Bohemian Redemption

My favourite song is Bohemian Rhapsody and my favourite movie is The Shawshank Redemption and so for no other reason than, I wanted to, I married them together, with some of the story mixed with original words from the song and kept it to the tune of the song. I hope, if you like either, Bohemian Rhapsody or Shawshank, you will be Ok with this.. I tried to keep it so it fits exactly with the song as you sing it, if you choose to do so…



Bohemian Redemption

This is Dufresne’s life,
In state penitentiary.
He fought on the inside
No escape from reality.
While the warden ate pies,
He gave Hadly a surprise, tax free.
He’s a rich bank boy, he was found guilty
But it was another bum, called Elmo
Who shot his wife and the golf pro.
Anyway the decision would go, wouldn’t really matter you see, to Andy.

Mama,
The judge grilled the man, but didn’t hear what he told Red,
‘I didn’t pull the trigger but I killed them’, he said !
Mama, their lives had just begun,
But someone went and blew them both away.
‘Uh uh, I’m no fool,
They put me- Dufresne on trial
If I’m not innocent, ill be in Shawshank tomorrow,
I’ll carry on, carry on
As if my life never mattered’.

He’d wait, for Boggs to come,
The sisters played with his mind, his body shaking all the time
Goodbye everybody, Brookes had to go.
He had to leave it all behind to face the noose.
Mama, ooooh, ‘no good thing ever dies!’
Andy sometimes sat and carved things on the wall.

He trade a little cigarette, for a rock hamma*
Scaramouch, Scaramouch we will do the fandango
Reds thoughts were enlightening, their friendship was heightening, eke,
Zihuatanejo, Zihuatanejo
Zihuatanejo, Zihuatanejo, ‘I will play,
“The Marriage of Figaro”**, Magnifico’…

In came a poor boy his name was Tommy.
He was a petty thief from a poor family
Told, he’d be spared of his life if he helped Andy.
He is the one, He is Elmo, ‘ let Andy go?’
Bismillah! No we wont let Andy go,
(Let him go), Bismillah, we wont let Andy go
(Now we know), Bismillah,Tommy has to go?
Let the trigger go, His killa,*** let the trigger go,
(Let Andy go?), he is clever, never let him go.
(Get me dough!) No one will ever know(library so) Go
Go, go, go, go, go, go, go.
‘Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia, Ill dig a hole,
Big as my bum, and put gravel outside, unseen, I’ll be, so Free!

So he worked in the library and invented a guise,
So he got busy living, not waiting to die.
‘Oh baby, you cant prove this was me, baby,
So I just gotta get out, just gotta right out of here’

All his things were gathered, Andy, he broke free,
Shawshank was in tatters,
Red lived ever after, with Andy….
While they repair a big boat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Hammer
**The Marriage of Figaro was actually the tune from the prison yard
***Killer

Thanks!!!

A crowded room with a centerpiece,
A crowded room with the center at peace.
A family with friends all here,awake,
A family with friends all at a wake.
The locals gathered around to see,
A local who’s to be,buried at sea.
A man with a family-a wife and two daughters,
A family without a man-a husband and a father.
A fisherman and a familyman,he loved living as both,
He looked after his family,his house and his boat.
A friend now stood up to introduce the priest,
A priest introduced to the friend by the deceased.
And the priest,a young man,offered up five decades,to
A young man who’s life spanned just five decades,who
All the people here,loved and respected,
A man who’s ill health was never suspected.
After the priest,one of his daughters sang a hymn,
And then the other said a prayer which she wrote for him.
Nearing the end of the prayer she cried,
As a man nearing the end,she described.
A tall man now took over the wake,
All dressed in black,had jobs to undertake.
And for the widow knowing what lay ahead,
Kissed her husband,and bowed her head,
As she wept and said thank you to the love of her life,
A man who adored her,his good lady wife.
All that was left was a final silent farewell,
A minute observed to say thank you, A
Silence deserved for a man they all knew

Untitled For a Reason

Woken to a vast brilliant blue, as a picture, so pretty.
The eleventh, it was marked, the days, they flew,
A change, so sudden, in seconds, they knew
Morning was now taken, as darkness burdened the city.
Sirens wailed, their engines dispersed the dust.
Strangers now, would become friends evermore
Embracing, hail Mary full of gracing, as fires did roar.
The brave climbed skyward, in each other they did trust.
A shudder, a last look and black was the sight.
Hope hid deep between the debris and destruction
In seconds fell, what was years in construction.
Dreams were lost, as at the end of the tunnel, shun no light
Empty beds, homes and stations, because of feuding nations, September,
The lonely, the brave, the departed, the saved, always remembered!

I am the World’s Last Barman Poet.(not Tom Cruise)

I see England downing the great cocktails I make.
England can’t stop drinking whatever I stir and shake.
The Whiskey sour,
… A pink drink to wow her,
Something fruity with pimms,
Or I will spice up your gin.

I make things with juice and crushed ice.
With salt and a slice
My drinks will entice.

