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Frederic Mullally

Frederic Mullally


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Frederic Mullally was born in London on 25th February 1918. Mullally moved to India where he became a journalist. After working for The Statesman he returned to England and in 1944 was employed as political editor of The Tribune and as a sub-editor of The Reynolds News. In 1946 he became a columnist for The Sunday Pictorial.

Mullally married Suzanne Warner, an American who had been representing Howard Hughes in Britain. In 1950 they established the public relations firm of Mullally & Warner. Based in Mayfair its clients included Audrey Hepburn, Frank Sinatra, Douglas Fairbanks, Paul Getty, Frankie Laine, Vera Lynn, Yvonne De Carlo, Guy Mitchell, Sonja Henie, Line Renaud, Johnnie Ray and Jo Stafford.

Mullally became friendly with Stephen Ward. He introduced him to Joy Lewis, the wife of John Lewis. It was claimed that Mullally had once said that his greatest ambition was to sleep with all the beautiful women in London. Mullally eventually began an affair with Joy Lewis. Mullally later commented: "She (Joy) and Lewis had lots of fights, rows and walkouts. And on one occasion she went out in great distress, and didn't know what to do, and called Stephen Ward. And he put her up for the night at his place. It was a totally friendly gesture on his part." However, when Lewis heard about what happened, he became convinced that Ward was also having an affair with his wife.

Lewis also became angry with Ward over another relationship his wife had. Ward's friend, Warwick Charlton, has argued: "He (Lewis) went potty when he found Stephen had fixed her up with a Swedish beauty queen, a lesbian, with whom she had an affair. This he thought, was an assault on his manhood... He had a heart attack over it." Charlton was with Lewis when he heard the news of the affair. Lewis told Charlton "I will get Ward whatever happens". Lewis took out a revolver and said "I'll shoot myself, but not before I get Ward." Charlton claimed that "from then on, the most important thing in John's life was his burning hatred for Ward, which went on year after year."

The journalist, Logan Gourlay, remembers that in 1953 Lewis attempted to get his newspaper, The Daily Express, to publish an article discrediting Stephen Ward. Mullally explained: "Lewis got hold of an Express reporter, a young untrained boy, and gave him what purported to be an exclusive story that Stephen Ward and I were running a call-girl business in Mayfair." The editor, Arthur Christiansen, who was friendly with both Ward and Mullally, and refused to publish the story. Lewis now began to telephone the Marylebone Police Station anonymously, saying that Dr Ward was procuring girls for his wealthy patients. The police treated the calls as coming from a crank and ignored them.

In 1954 Lewis decided to divorce his wife. Lewis told Warwick Charlton that he was going to use the case to ruin Stephen Ward: "He's a bastard. Not only did he introduce Joy to Freddy Mullally but to some Swedish beauty queen as well. I'm going to cite seven men and one woman in my divorce case." The judge in the case noted it had "been fought with a consistent and virulent bitterness which could rarely have been excelled". The judge also questioned some of the evidence he heard. It was later claimed that "Lewis asked several witnesses to perjure themselves, and bribed some to do so."

Philip Knightley, the author of An Affair of State (1987), pointed out: "Mullally was part of Lewis's obsession too, perhaps with some justification - the divorce court judge found that he had had an affair with joy Lewis - and Lewis moved quickly to avenge himself. Lewis could be ruthless - he once ordered a racehorse he owned to be put down after it finished last in an important race - and his tactics to punish Ward and Mullally barred no holds. He began to gather evidence for his divorce case and let it be known that he planned to name both Ward and Mullally as co-respondents in the action. As a warm-up to the main bout, Lewis brought libel and slander actions against Mullally, claiming that Mullally had accused him in public of having paid £200 to a one-time employee of Mullally's to give false information in the divorce action. Lewis won. The court awarded him £700 damages and ordered Mullally to pay the costs, estimated at £1,000."

Mullally worked for The Picture Post between 1955 and 1956. His first novel, Dance Macabre (1958), was highly successful. This was followed by Man with Tin Trumpet (1961), The Assassins (1964), No Other Hunger (1966), The Prizewinner (1967), The Munich Involvement (1968), Clancy (1971), The Malta Conspiracy (1972), Venus Afflicted (1973), Hitler Has Won (1975), The Deadly Payoff (1976) and The Daughters (1988).

Mullally was part of Lewis's obsession too, perhaps with some justification - the divorce court judge found that he had had an affair with joy Lewis - and Lewis moved quickly to avenge himself. He began to gather evidence for his divorce case and let it be known that he planned to name both Ward and Mullally as co-respondents in the action.

As a warm-up to the main bout, Lewis brought libel and slander actions against Mullally, claiming that Mullally had accused him in public of having paid £200 to a one-time employee of Mullally's to give false information in the divorce action. The court awarded him £700 damages and ordered Mullally to pay the costs, estimated at £1,000. Lewis won again in the divorce action, despite some curious sidelights to the case. (In one of these, another former employee of Mullally's gave a statement against him, then later retracted this evidence under oath and flew off to Canada. Lewis followed him there and persuaded him to revert to his original evidence. In another, a witness who gave evidence for Lewis had cosmetic surgery on her nose after the trial, the surgeon's bill being paid by Lewis.) Lewis was given custody of his daughter and Mullally was ordered to pay his own costs and one third of those of both John Lewis and his wife. These were estimated at £7,000 (£70,000 at today's values) and the total payout crushed Mullally financially.


