I remember when, after mass, we would go into the shop and buy the newspapers and ice cream and wafers. The shop would then shut for the day, like all other shops. It was Sunday after all. Sunday clothes. Sunday roast. Maybe a football match or a visit to the Granny’s. Jelly and ice cream! That was the Sunday of my childhood.

I kind of miss those old days, the old curmudgeon that I am. It was one day, just one day, where we took a breather and did without shops and work. Now the only religious devotion practiced by many on a Sunday is to saunter around the local mega shopping centre.

So I am torn on this plan to allow pubs to open on Good Friday. And I’m not coming at this from a religious angle at all. To have a day when we don’t conform to the routine doesn’t have to be tied to religious obedience. Yet at the rate we are going, the Dundrum centre and the likes will be open on Christmas Day.

I understand that people need to make a living, but it is quite relentless. Like Christmas Day, there was always something nice and quaint about Good Friday – not least due to the fact the local boozer was shut.

But that will all change from next year, and Good Friday will be pretty indistinguishable from any other.

Happy now, are we?

No more than it’s the wish of vegans for us all to give up meat, it is foolish for anti-drink campaigners to believe that prohibition will eventually win out in Ireland. It’s not going to happen, so get over it. We will drink, some moderately, some sensibly, some to excess, and others to the detriment of their health and the wellbeing of their families.

So here is the part of me that concedes to pub openings on Good Friday. If you want to try and control the so-called “drink culture”, then it’s best to show people into pubs and pay the premium for the privilege, rather than in the uncontrolled environment of their homes.

But last Thursday, I witnessed scores of shoppers squeezing slabs of drink into their cars like it was going out of fashion. If that means opening Good Friday to save these people from themselves, then so be it.

Sad either way.

Hollywood myths and holy humour

I dropped by Silverstream Priory in Stamullen during Holy Week to meet the monks there. Most of them are in their 20s or 30s from Australia, the USA, Denmark and Ireland. Lovely guys, devoted to a life of prayer. But not to a life of silence. “No, that is a Hollywood myth,” laughed the head Prior Fr Mark Kirby to my question. They don’t go around the place shouting and roaring but at the same time, while they obey a peaceful and contemplative way of life, no, they are not tied to any vow of silence.

Nevertheless, I was reminded of the story of the young Irishman who travelled abroad to join a monastery. On entering, the head monk told him that he could only speak two words every year.

So at the end of the first year, the head monk asked him what he would like to say. “Food terrible,” replied the young Irish monk. The same day the following year, he was invited to say his two words. “Bedroom damp.” The third year he muttered: “Water cold.”

At the end of his fourth year, the head monk invited him to say his two words. “I’m leaving,” said the young monk.

To which the head monk replied: “Well, thank God for that. You’ve done nothing but complain since you came in here!”