I make drinks sweet, the Mojito.
The Iced Tea,
And the cosmo,
The Orgasm,
You’ll have em’,
The Singapore Sling,
Add Red Bull for your wings.
I know you’re enjoying the flavours I got.
But lets all get loaded,
I’ll pour you a shot?
Bar is OPEN!!!

My Baby Boy

You finally arrived; it was in November, the third day,
And while the midwife cleaned you and injected your vitamin ‘K’
I counted your ten baby fingers and ten baby toes,
And admired your cute little button nose.
As you stretched and opened your big blue eyes,
I noticed you weren’t ginger, it was a nice surprise.
David……. You looked like a David,
And from this day forward you would be my Favourite.
Your mom was tired from all the giving birth,
You were 4kgs, I cannot imagine how much it hurt.
About one kg of that weight, was definitely pure poo,
As the nurse found out, showing me how to change you.
When your mom was better we were allowed to take you home
And start the journey into the great unknown.
With symptoms of colic and your nocturnal ways,
You played in the night-time and slept through the days.
You are beautiful, funny and great for a hug,
You make your dad happy and sometimes Glug, Glug.
Talking, crawling, walking, you are doing great,
And what the future holds, I really cannot wait.
You are my son, my world, my best friend, little David,
When you grow a moustache, I will show you how to shave it.
From hours to days, Months to a year, I have loved every minute,
I treasure each and every moment of my life with you in it.

This is Christmas!

Chestnuts on the fire, the Pogues are playing aloud,
The shops are now heaving; I’m weaving through the crowds.
Tinsel, trees and flashing lights brighten up the streets,
Benefits and charities shake their boxes to compete.
Carol singers fill up doorways as Christmas shoppers gather round,
And I buy a secret Santa gift for less than five pounds.

Christmas pudding, Santa hats, presents and mince pies,
Your children wake at 2am to see their big surprise,
Carrots, reindeer, selection boxes, mistletoe, mulled wine
Hope our massive turkey will be ready to eat on time.

It’s Christmas Eve, we need batteries, and the pressure takes its toll,
So I drink a glass of sherry and rob them from the remote control.
Milk and cookies on the table, the Kids in bed by eight,
The excitement nearly kills them, they can hardly wait.
The fat man is on his way, the chimney is clean and clear,
Presents at the ready, be quiet, don’t let them hear..

Christmas pudding, Santa hats, presents and mince pies,
Your children wake at 2am to see their big surprise,
Carrots, reindeer, selection boxes, mistletoe, mulled wine
Hope our massive turkey will be ready for us on time.

The smell of stuffing fills the air; wrapping paper is on the floor,
The fun is just beginning; the relatives are at the door.
The good toys are being played with, the unwanted nowhere to be seen,
Three pm is coming rapidly, to the speech made by the Queen.
‘Thank you, our armed forces; ye have worked so hard this year,
And to all who pay your taxes, I hold you all so dear’.

Christmas pudding, Santa hats, presents and mince pies,
Your children wake at 2am to see their big surprise,
Carrots, reindeer, selection boxes, mistletoe, mulled wine
Hope our massive turkey will be ready for us on time.

Everyone is stuffed and sleeping, Titanic is on again,
St. Stephens’s day is nearing, get ready to catch the wren.
Christmas day is officially over; Santa’s feet are up and rested,
And now I sit reflecting, if it was worth the money I invested.
But don’t be sad it’s finished, this festive time of cheer,
Its back again in 365, Christmas, our favourite time of year…….

Thoughts from a Ceramic Bowl.

Love you are unwanted, an unnecessary feeling,
It’s only the fear of being lonely that makes you so appealing
Sure, it could make me happy if love is embedded in my heart
But if you are unrequited love, you will tear my world apart.
If I have you, I have a flower? A card? What do I gain?
Without you, Im free of worries, no grief, no needless pain.
Don’t come knocking at my door, love, I’ll just turn you away
You are just a made up word, love, from now on I’ll never say…..

This is How it Happened (part 1)

