In the early 1970s, the Pearl Bar on Dublin's Fleet Street was a regular port of call for me at weekends. It was there I met many journalists, including a few from The Irish Times.

In the Pearl, there were some I got to know very well, such as Donal Foley, always amusing and affable, Dick Walsh, prickly and caustic, Jim Downey, pleasant and cheerful, all now ar shlí na fírinne. Others were Mary Maher, exotic and informative; Mairín de Burca, lively and serious; Mairín Johnston, witty and colourful, and they helped to give the Pearl that special ambience.

One of the less frequent visitors was John Mc Carthy, an American who lived in Donegal, and who contributed a financial column, Madison Avenue, to The Irish Times. He was tall, about 2m high, and well-built. He was an easy-going man with a hearty laugh.

One Saturday afternoon, I found I had run out of underwear: my wife and the children had gone back to her native village in Germany for the summer. It was usual at such times that my mother would call in on “Momdays” to check that all was well with me and to do my laundry.

So off I went to Menswear on Westmoreland Street to buy the underpants. I never knew my sizes in clothes so when asked my size, I inquired if I could be measured. The young man serving me got a tape, did so and then brought me the underpants needed, two pairs as requested.

At home, I threw the used ones into the washing machine and donned a new pair. To my surprise, and indeed horror, the new ones came up to my oxters: far too large. But it was too late to have them exchanged so later I went into town wearing them.

In the Pearl, I couldn’t help eyeing John McCarthy as a man whose size would fit those underpants.

Eventually I asked him if he would care to buy some underpants. “I am always open to a bargain,” says he. “So what have you got?”

So to show him the size, I unbuttoned my shirt at the top, where he could see how large they were. He looked at me for a few seconds before exploding into loud laughter.

“Well, I have travelled the world and have been to India and Egypt and many other places, where people tried to sell me anything from a postcard to a washing machine, but never, ever did anyone try to sell me the underpants he was wearing,” says he.

I suppose there’s a first time for everything.

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