A tribute to Terry Brennan: ‘There will always only be one Scobe!’

This midsummer’s day we buried a legend. Many knew Terry Brennan through football, golf, politics, his work with the ESB or through his family. Anyone who knew him could not but say that he shot from the hip, whether they liked his viewpoint or not.

It was through the ESB that I had my first dealings with Terry, in seeking a network connection in the early 80s. I often mused at the acronym, as for me it came to mean Extra Special Brennan as he almost took ownership of the network, not to mention the public lighting! Subsequently, we became colleagues and great friends through politics and on many occasions he would point out various public lights across the county and tell me that he was responsible for their supply.

I joined Louth County Council in June 1991, and at one of my early meetings I called for better directional signage in an area of Reaghstown called Crowmartin. While I was in full flow, Terry interjected in a jovial fashion to let the chairman know that not only would I not know where Crowmartin was, I wouldn’t even be able to spell it! Needless to say I fell into his trap, and much to Terry’s delight the rookie councillor misspelled it.

That incident cemented a strong friendship of almost 30 years. Regular visits by Peter Savage, Terry and myself to Donegan’s in Monasterboice gave way to our title ‘The Three Amigos’.Conversations on these evenings out always started catching us up about his beloved family, Aileen, Bobby, David, Tania and grandchildren. Civil war politics never had a place at the table, instead lengthy discussions about finding solutions to the problems of our country was the menu of the day.

Indeed Peter would regularly remind us that we would be immortalised, in that he had two oxen named after us in Malawi to continue ploughing our furrows.

Many close to Terry knew for some time of his illness, as he persevered to prolong his zest for life.

The well-wishing cards sent to him in his illness, spoke of the esteem in which he was held, both from his beloved Fine Gael colleagues and many other opposition party members.

His pride in the Fáinne and the Irish language as well as his dapper dress sense (which I suspect might have been Aileen’s!) was the envy of the council chamber.

His sense of fun, that glint in the eye, his often devil-may-care approach to life endeared him to all who met him.

I am privileged to have been able to visit him in the last few weeks, and while we all knew that the end was nigh, on the last occasion he whispered to me: ‘Remember this Dec, that while I’m f***ed, there will always only be one Scobe!’

Slán go fóill, mi amigo!