Dry mouth! You know it is going to happen, yet, when you reach for the glass of water, you realize, the glass is still in the cupboard and the water is yet to be released from the tap. I woke up to find that my saliva had left me and oozed onto my pillow, like an oil slick and I was the bird you see on the news, stuck, helpless in the gooey mess that remained. I could taste something. The drought that ensued left a tang on my beached whale like tongue. Curry….. Perhaps? While lying on my stomach I felt something underneath me pressing against my skin, just above my bellybutton. It had the same characteristics as a large, stale chip but could just have easily been a similar sized finger. I didn’t want to see what it was either way! Anyway, I couldn’t look. A hard, dark green substance sat deep into the corner of my eyes clinging to my eye lids preventing me from visually checking what lay beneath. After weighing up my options I chose my index finger over my baby finger to scrape away the crusty build up as I felt, ‘old Pinky’ just wasn’t up to the demanding task! Waking up on Sunday mornings after copious amounts of Captain Blackout, or Captain Morgan as it is known to the lay pirate, thinking ‘What am I after doing?’ was something I was all too used to, but there was more of an uneasy feeling in the air that morning.
I slowly made my way to my feet and hazily took in my surroundings. I gradually became aware that this was not my room, nor was it my house, but it was however, a chip that was on my belly! The chip mystery required a little detective work to find out how it got there, but there was a bigger question on my mind, how did I get there? As I looked around the room I tried to find as many clues as I could to help me understand where I was. There was a pair of small, light blue shorts hanging over the radiator, and above it, on a shelf; there was a photo frame with a picture inside of a pretty blonde lady sitting on a swing. I did not recognise her. For no other reason known to me, other than I had seen it in movies, I picked up the shorts, brought them to my nose and like you would with an expensive glass of wine, with no second thoughts, dove in, and inhaled. Never in a million years did I expect it to smell that way. The shorts and the lady in the photo frame were in no way connected, unless they were the rotting sportswear of her recently exhumed body! Breathing is not something I’ve taken for granted. I cherish every gasp of air my lungs taste but the foul, atrocious, fumes of ass and death that were creeping down my oesophagus made me wish that I could temporarily shut down my respiratory system.

From the ever increasing light coming through the flimsy net curtains and from the unattractive whistling of a few tone deaf birds, I guessed it was just after dawn. However, not knowing what time dawn was, I did not have a clue what time it was. Afraid to venture out the door which was left slightly ajar, I began to retrace my steps from my memories of Saturday and whatever I could remember, up to, just before the shorts sniffing incident! Five o clock, roughly, the day before, I was driving down through town with the radio on whatever evening chat show was on and I thought to myself ‘Are Irish people only happy when they are complaining about something they can never change?!’. This had been on my mind as I had just been to get petrol and there was a six man conversation taking place in the forecourt of the supermarket. One of the men said in the jolliest of tones, ‘sure if they didn’t get us with petrol, they would get us with alcohol!’ To which another man replied ‘you are right there Tom, soon we won’t be able to drink or drive, never mind do them both at once!’ A freakishly tall man then added ‘I remember back in the day when’. It was at this point I zoned out, only to hear them all laughing a few seconds later at what I can only assume was the giant’s hilarious reminiscing.

As my memory went on, I then pulled into the car park to leave my car there for the night before going to the pub and I noticed two teenagers receiving a mouthful of abuse from a fat drunk who seemed to be getting progressively crazy. I asked the kids what the problem was and if I could help and they told me that the man they had now nicknamed ‘Porky’ had just started shouting at them out of the blue. They then said that after one of them jokingly pleaded with Porky (to be fair to them, he did look like someone who should be named Porky) not to eat them, this extra large, round man, began crying. Armed with a bag of cans and a loaf of bread, Porky, I mean, the fat man turned his attentions towards me. He seemed to want a fight but knowing that even the biggest of men was a baby one time, I gently calmed him down by singing ‘The Wheels on the bus’. Maybe it wasn’t so much calm that came over him, more like a mild confusion, but either way it worked as he gave up shouting and crying and returned to his lair.

This is How it Happened (part 2)

I proceeded to walk towards the pub where I was to meet a few friends, a few friends I had not seen in a long time. It was to be great. Drinks, chat, more drinks, more chat, that kind of thing until I spotted Ian, the local scourge barging into our group like a bowling ball cracking through the pins. I wouldn’t mind but he didn’t even drink alcohol. I would have forgiven him if he did, you know, understood there was a reason for his annoyance. He was the happy one, the one that never shut up. He was intoxicated with the exuberance of his own verbosity which completely muted our conversation while he went on for hours, listening to his own high pitched voice.

Back in the room, I was now standing closer to the door as I thought hard about my night and I suddenly had a deeply disturbing flashback. It was one that you find hard to understand and wonder if it was in fact your dream and not a ‘true’ memory. It was so vivid though, but why would I have been on a train? My thought process now went into overdrive. I remembered that after the train had left the long, dark tunnel, I couldn’t help but notice the wide eyed chimpanzee that had joined me in the carriage of the train. What train? Forget the train, what monkey??? Jack Johnson’s song, ‘Upside Down’ came into my head and as I hummed along I remembered the episode of Curious George I had seen the morning before where he travelled alone for the first time on public transport and so the chimp on the train thing must have been a dream. A weird dream, but a dream none the less. Thank heavens for small monkeys, I mean, mercies!!! As I nervously pulled the door back towards me and poked my head around to see what was outside, if anything, I heard a strange question coming from the next room. Luckily, it wasn’t aimed at me. ‘Are those nomads still camping out in your garden?’ the voice of a female asked. As curious as George, I waited patiently for a reply hoping, firstly it was a voice I recognised and secondly, to find out a bit more about the nomads!

