"Ballybore 213," ventured Nancy, picking up the phone, as you do.

"Ah, is it yourself what’s in it, Nancy girl," came the voice at the other end, "great to hear your dulcy tones, and I wish you and yours the very best over the Christmas, and I look forward to many more gripping adventures involving your own good self and his own good self in 2009."

I could see she wasn’t overly enthused. "Dulcet, Tony, it’s dulcet," she replied, coolly, "hold on for himself."

And, then, with her hand over the phone: "It’s the boss man in Cork, Noel, soft talking again" she shouted, "and remind him the treasurer hasn’t got the cheque for the last three months."*

Anyway, it transpires he wanted me to list Six Things I Do Every Christmas Day. "People look up to you, Noel," he said, "there are a lot of Gaels out there who would love to know how you use the Day."

Accordingly…

This is something I inaugurated in Ballybore back in the early 1950s. We have upwards of 300 people there after first Mass on Christmas morning.

The ceremony of Nancy and I jumping, hand in hand, off the pier, while shouting "For God, For Country, and, most of all, For Ballybore" is one of the great rituals of the year around here. The children love it. Once we lead, the others follow. It’s as big as the Haj around here. Not always a spectator sport, mind you.

Another great tradition in Ballybore is my session with the local Camogie team. This one dates back to the 1950s, when I was manager of the team. Ever since I stood down as manager, after winning 19 county titles in 22 seasons, the girls get me back every year for a tough midday session on the pitch.

"Give it to us rough today, Noel," the captain always says, "we’ll win nothing if we don’t tough it out in the muck and the rain and the lazy wind that’d sooner go through you rather than around you."

Afterwards, I give them a pep-talk for 90 minutes. Then they shower and leave there tempered for the challenges ahead. "If the county final were played on Christmas Day…" is Nancy’s wistful remark every year, "…those girls would eat iron, let alone turkey."

Every September, another famous Ballybore tradition is enacted when the captain opens her county final acceptance speech with: "we toughed it out in the muck and the rain and the lazy wind that’d go through you rather than around you – and that’s all down to Noel, who gave it to us rough above in the pitch Christmas Day morning, and everyone else sleeping off hangovers. Three cheers for Noel, wiry man, great man, and Nancy too."

This was something I initiated in the early 1950s when Ballybore exiles would be home from all over. They had me haunted right through the Christmas, coming to the door asking me to come out "ten quick minutes to get a few quick photographs."

Two hours later, it would still be "Just one more shot, Noel, at the pump" and "Noel, that’s mighty, now one final picture under the ditch where you’ve togged so many times." Eventually, on Nancy’s suggestion, I stumbled on the idea of designating 3-4pm on Christmas Day as Parish Photo Hour.

Everyone gets all the photos of everyone else they could ever want. Of course, I rarely get away by 4pm myself, but at least there’s some sort of structure on it.

We celebrate Mass for deceased members at 5.15pm every Christmas Day. We have been doing this now since early in the 1950s. It was my own idea, as it happens.

It is always well attended. I pen a tribute to all who died, and make special mention of those whose 50th anniversaries occurred during the year just over.

There have been some grumbles from younger members about recent deaths not getting a fair shake in terms of exposure. But, as I often say, death is like life itself: you can’t demand respect, you must command it.

Something that has achieved iconic status in Ballybore is the Scor Practice every Christmas Day evening, from 6.30-9pm.

"Sure everyone’s around Christmas Day, we’d get through a huge amount of work," were Nancy’s exact words when I first instituted this practice session, at her prompting, "otherwise they’d be at home swelled from the food."

It is quite a sight to behold: virtually the whole parish in there together, famished with the cold, and the sweat running down them as they set dance, solo sing, ballad group and two-mark question their way around the hall for hours on end. We finish with The Knee We’ll Never Bend and someone, invariably me, will say ‘go mbeirimid beo ag an am seo aris’ and we all go home, glad to have had a few things to fill what I often find to be a slow, dragging kind of a day.

* When I finally relented to do this column, my only stipulation was that my fee be paid directly to Ballybore GAA Club. I am currently in discussions with The Panel about hosting the show – God knows it needs a lift – but they have some problem about diverting the fee to the club. That’s a deal-breaker.

Noel doesn’t demand, he commands. But if he has to, he’ll demand too, as good as the next man. Email him at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; or man-mark him on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)

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