Frederic Mullally

Mass Market Paperback. Condition: Good. Please see any and all photos connected with this listing. A bit scuffed but all pages intact and legible. Good reading copy. Clean. No store stamps. --- --- They came from opposite sides of the Iron Curtain and the dark shadows of international espionage threatened their love. . .


This extraordinary novel is about Adolf Hitler—victorious! The time is March 1941, the place, the Fuehrer’s court. All Europe has been conquered—German troops have driven the defeated Russians beyond the Urals, Rommel’s armies are sweeping the British from Egypt, annihilating the Jews of Palestine, advancing victoriously on the Caucasus and on India. Triumphant, dazzled by the glory of his own victory, Hitler has called upon a maimed young Wehrmacht lieutenant to help him in a final historic task: the completion of volume two of Mein Kampf, the legacy of his victory to the 1000-Year Reich—Mein Sieg!

Through the young lieutenant’s astonished eyes we examine the incredible life of the inner circle of Nazi power—the devious machinations of Dr. Goebbels, the sinister, shadowy presence of Himmler and Bormann, the opulent debauchery of Goering—and share his startling discovery that the Fuehrer’s obsessions have led him to a final act of madness, a death struggle with the Catholic Church. This struggle gradually draws the lieutenant into a plot as fantastic and terrifying as any since that of The Manchurian Candidate, involving his beautiful young sister, a brutal SS officer, a Prince of the Church, and the Pope himself, and ending in the destruction of the Nazi state.

Brilliantly authentic in its descriptions of Nazi life and personalities, Hitler Has Won is, at the same time, a chilling, breathless and riveting work of fiction, a Hitchcock-style thriller set in the armies, palaces and camps of a triumphant Germany and centered on the fate of Adolf Hitler himself!

Frederic Mullally was born in London of Irish parents. As a young journalist he worked his way to India on tramp ships where, at the age of nineteen, he became editor-in-chief of the Sunday Standard in Bombay. Subsequently he covered World War II as a reporter and did political writing until 1957, when he wrote his first novel, Danse Macabre, which became an immediate best seller in the United Kingdom. Since then he has written nine novels, one of which has been dramatized on the BBC.

Mr. Mullally is married to the British actress Rosemary Nicol and lives half the year on the island of Malta.

(Jacket design by Robert Anthony)

A list of real and fictitious characters appears at the back of the book.

Copyright © 1975 by Frederic Mullally

including the right of reproduction

in whole or in part in any form

Published by Simon and Schuster

Rockefeller Center, 630 Fifth Avenue

Designed by Irving Perkins

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

1. Hitler, Adolf, 1889-1945-Fiction.I. Title.

PZ4.M958Hi3 [PR6063.U38] 823'.9'14 75-11846

But for a few elementary mistakes, he might have succeeded in conquering the world.—ROBERT PAYNE, The Life and Death of Adolf Hitler

If I could have added to my material power the spiritual power of the Papacy, I should have been the supreme ruler of the world.—NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

Mark my words, Bormann, I’m going to become very religious.—ADOLF HITLER, January 12, 1942

HE WAS standing at one of the tall gray-curtained windows, gazing out over the Chancellery gardens, as Kurt entered the room, keeping a respectful pace behind Martin Bormann. A man of about five feet nine, impressively erect for his fifty-three years, but with the thickened waist of a sedentary worker and a stealthy assertion of silver about the ears and above the closely trimmed neckline of his flat, dark-brown hair. The field-gray jacket and black trousers spoke of quality and a valet’s devotion, and as the man at the window turned briskly around, Kurt caught a glimpse of the Iron Cross, First Class, glinting low on the military pocket over the left breast before his eyes were pinned by the Fuehrer’s own swift and challenging stare.

“Heil Hitler!” He had diligently prepared his salute for this moment, so that the snap to rigid attention, the click of heels, the outflung arm would come as one smoothly integrated movement. And he had remembered the instructions of the head of the Party Chancellery, now advancing to the Fuehrer’s side. (“You will give him the German salute, not the military one. Don’t bawl it out like some overeager Kreisleiter. Just so long as it’s crisp and clearly audible. You will say nothing else until you are addressed.”)

“Lieutenant Armbrecht, my Fuehrer,” Bormann announced, half turning toward Kurt, who remained stiffly rooted to the carpet a few paces inside the salon. “His was the dossier the Doctor sent over this morning. If you would like to be reminded—” He broke off at a wave of the hand from Adolf Hitler.

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve read it. It’s all here.” The Fuehrer’s hand flicked on up, lightly brushing his right temple. “We shall have a. little chat. Lieutenant Armbrecht and myself.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes off Kurt since acknowledging his salute, and it was true what they said about the magnetism of that steady gaze. You were not being looked at or penetrated so much as being drawn by some invisible force burning behind the sallow, homely face of the most loved and most hated man in all the world. The spell was momentarily broken as Hitler muttered a few words of dismissal to Martin Bormann, only to be renewed as soon as Kurt, in quick response to the Fuehrer’s gesture, lowered himself into one of the hard-sprung leather armchairs and was once more held by that deep hypnotic stare.

“Two years ago you sacrificed an arm for your country. . . .” The voice was harsh but expressive, recalling for Kurt, subliminally, the accents of the athletic coach at his high school. It was a voice he had heard, through one medium or another, hundreds of times in the past ten years, but almost always impassioned and always amplified by loudspeakers or newsreel sound tracks. Here, in one of the smallest salons of the Chancellery’s ground floor, across the few yards of hand-woven carpet separating Kurt from Hitler, the famous voice, in this lower and unstrained register, was giving off cadences quite unfamiliar to Kurt. “Compelling” would be one word to describe it. And instantly one grasped the phenomena of Neville Chamberlain’s rushing back to England with his idiotic “Peace in our time,” of the aged President von Hindenburg’s blessing on the man who would bend and if necessary break the old Germany of inept parliamentarianism to his will.