With my subconscious jigsaw puzzle still completely unravelled I tried to find the piece that fit next to Ian’s ramblings. My head hurt, the hangover was kicking in and I was trapped, thirsty, behind a door, which may or may not have had on rushing pilgrims looking for a dead blonde. There was a knock at the door. ‘Hello, are you ok in there?’ it asked. It was the same voice as the one that asked about the nomads. Was it just some crazy lady who wandered the halls asking questions? Should I reply? I thought as I picked up the chip ready to throw at anyone who came through the door. I had to say something, but what? ‘Yes I’m fine thank you, and you?’ It was a reaction. ‘Yes I’m ok too, thank you for asking, breakfast is ready’ she said! I listened to the footsteps get further away down the hall as I checked if escape was plausible from the window. Escape was plausible, but only if I didn’t mind multiple impaling. The smell of bacon was clouding my judgment. Another flashback! I was in a queue, talking to a girl. The smell was the same….Bacon! Who was she? I could now see a burger, a menu, a shot glass, a girl, yeah, it was, wait! She was holding the chips! Another flashback, ahhh! I was in a kitchen; there were kids there and a cat. Was it another cartoon? The girl was there too though, still holding the chips. I was having a conversation, but with who? Oh no! It was the woman in the photograph! The memories and pieces of the jigsaw started coming together like a professional level of Tetris. I remembered shouting something at the kids. There are certain things I never thought I’d say in life, ‘stop sticking marmite up your nose’ is one of them, another is ‘stop trying to pick the cats nose’. Most things I never thought I would say concern noses, I just wish one thing I said was take the shorts away from your nose. I didn’t, but I did say my other two nose phrases.

I had to do something or give in to the idea of dying in that room. I thought all the flashbacks had ceased and I would not ever know who the question lady was unless I went and ate her bacon. But if her shorts were anything to go by, maybe, no matter how good the aroma of the food was, I would not enjoy sitting across from whoever she was, while eating. I believed I had, between two and four minutes to make a decision, one way or another. I decided. I was going to run for the nearest door hoping it would lead to the exit and never look back. I began to mimic the long jumper’s style in the Olympic Games where they rock back and forth, puffing their cheeks to gain some sort of momentum, hoping it would help me. I opened the door fully and ran, gaining speed and confidence the further I went down the hall and pushed a big brown wooden door open, tripped, fell and landed at the bottom of a bed. With my head under the bed and the rest of my body crumbled in a heap like a deflated doll giving a car an M.O.T, I heard a sweet voice coming from above. ‘Is that you, God’ I said, slightly concussed… ‘No stupid, it’s me’ said the voice as it came closer. Next thing I saw was a head come over the side of the bed, presumably still attached to the body or else it would have come crashing down, and then the voice said ‘are you ok? You look hurt’. If she wasn’t so cute I would have pointed out how obvious it was that I was hurt but as she helped me up I had my best flashback. I remembered. How could I have forgotten? As soon as I met her, I had a feeling that with her, unlike the others, I would be able to experience love that is free, without ties, constraints, or attachment that would hold me back and prevent me from realizing my dreams. She was the chips to my burger! She was real. She wasn’t God as I had previously thought, but she was without doubt, an Angel. Maybe the nomads were demons and the shorts were almost certainly the devil. I now had a fair idea of where I was as I gazed at her beauty with a grateful acceptance. She kissed my aching forehead, took my hand and led me towards the bacon.

Why Lord, Why?

As I rolled that old lady back to her ward, with my strawberry and vanilla head lowered to the limit of its capability, I silently begged the ground to open up and swallow me. But I suspect there was not a hole deep enough, willing to ingest me and so the ground kept its mouth firmly shut.

Lourdes; the miracle capital of the world and the spring break destination for priests to toss aside their collars while the new age nuns let their veils down for seven sinless days of soirees in this hub of holy hustling. Celebrity Bishops descend on this small, once unknown, French town to be worshiped by the millions of pill popping pilgrims who flock by the plane loads to catch a glimpse of their favourite congregation captivating charmers. Pre 1858 Lourdes was just a regular dirty French town inhabited by roughly 4000 locals and was a rest area for travellers on their way through to get to the waters at Bareges, Cauterets, Luz-Saint-Sauveur and Bagnères-de-Bigorre. In essence Lourdes was the McDonalds truck stop of the 19th century in France. That was until Bernadette Soubirous, with a little help from the Virgin Mary put this tiny town firmly on the map.

While walking home from a long day at her local school, 14 year old Bernadette, a previously un liked miller’s daughter, claimed a vision in a grotto who identified herself as the ‘Immaculate Conception’, and not a nodding Santa, appeared to her. Skepticism was as rampant as scurvy in those days but after extensive exploration in to Bernadette’s allegations, by the local C.S.I team (Catholic sightings investigations) it was accepted that she did indeed, witness the apparition. As there was no Big Brother back in 1858 and Davina Mcall was still only a baby, it was hard to gauge Bernadette’s popularity, post vision, in France but after eighteen more appearances’ she was ordained a saint and is now regarded as an A-list personality to the catholic church. She is voted as being the 4th best Saint in Jesus magazine every year behind Mother Theresa, ‘The Peoples Saint’, St. Patrick, ‘the patron Saint of alcohol’ and Saint Lucia, ‘Thomson’s number one holiday destination’.

