An t-eireaball fada

The summer of 1968 left three indelible marks on my fifteen-year-old mind. After hearing of the shooting of Robert Kennedy I went out into our back yard. Using a magnifying glass to focus the sun’s rays, I burnt the date, 6/6/68, into a wooden slat on the side of the garden shed. In July I took the bus into town to see 2001: A Space Odyssey at the Plaza Cinerama. I was so awe-struck by the film I went back to see it twice within a fortnight. Then in August I heard “Hey Jude” for the first time. I was, of course, aware of the Beatles before I heard their new single on the radio. A few years earlier, on another visit to the cinema with my father, I had seen them perform “She Loves You” in a colour film of one of their concerts. Whether it was the sight of Paul and George shaking their mop-tops while they “oohed” loudly into the microphone, or hearing those closing “Yeah, yeah” harmonies, I was left giddy with excitement. By 1967 I was interested in the opposite sex and went to my firs