“. . . would you now be willing to give up two, maybe three years of your private life to an enterprise that will bring no glory, no medals, no recognition apart from my own personal gratitude?”

“No German could dream of a richer reward, my Fuehrer.” The quiet statement came out of him unmeditated, like a received truth, flawless and inviolate.

Acknowledging it with the slightest dip of his head, the Fuehrer continued. “There will of course be some material compensations. The person I choose is to receive the pay and allowances of a captain in the Home Army throughout his employment and will be quartered and messed
here in the Chancellery, or at the Berghof, or wherever my movements take me. But there is another consideration, and I should be disappointed if a young man of your intelligence hadn’t already taken it into account.” He had started to measure, with precise, catlike steps, an area of carpet in front of the gray-curtained windows, but now he paused to favor Kurt with an almost roguish smile. “My literary secretary need not be too envious of the enormous royalties that will accrue to his Fuehrer from the sales of this sequel to Mein Kampf. He will be my automatic choice—assuming his work has pleased me—as official biographer of Adolf Hitler, whose death will therefore make him a millionaire. Have you not thought of that?”

He stopped abruptly, expecting a reply. Waiting for it. In the brief silence, Kurt’s mind swiftly framed and instinctively rejected two distinct but equally insincere answers, saying instead, “I hadn’t thought of it, my Fuehrer and I’d rather not think about it now.”

“You’re a young man,” Hitler muttered, “and I shan’t live forever. Allow me to give you some facts about Mein Kampf.” He had resumed his pacing. “From 1925 to 1933, I lived on the royalties from that book and never had to draw a pfennig from Party funds. Since 1933, when I became Chancellor, the book has never failed to sell a million copies annually. But it has become almost a source of embarrassment to me, Armbrecht, and I shall tell you why. The book was dictated by me to that lunatic Hess in far too much of a hurry. I am an artist, you understand, and an orator, but I make no claims to being a graceful writer. Later, when the first draft was completed, I permitted that renegade Hieronymite priest, Bernhard Stempfle, to edit the typescript, and I will not deny that he put a polish on some of the rougher passages resulting from the speed of my dictation. But seventeen years have elapsed since Mein Kampf burst like a comet across the political firmament, and although it remains the philosophical cornerstone, so to speak, of my world outlook, there is a great deal in the testament that events and the passage of time have now made invalid. Alas, I have no doubt—” Hitler stopped his pacing to direct another wry smile at Kurt—“that there is a great deal that could, and perhaps should have been put more felicitously.”

Kurt started to protest, but was gestured back to silence.

“Don’t spoil the good impression you’ve already made on me, Armbrecht. Mein Kampf, along with Plato’s Republic, the Bible, and Marx’s Das Kapital, is one of the four unique books that have most influenced mankind. But, like the other three, it is a flawed work. So much so that my first intention, after I had watched our bulldozers level the ruins of the Kremlin to the ground at the beginning of this year, was to take a month off from the supreme command of the Wehrmacht, lock myself up in the Berghof at Obersalzberg, and devote myself to a completely revised edition of the two volumes. It was Reichsminister Goebbels who dissuaded me from this course. ‘The document you gave the world in 1925,’ he told me, ‘now belongs to history. Future generations will study it for the light it throws on the mind of Adolf Hitler as he stood on the threshold of power, challenging the enemies of Germany to do battle.’ But Mein Kampf, the Doctor went on to argue, must be read as the introduction to a work that will constitute my true epitaph. This work will explain, for the benefit of future historians, how a man of the people, a self-educated former corporal in the German army, managed in eight short years to raise a demoralized and bankrupt nation to be the masters of a Germanic empire stretching from Brest on the Atlantic to the Volga, from the North Cape to the Mediterranean.

“And it will prescribe, in definitive detail, the conditions that will guarantee the survival of Adolf Hitler’s New Order for the next thousand years. It will be the story of an incredible victory —a victory over the past, over the present, over the future. And there can be only one title—the Doctor and I agreed—for this work.” Hitler swung around on one heel of his brilliantly polished black shoes to face Kurt. His body became suddenly rigid, and the sagging facial muscles had contracted to reproduce in the flesh that stern and ubiquitous portrait of Der Fuehrer that had by now superseded the image of Christ for the millions of Kurt’s generation. There was a glint of teeth below the neatly squared-off mustache as the next two words ripped out like splinters of steel.

In the same instant Kurt was up out of his chair and fighting for balance as his right arm shot forward to the cry, “Sieg Heil!” Without the balance of a left arm, the involuntary force of the reflex would have sent him sprawling had Hitler not stepped forward and crooked a stiff forearm for Kurt to seize. For a long moment they remained linked in silence, the twenty-seven-year-old disabled lieutenant and the ruler of all Europe and Russia-in-Europe. Kurt, who had dared to put his hand to the Fuehrer’s person, now dared not withdraw it without a sign.

The arm within the fine worsted yarn of Hitler’s gray sleeve untensed itself, freeing Kurt’s frozen hand.

“You are a good soldier, Armbrecht. I shall ask my personal surgeon, Dr. Karl Brandt, to have a look at your arm. Our German doctors are performing miracles with prosthesis these days. Sit down.”