131 years after Bernadette’s miracle I was brought to Lourdes for the first time and over the coming years frequented this raucous, religious town. As you walk through the big black iron gates to the scene of the sightings you are greeted by a roaring, fast running river, made passable by a series of swaying bridges. On one side of the river you have the enormity of the cathedral built at the request of Miss Soubirous and on the other side standing humbly is the hospital which holds hundreds of sick and dying people each season. Crutches of the cured hang triumphantly close to the statue of Our Lady where a herd of hobbling unhealthy humans, believe they were abstained from their ailments and threw aside their walking aids. A torch light procession piles through the streets each night with hymns and prayers bellowing from speakers, as pilgrims march side by side, swaying to the sound of music. During the day activities are arranged for the sick people who get a couple of hours away from the hospital, like the ‘stations of the cross’, an audience with one of the many Bishops or a brisk dip in the icy cold holy water baths which are so cold they see your balls disappear, like two David Copperfields. As the sick and elderly have all types of illness it was down to people like me to assist in the hospital as a helper. As an eleven year old helper my first request was from an old man in a wheelchair who just made a return from the bathroom, to help him back into his pants! I did not understand what he meant until I looked southwards towards his pants and realized what was normally tucked away warm and cosy, was now peering out at me eagerly awaiting re housing.

I was a helper, therefore had to help. Not understanding fully the term ‘pins and needles’, when he told me he had pins and needles in his hands, I thought it was a needless threat and felt even worse about the idea of helping him but he had weapons and I had a duty! With some careful maneuvering I managed to repackage his goods without having to hold or touch them and without being pierced violently by the sharp objects he admitted to be hiding in his fists. About two years later I was asked by a nurse to attend to a lady who wanted to go to an afternoon audience with a Bishop from her town. It was to be an hour of his greatest hymns and touching stories from his past!!! As I arrived at the ward to collect the lady she was in a wheelchair and we took off down the corridor to meet with the other helpers and patients. It was like the start of the grand prix as we waited for the flag to be lowered before we could all leave the hospital. My passenger was, I would imagine, in her early sixties but still sharp in the mind and was a nice old soul. As we arrived and subsequently sat through this hour long sing along, I saw people standing up out of their wheelchairs as they were not exclusively set aside for the paralyzed but were offered as a way of travel to the elderly and tired folk who could not walk that far. As ‘Come all ye faithful’ rocked out, my mind wandered as to which category my little lady fit into and wondered would she swap places if the Bishop went into overtime? With a resounding Amen, I quickly snapped out of my thoughts and raced to the front of the queue. After jostling for a front line position leaving other helpers eat our dust, we arrived back to the underground hold of the hospital where older helpers awaited our return. It is where they kept the wheelchairs and walking sticks over night and where the young helpers such as myself, normally parted, tip less and tired from our day with our patient. As goodbyes rang out around the basement and like a zombie movie, people moved slowly and creepily towards the lifts and back to their rooms.

A long minute passed as I waited for my lady to vacate the chair and leave me return for refreshments in the canteen but she clearly did not associate my fit of coughing with my need for her to relinquish her seat. As another awkward moment passed and with everyone now going up in lifts, I decided I must address the situation more sternly with this selfish, lazy old woman. I said ‘so are you going to get out here or what?’ …. She did not even have to reply as I could see the huge sadness descend over her eyes but unfortunately she did reply ‘I’m sorry darling, I am paralyzed, I cannot walk, that is why I am in the wheelchair’. With her feet wrapped in a nice knitted blanket and my feet resting firmly in my mouth I pressed the lift button and returned her to her bed. As the vision of old man balls and the dejected words of someone’s grandmother washed over my mind I thought, if only I was there 131 years earlier, my French would now be great!!

Dedicated to all the wonderful men and women who help the sick people of Cloyne every year….

The Story behind Robchocs (part one)

Forth year and fourteen years ago a task had been set by the sisters of a school on Great Island to go forth and seek work experience. Marys College, a bundle of immaculately placed red bricks, sat, like a prominent blood stain on top of a hill known aptly as ‘Top of the Hill’. It was run by a waddle of nuns whose icy presence was felt at every corner of the school so much so that the most coveted positions in the class rooms were the seats next to the blazing hot radiators. There were normally only six to eight of these searing seats per room up for grabs so a fight broke out at the beginning of every freezing winter morning to achieve warmth for the forty minutes that followed. This fight was usually won by the pretty girls, the big girls or the crafty country kids who were queuing up by the door since their battered bingo bus dropped them off about five hours previous.

Marys College was a secondary school which was a step up from primary school or in the boys of Great Island’s case, three steps down. After six years in primary school learning how to sing the National Anthem and All God’s Creatures and also bursting your knuckles in some outrageously, barbaric conker fights, the powers that be decided you were ready to progress into the big school. In doing so you were leaving behind the playground that you had just spent six years getting comfortable in and great memories such as the lunatic chanting ‘on the shed’ while jumping up and down, on the shed and the game gathering jingle of ‘who wants a game of British bulldogs?’ which later became ‘Irish Wolfhounds’ due to a wave of national pride. It was not just a case of ‘Sink or swim?’ but ‘sink or swim or run from bullies’ as the crossover to the new school took place.

