the show. We're going; "we know Padraig! We get it! We have heard of Dick Chaney in England you know!"
*
By coincidence Steve and I were reading the same book at the same time. It was Alan Bullock's Parallel Lives, a 1,000 page, side-by-side biography of Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin. My copy was in one piece on my bedside table. I discovered we were reading it simultaneously because Steve's copy was in tattered 80-100 page chunks that he tore out of the tome - photographic plates and all - and carried around in his coat pocket, discarding them when he'd read them, and ripping the next chunk out and stuffing it in his pocket whenever he got home. The way he read that book was the way he lived his life.
We had some brilliant chats about Parallel Lives and its revelations. When we first realised we were both reading it, I mentioned that I was beginning to find it hard work and he asked me where I'd got to. I told him I had reached roughly 1933. "Stick with it," he urged me, "you're about to get to the good bit!" He wasn't wrong and it became a staple subject of our conversation.
He knew a bit, old Padraig. Once, in the Chapeau, when I had woman troubles and the woman was there and I needed a distraction, I asked Steve to tell me a story. Without hesitation he launched into the tale of an American spy; he knew his whole life-story. I can't recall the exact detail now but it was a great yarn, he told it well and I was pleased to have him as a mate. The pleasure I felt then has been replaced over time with honour. I am genuinely privileged to have known him.
Padraig didn't really do electronic communication but, like everyone else who knew him, I just assumed I would see him again some time, some place, sink a few pivos and laugh till my sides ached. He phoned me out of the blue about 3 or 4 years ago and we chatted like no time had passed. And as always with Padraig, we laughed a lot.
Steven Padriag DeSha: Gentleman, raconteur, always a laugh. A true, dear and greatly missed friend.