Kurt had been sitting bolt upright for more than a quarter of an hour, breathing shallowly and willing his brain to memorize every word of Hitler’s monologue, delivered for the most part with didactic calm but erupting occasionally into scornful or triumphant declamation.

He had assumed that his first interview by the Fuehrer would have been brief. A few questions, maybe, about his already well-documented background, just to get him talking. A word or two about what would be expected of him in the almost inconceivable event that he be chosen for the post of Literary Assistant. But he had been asked no questions so far and, apart from the opening references to Mein Kampf and its projected sequel, there had been no pronouncement about the working method envisaged by the Fuehrer. Instead, Kurt Armbrecht was being honored with an inside account of Adolf Hitler’s masterly strategy, diplomatic and military, over the past tremendous year, the strategy that had won him his greatest victory. It was as if the Fuehrer had already made his decision, without waiting to interview the last candidates on Reichsminister Goebbels’s short list, and that he and Kurt were now launched on their first session together as narrator and scribe. Perhaps a miracle would occur and the time would come when he would be privileged to listen and take notes at the same time. For the moment, it was enough to listen, to memorize. . . .

“Consider the situation that faced me by the middle of January, 1941. I had already set a firm date for the spring invasion of Russia—May 15. The last thing I wanted was to stir up the neutral Balkan States. But Mussolini, without consulting me, had invaded Albania and Greece three months earlier and been given a bloody nose for his pains. On top of that, his North African army had been flung back from Egypt by the British and was now being chased back to Libya. I tell you, Armbrecht, with only four months to go before the launching of the greatest offensive in the history of warfare, I had no appetite for a Balkan campaign plus an operation in Libya. Yet something had to be done to contain the British during the six months it would take me to destroy the Red armies west of Moscow.

“I had the power to crush Greece and to halt and destroy Wavell’s army in North Africa. But of what use is the exercise of power unless as an integral part of a grand design?”

Hitler paused once again, staring out over the manicured Chancellery gardens, and Kurt seized the opportunity, without taking his eyes off the Fuehrer’s back, to ease himself into a slightly more comfortable position.

“There was deep snow blanketing Obersalzberg that day in January, when I summoned my military chiefs to a council of war at the Berghof,” the Fuehrer went on, his back still turned to the room. “I had slept on my decisions overnight, and when I took the air on the terrace that morning and looked out over those eternal Alpine peaks, I knew beyond all doubt that these decisions were inspired and therefore irrevocable.

“My instructions were as follows: Three divisions of the Reichswehr would be sent to Albania to stiffen the Itali
an forces along the Greek frontier, and to secure the main mountain passes between Albania and Yugoslavia. Ten divisions would be moved from Rumania into Bulgaria, where they would take up battle positions along the Yugoslav and Greek frontiers. Three panzer divisions under the command of General Rommel—as he was then—would be dispatched to Tripoli to hurl the British back into Egypt. There would be no invasion of Greece or Yugoslavia. Meantime squadrons of Reichsmarschall Goering’s Luftwaffe, operating from Libyan airfields, together with Admiral Raeder’s U-boats, would bottle up the British navy in Alexandria. Do you follow my brilliant strategy, Armbrecht?” He had turned from the window and his chin was up, his eyes flashing.

“Impeccable!” Hitler clapped his hands together and chuckled as he renewed his carpet pacing. “Defensive positions everywhere. No excuse for Turkey to become alarmed. No excuse for Stalin, with his bandit eyes on the Bosporus and the Dardanelles, to send that robot of his, Molotov, scurrying to Berlin with hypocritical protests. But, most important of all, my armies on the eastern front could go ahead with their massive buildup for Operation Barbarossa. That date, May 15, 1941, was absolutely vital, Armbrecht, and would brook no postponement. It gave me a bare six months to encircle and destroy four hundred Bolshevik divisions and to reach Moscow before the winter clamped down. I say without hesitation, looking back over that shattering but glorious campaign, that if I had permitted a Balkan adventure to delay the invasion of Russia by as much as two weeks, we should still be grappling with the Russians west of Moscow.

“Instead, what is the situation today, thirteen months after the launching of Barbarossa? Marshal Timoshenko’s armies utterly destroyed. Advance columns of the Waffen-SS two hundred miles east of Moscow and threatening Gorki. Stalin cowering in Kubyshev. Four million Russian prisoners of war put to work building an impregnable system of defenses from Archangel to the Caspian Sea. Rail communications to Vladivostok cut off.


References

-- Module:Hatnote -- -- -- -- This module produces hatnote links and links to related articles. It -- -- implements the and meta-templates and includes -- -- helper functions for other Lua hatnote modules. --

local libraryUtil = require('libraryUtil') local checkType = libraryUtil.checkType local mArguments -- lazily initialise Module:Arguments local yesno -- lazily initialise Module:Yesno

local function getArgs(frame) -- Fetches the arguments from the parent frame. Whitespace is trimmed and -- blanks are removed. mArguments = require('Module:Arguments') return mArguments.getArgs(frame, ) end

local function removeInitialColon(s) -- Removes the initial colon from a string, if present. return s:match('^:?(.*)') end

function p.findNamespaceId(link, removeColon) -- Finds the namespace id (namespace number) of a link or a pagename. This -- function will not work if the link is enclosed in double brackets. Colons -- are trimmed from the start of the link by default. To skip colon -- trimming, set the removeColon parameter to true. checkType('findNamespaceId', 1, link, 'string') checkType('findNamespaceId', 2, removeColon, 'boolean', true) if removeColon