First year; with no previous contact or interaction with the opposite sex you were thrown into a mixed class, girls and boys with no filtering process what so ever. Forget French, German and Spanish, talking to these giggling girls was a new language to be learned quickly or you were deemed an outcast. It was a year of sweating, acting cool, looking at more advanced chests and praying you were not asked to do a maths question on the black board as early morning puberty was kicking in. And if you were chosen, you thanked God for a well placed maths book as you stood, petrified and for no reason, aroused, at the top of the class. As first year came to a close and you just began making friends, second year came around with the knowledge that smaller more frightened kids were about to enter the building making you somewhat safe due to the fresh meat on show.

Second and Third year; Voices were deeper and spots were rampant as confidence was growing along with other things in your life. Homework became more plentiful and algebra was introduced into the curriculum. X+Y-26=0. What are X+Y? Letters, unfortunately was not the answer to the question and therefore maths became a subject to be avoided at all costs. Physical Education or PE, to the lay person, was a time to show your ability to wake up at 8:30am, run for eighty minutes straight, without a shower afterwards and still manage to get to lunch time without the girls in the class noticing the smell or perfuse sweating you were now sporting. With the biggest exam in your life to date, looming ominously around the corner, a slight panic briefly took over your life in third year. Social activities like standing by shop doors and staying out until ten instead of quarter to ten became the source of fun and if life was still dull, peer pressure would hand you a can of warm beer from underneath its jumper to give you the courage to talk to a girl for more than twenty seconds. The Junior Certificate itself was basically the equivalent of a baby learning to crawl. Once they learn to walk, crawling is an accomplishment that is never really celebrated in later years just like when you go on past the junior certificate; it is not something you ever acknowledge as an achievement again!!!

The Story behind Robchocs (part two)

Fourth year or, Transition year; a plan formed by aging founders of the school system who believed this year would turn children into adults, maturity would be achieved in nine months, almost like an egg growing into a baby in the womb except for the fact that transition year was optional!! To attain this maturity the four classes of transition year were brought camping, canoeing and on numerous excursions once parents had signed the ‘release’ forms! But twice in the year, for two weeks each time, the students were sent out into the wide world to gain some much needed work experience and if lucky, some money and a chance to continue on working once the two weeks were over. In previous years the school had formed bonds with shops, accountants and local tradesmen who would accept at Christmas, and again at summertime, a handful of recommended students. For most of the students this was a time to enjoy away from school but endure four weeks of their precious transitional period as a less than valued member of the workforce.

Work experience normally meant, but was not limited to, making tea, cleaning, polishing and running out to the shops for lazy staff members much like staying at home really helping your parents, except that is for one sought after position in the big city. Legend had it that a chocolate factory, located out of town, not only paid well but let you eat as much treats and goodies as possible. With sweet teeth and the scent of money ripe in their nostrils a select group of students packed their disc men, put on their warm clothes and took the train to the city. With Christmas lights guiding their way to their new temporary place of work, ‘Eatanleavus’, they felt a bit like Charlie on his way to Willy Wonka’s factory. After they met their manager and were each assigned roles and rooms to work in, they began their first stint as employed civilians.

Neeve Powter, the perfectionist performed the technique of damage control. A hard job to be in charge of as any minor scrape or scrawl would deem these nuggets of chocolaty goodness unsellable to the hungry public. She spent her day in room one with hard working packers who, although excelled in packing, lacked humour and conversation. With Carlos Michaels running room two, it was a more relaxed atmosphere playing the music of the Wu Tang Clan and the Backstreet Boys to keep spirits up as his own clan put the finishing touches to the boxes before letting them out as Christmas presents. Brendan Peters and Rob Ryan were the workers who adhered to Carlos’ relaxed ways but still managed to get the job done. As had been done and well documented in the past, this year the group of hard working students brought, on a daily basis, a selection of treats home to their families, friends and Devlin O’ Keeffe who waited impatiently for his fix as close to the factory as possible. One week almost down and with the first pay check firmly in sight, happiness hovered over the workers as they sang songs, oompa loompa like, and looked forward to their first weekend with hard earned cash in their pockets.

With Rob Ryan’s dad’s birthday on the Friday and his dad a self confessed choc-o-holic it would have been complete madness given the resources at his finger tips for Rob not to turn up with a big bag of chewy cocoa and liqueur based delights for his dad to gorge gratefully on. With the day drawing to a close and the remaining luxury candy refrigerated until Monday, the working crew of both room one and two packed away their belongings and complimentary bag of goodies. Neeve Powter, on this particular day did not have a bag so without a second thought, Rob nestled her Nestle type treats into his black school sack along with a nice big bunch of chocolates for his dad’s birthday. As did the rest of the team and down the stairs they descended to exit into the festive evening air. As the last couple of steps rose to meet them something appeared to be amiss as the management team stood in wait, arms folded and a look of pure hatred hung over their faces. Thinking targets had not been met the team was preparing for a petite pep talk to increase their work ethic the next week but when the manager said ‘It is shop policy to check your bags as you leave’ blood ran cold and confusion took over.

