A view from the bridge

Frank Sinnott has died? Surely not? 

The suggestion that someone larger than life can actually have died is a hard one to figure out. But it’s true. 
Many’s the morning Frank would ring me at 7.30 AM to ask me if I’d consider taking an ad in the Co Wexford Free Press.

“Frank” I once said, “It’s very early, I’m only just up”. 

“Joooe” he drawled “I thought I’d get you before I went to bed as I knew you’d be at work”.

“Okay,” says I “What’ll it cost?”

“Not as much as it should” was the response I’d get.

And if you missed Frank and rang him back he was hard to get hold of but his hilarious message before you entered his voice mail invites you to leave your car keys for him!

And so it was.  Frank was a creature of habit. Coffee outside Cappucinos, pints in Mary’s Bar and laying a few bets at a bookies on South Main Street. He lived on Johns Gate St.  Frank was a prolific writer whose books would bring a smirk to your face and a smile as wide as the moustache on Frank’s broad face. Frank lived a hundred different lives within sight of Rowe Street church. Writer, Concert Promoter, Musician, Poet, Philosopher and Advertising Executive and man about town. Frank was an outrageously funny person. 

On one occasion he discovered that his book had sold 2 copies in one bookshop while the erotic novel “Shades of Grey” had sold just one. The next week he was proudly boasting that he’d outsold Jamie Dornan by 2 to 1 in Wexford!

Frank Sinnott was the eternal optimist. On the morning after I lost the local council election, Frank rang me at 7.30 AM.

“Joooe, I heard you lost. Don’t worry you’ll be back” says he,

“Thanks, I appreciate that” I responded.  “

What you need to do” continued Frank “is to put an ad in the next edition of the Free Press thanking your voters, they’ll remember that”.  “

How much will that cost me?” says I.

“Not as much as it should” says he!

Frank was a naturally gifted comedian, great writer but also had an incisive knowledge of local politics. Long before the local elections he told me I wouldn’t win. He was right. He could read the political tealeaves before the kettle even boiled.

His column in the Free Press was hilarious. It was called “A view from the bridge” Fr Aodhán Markem was at one time, according to Frank , the first priest to do the four minute mass.  Many’s the councillor had their slightest trait affectionately dissected. Frank gave us Philomena Begley, Whacker and of course Ted Howlin who was always impeccably turned out and dressed for every occasion. There was never harm intended. That was Frank’s skill. We all could laugh at ourselves. Humour makes us human, we are the stronger when we appreciate it. Frank was never nasty or dismissive. He would have been a fish out of water on social media.

Every town produces its own characters. These characters reflect the life, spirit and sense of humour of the town. They’re part of the culture, gossip and eventually folklore. Dublin recently honoured a character from the 60’s called Bang Bang. Part of what we are has been lost today. But mark my words. In years to come when people like me are forgotten, Frank Sinnott will be remembered with a smile.

Early this year saw Frank endure the grief of losing his brother and mother within days of one another. I bumped into him in February and asked him how he was. It was the first time since his mother’s funeral that we’d had a real chat. Frank asked me to mention his late mother in my own column in the County Wexford Reporter. I promised that I’d do it at the end of the year when I usually reflect back key events of the previous 12 months. “That’d be lovely, I’ll look forward to that” Frank replied. “But how much will this promise cost me?” says I. The twinkle in Frank’s eye shone as bright as ever.  I know I’ll keep that promise.

I’m certain that already today, Frank has told his beloved mother that he’s going off to the Bookies to put a few quid on Shergar and that when he comes back he’ll give Elvis a ring to book him to play in the County Hotel next week. Afterwards he’ll phone Slipper O’Mahoney and ask him to run an ad in the next edition of the Free Press. And poor old Colman Doyle will once again be asked about his jumper.

Heaven has just got a bit more blissfully funny in the last 24 hours and we are much poorer since Frank got a view of heaven from the bridge.

Thanks for the good times, Frank, Rest in Peace