= false then link = removeInitialColon(link) end local namespace = link:match('^(.-):') if namespace then local nsTable = mw.site.namespaces[namespace] if nsTable then return nsTable.id end end return 0 end

function p.formatPages(. ) -- Formats a list of pages using formatLink and returns it as an array. Nil -- values are not allowed. local pages = <. >local ret = <> for i, page in ipairs(pages) do ret[i] = p._formatLink(page) end return ret end

function p.formatPageTables(. ) -- Takes a list of page/display tables and returns it as a list of -- formatted links. Nil values are not allowed. local pages = <. >local links = <> for i, t in ipairs(pages) do checkType('formatPageTables', i, t, 'table') local link = t[1] local display = t[2] links[i] = p._formatLink(link, display) end return links end

function p.makeWikitextError(msg, helpLink, addTrackingCategory) -- Formats an error message to be returned to wikitext. If -- addTrackingCategory is not false after being returned from -- Module:Yesno, and if we are not on a talk page, a tracking category -- is added. checkType('makeWikitextError', 1, msg, 'string') checkType('makeWikitextError', 2, helpLink, 'string', true) yesno = require('Module:Yesno') local title = mw.title.getCurrentTitle() -- Make the help link text. local helpText if helpLink then helpText = ' (help)' else helpText = end -- Make the category text. local category if not title.isTalkPage and yesno(addTrackingCategory)

= false then category = 'Hatnote templates with errors' category = string.format( '%s:%s', mw.site.namespaces[14].name, category ) else category = end return string.format( '%s', msg, helpText, category ) end

-- Format link -- -- Makes a wikilink from the given link and display values. Links are escaped -- with colons if necessary, and links to sections are detected and displayed -- with " § " as a separator rather than the standard MediaWiki "#". Used in -- the template.

function p.formatLink(frame) local args = getArgs(frame) local link = args[1] local display = args[2] if not link then return p.makeWikitextError( 'no link specified', 'Template:Format hatnote link#Errors', args.category ) end return p._formatLink(link, display) end

function p._formatLink(link, display) -- Find whether we need to use the colon trick or not. We need to use the -- colon trick for categories and files, as otherwise category links -- categorise the page and file links display the file. checkType('_formatLink', 1, link, 'string') checkType('_formatLink', 2, display, 'string', true) link = removeInitialColon(link) local namespace = p.findNamespaceId(link, false) local colon if namespace == 6 or namespace == 14 then colon = ':' else colon = end -- Find whether a faux display value has been added with the | magic -- word. if not display then local prePipe, postPipe = link:match('^(.-)|(.*)

Mullally family genealogy

Arms: Ar. three eagles displ. gu. two and one, each holding in the beak a sprig of laurel ppr. betw. as many crescents, one and two az. Crest: An eagle, as in the Arms.

O'DUGAN in his Topographical Poems says:

"The Kings of Maonmagh of chiefs,

To whom the rich plain is hereditary,&mdash

Two who have strengthened that side,&mdash

Their fight is heavy in the battles

They possess the land as far as Hy-Fiachrach."

Of the O'Mullallys, Doctor John O'Donovan writes: "This family was afterwards removed from Maonmagh to the parish of Tuam (in the county Galway), where they resided in the Castle of Tollendal, four miles to the north of the town of Tuam." . . . The Lallys and O'Naghtens were chiefs in turn of Maonmagh (Moenmoy), according to the power of each but about the period of the English Invasion of Ireland they were driven out of Moenmoy, and obliged to settle at Tulach-na-dala (Tollendal), i.e. "hill of the meeting," in the territory of Conmaicne Duna Moir, where they became tenants to the Lord Bermingham. It appears from an Inquisition taken at Athenry, on the 16th of September, 1617, that Isaac Laly, then the head of this family, who was seated at Tullaghnadaly (or Tulach-na-dala, as it is above written) William Laly, of Ballynabanaby and Daniel Laly, of Lisbally, were all tributary to the Lord Bermingham.

Moenmoy is the rich plain lying round Loughrea, and comprising Moyode, Finnure, and other places mentioned in old Irish documents. It was bounded on the east by the (O'Madden) territory of Siol Anmchada (now the barony of Longford), on the south by the celebrated mountain of Sliabh Echtghe (now known as "Slieve Aughtee"), and on the west by the diocese of Kilmacduagh its northern boundary is uncertain but we know that it extended so far to the north as to comprise the townland of Moyode.

After the defeat of the Irish, at the Battle of Aughrim, the head of the O'Mullally family removed to France, and was the ancestor of the celebrated statesman and orator Count Lally Tolendal, who was created Marquis by Napoleon I. "The French and Tuam branches of this family," says O'Donovan, "are now extinct, but there are many of the name still in the original territory of Moenmoy, who retain the original form of the name, except that in writing it in English they reject the prefix O', whicn has become a general practice among the Irish peasantry."

From an ancient pedigree drawn up about 1709 for the French branch of this family, from old Irish MSS., much curious information is given by O'Donovan (in his "Tribes and Customs of Hy-Many," p. 178). The document is entitled "Extracts from the Genealogy of the most ancient and illustrious House of O'Maollala, afterwards Mullally, or O'Lally, of the Kingdom of Ireland, collected from the old Irish MSS. Books of Pedigrees, as well as from the Records preserved in the Exchequer, Auditor-General and Rolls Offices in the said Kingdom. By WILLIAM HAWKINS, ESQ., Ulster King of Arms, and principal Herald of all Ireland, under the Seal of his office, &c."