As a line of stumped students now leaned up against the wall, one by one the bags of each suspect were searched. Almost all passed the search due to the sweets being at the end of a deep, full bag or a wooly hat so bulky it covered their contraband. All except for Rob whose bag was bulging to the brim with conspicuous confectionary. So as the rest of the workforce was ushered to the exit, Rob was bustled upstairs to the manager’s office to explain this breech in sugary security. As Rob explained he thought this was acceptable the manager weighed the bag of sweets to reveal a £17 cost that her business would have lost if she had let him go. Unbeknownst to her, £60 had just been pushed from her premises and in previous years thousands of pounds had walked out her shop door. A disappointed and fired Rob left the building with the sweets still in his bag as he believed they were a great present for his dad. He was £17 pounds and one job lighter but with no procedures in place nobody knew that taking chocolates home was against the rules of ‘Eatanleavus’. On returning home he explained to his dad that he had both good news and bad news for him. His dad was delighted at the good news, not so happy with the bad news but ultimately understood the lack of clarity the chocolate factory had provided. To this day Rob believes that it was never his fault and never a bad thing that he did on his time in the factory, if anything it helped him gain the maturity that people were trying to force on him in different ways in school And despite a loss of £17, an embarrassing apology to the nuns of Mary’s college, Rob gained something that hurtful, disastrous day that people find takes years to get, a nickname that sticks….. Robchocs was born….

Please Press 1.

Please press 1.

I was panicking on the streets of London recently after receiving a letter from my previous bank indicating that I owe them much more money than I have ever possessed. Sweat began to form in more than its usual five places so I decided to dial the bank’s ‘emergency’ number quicker than you can say ‘ombudsman’. This letter was full of aggressive words and phrases which were, I am sure, taken from ‘The Banks Big Book of Bullying’ . ‘Action will be taken’, ‘our people will be around’ and ‘court appearance’ were mentioned in different areas of a letter, which was absent of smiley faces and scented paper. In fact, if it had been scented, I would imagine the sickly stench of cigarettes, cheap digestive biscuits and potent, putrid coffee, all immersed together in a layer of fur on the tongue that sealed the envelope, would have overpowered ‘delightful dandelion’?

Although I knew this was some kind of mistake, I envisaged a big bald brute, clad in duffel, bat in hand, (baseball bat, that is, not the nocturnal creature, although, who knows?), would, at any minute, be around to take action so I went in search of my mobile phone! Exactly where I left it, under the couch, just out of arms reach, next to a pen, a magazine and six English pence. I dialled the number provided by the manager in the letter only to be told by a Stephen Hawking sound-a-like to drop the first ’0′ and dial again for a free call. Why then, was this ’0′ included in the phone number in the first place? There was a vein in my, by now, very moist forehead, attempting to escape as I redialled, minus the first ’0′.

Hawking was back! This time to offer me obscure options to fuel the fire of frustration burning above my brow. ‘Press 1 for me to mention more numbers, Press 2 if you like option 1, Press 3 to vote for your favourite number, If you find my voice annoying, press 4 or for anything else press 5!’.
I Pressed 5…..
More options! ‘My voice puts my kids through high school, to discuss, press 1, how many toys had two little boys?, press 2, If, by now, your hair is in your hands and you would like to speak to a human, press 3!’ Oh I pressed ’3’. I pressed 3 like I was poking an enemy in the eye, I pressed it hard, not that I thought I would be connected quicker, but secretly hoping someone somewhere in their customer service would fall off their chair!. ‘I am sorry but all our agents are busy at the moment, please press 1 to return to the main menu or alternatively hang up and try again later’. WHAT????????? Did you not just feel the force of my finger??. At this stage, I was not only running late for work, my lunch was cold and I was at boiling point. I returned to the main menu and tried to go a different route through the maze of mindless options hoping to find, ‘press 1 if you would like to talk to us about a scary letter we sent you in error’. Instead I was subjected to an encore of numeral nightmare scenarios.

I decided to be canny and took option 47, I believe!, ‘thinking of leaving us?’, to see if I would have some joy and prompt a human response. Almost immediately, Vikram took charge of the situation. I remember his name because at first I did not understand what he had said, so I asked him to spell it. He replied, ‘My name is Vikram, ‘V’ for Vikram, ‘I’ for ice-cream’, at which point, I stopped this ‘Barney’ educated employee. After taking my details, phone number, date of birth, shoe size, ethnic background and what my mother’s surname could be should she choose to divorce my father and marry her favourite actor, we got down to the reason for my now, at least, 30 minute call. Not that I timed it, but I had seen the start of Deal or no Deal and as they were now down to the ’5′ box offer, 30 minutes was a fair guess. Who needs a clock when Noel Edmunds is muted on the TV?

