Pav’s Patch; Essex boy blown away by Ulster

“HOLD Me Close” by David Essex always reminds me of my first few weeks at university in 1975.

Don’t ask me to explain, but while my friends headed off to Reading and Southampton, I went to what was then called the New University of Ulster — it’s dropped the “new” in the ensuing 33 years — and, as you might expect, it caused a lot of comment.

I was assured that I would be blown up within hours of landing at Belfast docks, yet I never met a more peaceful and friendly place. North Antrim was wonderful.

My digs were in Portrush with Mrs McDonald, and it cost me £8 a week for bed, breakfast and evening meal.

Portrush was a great town and we caught the train each day to the university.

One morning, it had just left the station when a couple of students appeared, and they actually stopped and reversed back to the platform to pick them up.

Anyway, as I stood in Mrs Mac’s dining room, still a bit queasy from the ferry crossing, she gave me the rules: no women, no cigarettes and no alcohol. “I don’t drink very much,” I said meekly. “My husband Willie and I don’t drink at all,” she replied sternly.

Willie then appeared and drew my attention to half a tree trunk above the fireplace which bore a quotation from the Bible.

“You see that?” he said in a broad Scots accent. “That strikes fear into some people.”

Earlier that day, I had had a quick course in the relevance of religion when I met a Glaswegian called Bill.

“Who do you support?” I asked in the time-honoured male way of breaking the ice. “Celtic,” he whispered. “But dinnae tell anyone.”

“What’s wrong with Celtic?” I boomed back at him. “Sssshh. Do you not know they’re a Catholic club?” I had no idea. I stress again, everyone was extremely friendly, but one event does stick in my mind.

Even though I am tone deaf, I was ordered to join the Russian choir.

One evening, at a practice session, a porter entered the room and told Prof Murphy: “Sorry to bother you, but we’ve had word there’s a bomb in the building.

“What time is it due to be detonated?” “8 o’clock, sir.”

The professor looked at his watch. “Okay, it’s half-past seven. We’ve got another 20 minutes.”

And I sat and sweated as Brian Murphy went through a Russian wartime song called “Darogi” (“The Road”) before we finally shuffled out at 7.50 sharp.

Suffice to say there was no bomb.