From that document we can give ten generations of the "O'Mullally" family commencing with&mdash

1. Melaghlin O'Maollala.

2. John: son of Melaghlin was sirnamed Giallaoch, or the "warlike hostage," because in the siege of Boulogne, in 1544, he distinguished himself very much with his galloglasses, etc. He m. Shely (or Judith), daughter to Hugh O'Madden, chief of his name, and lord of the territory of Siol Anmchada, county Galway, by whom he had Dermod. His brothers were William O'Lally, Archbishop of Tuam, who d. 1595 and John O'Mullally, who, dissatisfied with the submission of his father to the crown of England, and with the supremacy of Henry VIII., went to Rome with his red eagles painted in black on his escutcheon, offered his services with many companions to the Pope, and warred for Octava Farnesse.

3. Dermod: son of John chief of his Sept d. 1596.

4. Isaac OMullally, of Tolendal: his son d. 1621.

5. James O'Mullally, of Tolendal: son of Isaac forfeited in 1652 part of his estate, consequent on the Cromwellian Confiscations he d. 1676. His brothers Donal and William Lally espoused the cause of King Charles II. were outlawed and all their estates forfeited. William m. and had Edmund Lally, who m. Elizabeth Brabazon.

6. Thomas O'Mullally, chief of Tully Mullally or Tolendal: son of James m. a sister of Lord Dillon (the seventh Viscount), father of Arthur Count Dillon, Lieutenant-General in the French Service.

7. Colonel James Lally: their eldest son was "sovereign" of the Corporation of Tuam, for King James II., in 1687 a member of James's last Parliament in 1689 was outlawed the same year, fled to France, entered the French army, a Colonel in that Service, Commandant of the Lally's battalion in Dillon's regiment in 1690, and killed in 1691 during the blockade of Mount Mellan (or Melian). Colonel James Lally had four brothers:&mdash1. Sir Gerard,[2] who became highly distinguished in the French Service, and d. a Brigadier-General and designed Marechal de Camp in 1737 he m. Madlle. de Bressac, by whom he had Thomas-Arthur, of whom presently. 2. William, who was a Captain in Dillon's regiment, and killed in 1697. 3. Michael, who m. a Miss O'Carroll, by whom he had a son Michael, who was a Brigadier-General, and who d. at Rouen in 1773.

8. Thomas-Arthur, General, Count Lally of Tolendal: son of Sir Gerard Lally was Colonel of an Irish regiment in the French Service, of his name beheaded in 1766.

9. Trophime Gerard Compte et Marquis de Lally Tolendal, Peer of France, Minister of State, etc. son of Thomas Arthur m. Charlotte Wedderburne Halkett (having a common grandfather with Alexander Wedderburne, Lord Loughborough, who was Lord Chancellor of England,) by whom he had an only child (a daughter), who m. the Count D'Aux, to whom in 1817 the peerage of his father-in-law was to descend, as the genealogical notice appended to the Pedigree by Hawkins states.

"Authenticated by signature, dated 29th October, 1817.

"Peer of France and Minister of State."

The last survivor of the senior branch of the male line in Ireland of this very ancient family, who was named Thomas Lally, died without issue, in September, 1838. The calamitous history of some members of the family in France is very singular.


Frederic Mullally’s Amanda


By Frederic Mullally, John Richardson & “Ken” (Ken Pierce Books)
ISBN: 978-0-91227-703-5

When I reviewed the comic strip collection Danielle recently, I declaimed at long length about having to become an apologist for some of the themes and content of what used to be called “cheesecake” or “girly” strips: a genre stuffy old-fashioned Britain used to excel at and happily venerate.

After all, aren’t we proud that we’re that sort of culture? Saucy postcards, Carry-On films, ingenuously innocent smut and a passion for double entendre which have for decades obscured and obfuscated genuine concerns such as entrenched gender pay-gaps, unwarranted interest in and control of female reproductive rights and sexual behaviour, double standards for men and women’s work and recreational behaviours, and that incomprehensible Mystery of Mysteries: just why men are utterly certain that anything they fancy automatically fancies them back and is therefore fair game for creepy jollity and unwanted attentions excused as “just having bit of fun” or “paying a compliment”…

Yes, it’s one of those days…

Meanwhile, back at this book and in a time long gone but not forgotten – as John Dakin points out in his introduction to this particular short-lived strip-siren – The Sun (original home of the lady in question) was the country’s best-selling newspaper and was proudly, provocatively populist. That translated into low laughs and acres of undraped female flesh everywhere except the sports section – and even there when possible… because the readers where mostly blokes and lads in search of that aforementioned easily digested little bit of fun…

By 1976 the battle for female equality had mostly moved from headlines and leader columns to the business pages: the frenzied height of the much-maligned “Sexual Revolution” with women demanding equal rights, fair pay and honest treatment had passed (so isn’t it marvellous that they’ve got all those things sorted now?). Contraception-on-demand and burning bras were gone – except for the provision of comedy fodder – and most men had generally returned to their old habits, breathing a heavy sigh of relief…

Written by journalist, columnist, novelist, political writer and editor (of left-wing magazine Tribune) Frederic Mullally, Amanda launched on January 26 th 1976, and initially seemed a low-key, low-brow reworking of his prestigious Penthouse satire O Wicked Wanda!

However, there were marked differences for anybody looking below the satin-skinned surface…

Amanda Muller is the beautiful (naturally), sequestered heir to the world’s largest fortune, and once her old fossil of a father finally kicks the bucket she decides to become a teen rebel and have all the fun she’d missed growing up in an old castle with only prim staff and her cousins Wiley and Hunk for company. With thief turned companion Kiki, she determines to splurge and spree and have anything she wants…

The strip ran for a year and the first illustrator was John Richardson, a highly gifted artist with a light touch blending Brian Lewis with Frank Bellamy: a veteran visual storyteller who worked practically everywhere in Britain from 2000AD to DC Thomson to Marvel UK, as well as for specialist magazines such as Custom Car, Super Bike and Citizen’s Band.

The introductory story here sees Amanda – shedding her clothes at every opportunity – attempt to buy a noble title, only to fall foul of a Mafia plot to seize control of Italy’s Nudist Beaches, before moving on to a “career” as a pop-star – which once more draws her into a world of unscrupulous sharks and swindlers…

Whilst looking for a new maid, Amanda and Kiki then become embroiled in a continental burglary ring, before the author’s political and ethical underpinnings break loose as brainy cousin Wiley is invited to display his new electronic Chess brain behind the Iron Curtain. Naturally physical Adonis Cousin Hunk wants to come along – it’s just before the next Olympic Games after all – and the girls tag along just for kicks.

Since you just can’t trust a Commie they’re all soon in lots of trouble, but naturally the frolicsome foursome escape with relative ease. The next adventure, and all the remaining strips, are illustrated by somebody who signs him (or her) self “Ken”, and who, I’m ashamed to say, I know absolutely nothing about. Competent, but a tad stiff and hesitant, and lacking the humorous touch of Richardson, I’d lay money on the enigma being an Italian or Hispanic artist – but I’ve been wrong before and I will be again…

Safely home again, Amanda resolves to create a feminist magazine entitled New Woman, and despatches Kiki to interview the world’s greatest Chauvinist Pig – fashion designer “Bruno” – only to once more fall foul of crooks although this time it’s kidnappers and embezzlers.

Still in editorialising mode, the young proud kids then head to super-sexist banana republic Costa Larga, just in time for the next revolution infiltrating the “Miss Sex Object” beauty contest with the intent of sabotaging it, before concluding their globe-trotting by heading for a tropical holiday just as the local government is overthrown by a tin-pot dictator…

All my cavils, caveats and frustrated kvetchings aside Amanda was series that started out with few pretensions and great promise, but, the early loss of Richardson and – I suspect – Mullally’s intellectual interests soon overwhelmed what charms it held. Nevertheless, this collection is a good representative of an important period and a key genre in British cartooning history: one we should really be re-examining in much greater detail.

Some of the gags are still funny (especially in our modern world where celebrity equates with exactly where drunken, stoned rich people threw up last) and if you are going to ogle and objectify naked women at least well-drawn ones can’t be harmed or humiliated in the process.

Also, I don’t think a drawing has ever contributed to anybody’s low self-esteem or body-dysmorphia issues Dear God, at least, I hope not…
© 1984 Express Newspapers Ltd. All Rights Reserved.


First series

A sample page from a typical Oh, Wicked Wanda! strip

On their first adventure, Wanda and Candyfloss decided to buy Madame Tussaud's “waxworks” as a way to acquire figures of famous men and women with whom to equip the “museum of living apes” that she planned to establish at the mansion that she has inherited from her father, Walter, the late King Gnome of Zurich. However, they were disappointed at the exhibits, which were not sufficiently carnal for Wanda’s tastes as she told Candyfloss, “Tussaud’s was a real drag.” Instead of “wax dummies,” Wanda preferred deep-frozen “authentic, living flesh” for her “living tableaux of top personalities.” Before leaving on their quest, Wanda inspected her PIF. She meted out punishment by flogging the backside of one of her troops, who afterward walked away with a smile on her face as a fellow soldier observed, “This is your second time around!”

On their second adventure, Wanda and Candyfloss undertook a quest to acquire “tableaux vivants” for Wanda’s Museum of Misfits. Arriving at a villa in St. Trollop on the French Rivera, they visit the “pornophobe” adult film critic, Lord Cyril Bluestocking and Brigitte Bidet (Brigitte Bardot), their intended first acquisitions. After Candyfloss knocks Bluestocking unconscious, Wanda and she transport him and Brigitte to Wanda's museum, where Homer Sapiens mounts the couple (literally) as the museum’s first exhibit.

In the third installment of the first adventure, Wanda and Candyfloss decided to add some politicians to their Museum of Misfits, and they went after California Governor Ronald Reagan.

Other episodes of the first series

Other chapters in their first adventure followed this same plot, with Wanda and Candyfloss obtaining such additional famous men and women for their Museum of Misfits as chess champion Bernie Fishfinger (Bobby Fisher), Martin Bormann, Willy Grabham (Billy Graham) and Jane Fondle (Jane Fonda).


Frederic Mullally and Sexy Socialism

So there I was on the perennial search for obscurity. In the world of old Television shows there is one that remains elusive. It is “Looking For Clancy” a five part series for the BBC starring Robert Powell. Apparently it is available here but I am somewhat nervous of the whole thing as this site has been around for a while and the material would surely have leaked elsewhere by now and of course it hasn’t.

The series was based on a book called Clancy written by Frederic Mullally

Mullally turns out be quite a character! Of Irish descent he rose from a working class London upbringing to be a newspaper editor in India at 19. He was a journalist up until the 1950s when he formed his Public Relations business. In 1949 he abandoned a prospective candidature of the Labour Party for the constituency of Finchley and Friern Barnet. He began writing novels in 1958 with his first hit, Danse Macabre and wrote many more along with some freelance journalism in his retirement.

Check out Mullally’s wedding reception picture from his days in public relations when he had names like Sinatra and Hepburn on his books. There are three major players in postwar British Socialism present. Bevan’s wife Jenny Lee was the Scottish leftwing pioneer who introduced the Open University to British education. Herbert Morrison, then Deputy PM and standing to the left of Mullally was grandfather to Peter Mandelson that dark practitioner of the Blair and Brown years of New Labour.

Reading into Mullally’s biography one can see elements that would be portrayed in the Clancy book and TV series.

“CLANCY, Frederic Mullally’s major novel to date is about a man and his city and the events that shaped this man’s life from childhood to middle-age. The city is London, which is to say that the city is as complex and evolving a ‘character’ in the story as the central character himself for this is London, chronicled with love, from the ‘shingle’ of the twenties to the thigh- boots of the sixties, from the crystal set to ‘The Box’, from the General Strike to the Student Revolt.

The story of CLANCY is the saga of an Irish policeman’s son who makes an odyssey upwards through the English g class—structure and onwards through his own achievements, only to discover, with John Donne, that a man must ‘Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy jail’. He has drunk at every spring, plundered every orchard along the way. He has sinned and been sinned against, brushed shoulders with greatness and wallowed in the fens of an irrepressible sensuality. Finally, when the peaks he had aspired to are at eye-level all around him, a girl younger than his own daughter leads him to the chasm’s brink. What Clancy sees when he looks down is not the death—pit beckoning a social maverick but the broken corpse of the alter ego he has betrayed on the way up.

CLANCY is about politics, the Old Left and the New. lt is about journalism and the working-class and the bourgeoisie and young love and old lust and lrishism and family feuds and the catalyst and catastrophe of Vietnam. It is also about hope. lt is many stories in one. ‘To attempt a synopsis of it,’ the author warns, ‘is to try to squeeze a half—century into a quarter-column obituary. And Clancy lives!.”

His anti-fascism would reveal itself in “The Battle of Ridley Road” article he published where he was challenged to attend these rallies himself. He was attacked and rescued by the Jewish 43 Group. This would lead him to write the book “Fascism Inside England”.

He also seemed to have the ear and also the measure of George Orwell and his socialism. Here he is quoted about his friend in a Washington Post article on the centenary of Orwell’s birth. “A Seer’s Blind Spots”

“Novelist Frederic Mullally, now 85, met Orwell a few years later at the Tribune, the left-wing Labour Party weekly that Mullally co-edited. Orwell served as literary editor and wrote a short weekly column, “As I Please,” on politics, popular culture and anything else that struck his fancy, all for the princely sum of 10 pounds a week — less than a junior reporter made on a mediocre British daily in those days.

“George was a very complex person,” Mullally recalls. “He was ramrod-straight, never a smile. He wasn’t scowling, just solemn. He had a high-pitched voice, and an upper-class British accent with just a little cockney overtones that he introduced into it.

“He dressed working-class, an old sweater and shirts that had seen better days and a too-tight jacket. He rolled his own cigarettes. There was no emotion in his face at all. Nobody who I know — and this applied to me as well — ever got close to George. But the mind was working all the time.”

When World War II broke out, Orwell joined the Home Guard, but his lungs already were riddled with the pulmonary disease that would kill him a decade later and he was consigned to civilian life. He churned out 100 or more essays and small pieces a year, living with his wife, Eileen, in a series of shabby apartments across north London. Mullally recalls being invited around for a meal at 27B Canonbury Square in Islington — then a quasi-slum, now a model of urban gentrification. Orwell walked down four floors to the basement to get a load of coal and four floors up again. “I said, ‘George, surely you can afford to a pay a boy to do that?’ He couldn’t see it. It’d be exploiting the proletariat. He didn’t know what socialism was about. He was totally naive politically. He took himself out of the middle class, but he couldn’t take the middle class out of himself.”

He couldn’t quite remove the anti-Semitism as well. Mullally recalls complaining one day, when they were having pints at the pub near the Tribune offices, about the difficulties he was having turning German Jewish writer Ricky Loewenthal’s tortuous prose into readable English. “What do you expect,” Orwell replied, “with all these Middle European Jews practically running the paper’s politics?”

Mullally says he waited for the grin that would signal Orwell was joking. It never came.

He was also a writer who refused to be edited. “I’d been told by everyone: Never ever muck about with George’s copy, and I never did,” recalls Mullally. “I didn’t need to it always came in perfectly. Even the commas.””

Mullally wrote and helped produce a spoken word history recording on LP called The Sounds Of Time featuring selections of spoken word taken from over two hundred hours of BBC Radio Recordings including Churchill, King George VI, Attlee, Montgomery, Nehru, Bevin, Hitler, HG Wells & many more.

He also was involved with writing a softporn satirical stip called “Oh Wicked Wanda” for Penthouse magazine in the 1970s. While being exploitative fare and NSFW, some of the images are interesting in their use of a variety of oil, watercolour, poster paint and tempura by Ron Embleton, a veteran comic book artist, who had worked extensively for TV Century 21 comic, illustrating stories based on the television programmes Stingray, Thunderbirds, and Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons, amongst others.

Much of this article has been taken from the Frederic Mullally website created by his son Micheal Mullaly to whom All Rights are reserved.


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Hitler has won : a novel

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