After reading his script, Vice-cream, I am sorry, Vikram and I, got down to the business of my letter. To be honest, I think I had more chance of resolving the issue with the automated, number loving Hawking I had previously listened to. Vikram had me on hold so much I was actually singing along to Katy Perry’s Firework song which at this stage infuriated me more than the money I was told I owed. When he was offering advice, support and his sincerest apologies, Vikram was actually a nice chap, ‘C’ for Chap, ‘H’ for hap, ‘A’ for ap, and ‘P’ because I had a lot of water before that call. Other than being nice, he could not solve my problem and just tried to reroute me to some other complaints line that there was no chance he would ever answer.

Without going into the reasons this letter bomb of bad news arrived on my doorstep, it has now been sorted out and it was a mistake, a big mistake. It took well over 8 months, a lot of phone calls, confusion and a little bit of money for an end to this blunder, this bank blooper which, at times, threatened my sanity. Why, instead of this ridiculous automated option based ‘service’ do they not just have trained staff that can deal with queries and questions that they, themselves, have led us to ask. I say ‘down with automation, up with the human population’. Create jobs, provide training, help Vikram reduce my stress! Press # to stop reading….

Do not Trust the Hairy Sailor!!!

Francois Rabelais was a Franciscan Monk born in c.1494. As well as being a doctor, Francois was a humanist who wrote comic novels, Gargantua and Pantagruel which are still regarded as literary classics. His last will and testament simply stated,

‘I have nothing, owe a great deal, and the rest I leave to the poor’.

His works were considered to be full of coarse humour, which were so frowned upon by the Catholic Church that they were banned and even placed on their forbidden books list. Out of spite and in keeping with his style he wrote this passage:

‘Yet the devilish heretics refuse to learn and know it. Burn ’em, tear ’em, nip ’em with hot pinchers, drown ’em, hang ’em, spit ’em at the bunghole, pelt ’em, paut ’em, bruise ’em , beat ’em, cripple ‘em, dismember ‘em, cut ‘em, gut ‘em, bowel ‘em, paunch ‘em, thrash ‘em, slash ‘em, gash ‘em chop ‘em, slice ‘em, slit ‘em, carve ‘em, saw ‘em, bethwack ‘em, pare ‘em, hack ‘em, hew ’em, mince ‘em, flay ‘em, boil ‘em, broil ‘em, roast ‘em, toast ‘em, bake ‘em, fry ‘em, crucify ‘em, crush ‘em, squeeze ‘em, grind ‘em, batter ‘em, burst ‘em, quarter ‘em, unlimb ‘em, behump ‘em, bethump ‘em, belam ‘em, belabour ‘em, pepper ‘em, spatchcock ‘em and carbonnade ‘em on gridirions, these wicked heretics! Decretalifuges, deretalicides, worse than homicides, worse than patricides, decretalictones of the devil of hell’.

Francois Rabelais was a man ahead of his time. A visionary. His legend lives and will always live on and this passage shows so powerfully his attitude towards someone trying to stop him doing what he loved, writing.

Captain Birdseye was a sailor with a white beard. He befriended kids with false beards and he fused celebrity with frozen foods to gain himself considerable wealth in life. However, he was a plagiarist, a thief, a hairy word burglar who could not think of his own jingles. He struggled with self confidence in later life as other captains brushed his ship aside to become bigger household names. How could he compete with Captain Planet and Captain Kirk? That is right, by stealing the aging but immortal works of Francois Rabelais. The proof is in the potato!!!

‘Birdseye potato waffles, they are Waffly Versatile, grill ‘em, bake, ‘em, fry ‘em, eat ‘em, Waffly Versatile’

He was not hitting out at the Catholic Church nor waging war on Potato treats, just simply nabbing real writers words to sell his product. Your number is up Captain Birdseye and although your morsels are delicious, your morals are vicious….

The Toilet Man

One thundery Tuesday night in London I received a phone call from my work colleague telling me that ‘everyone’ was going out that night, ‘it is a birthday, you have to go’, she added. It was the last week of the month and my money in my bank account reflected this. No pounds and little pence meant it was looking like I would pass on this night out. Getting paid monthly and as little as I did, usually meant that the week before payday my face was being branded around African TV for donations. Another phone call came and my thirst began to get the better of me. My hands became metal detectors and magnets, thrown into the depths of the crumbs and fluff of the chairs and couches, under the mats and under my bed. The pennies I had in a jar for a rainy day were now being counted. I was never too sure about this saying though, was I saving for an umbrella or a hooded jacket and surely if so, I should be saving for the day before the rainy day so as not to get wet when purchasing these items, in the rain? Anyway that day was now my rainy day. I somehow managed to produce twelve English pounds. With some careful strategic planning I worked out that if we went to the bar with the midweek specials, I could get 4 delicious pints and spread them wisely enough throughout the evening not to have my plan rumbled.

So two pounds on my oyster card which would get me a bus ride there and home and with a fool proof plan in my head, I was out the door. When I arrived at the bar I had a friend ask me what I was having, first test, ‘I’m alright, stick to your own’. No rounds, it would be detrimental to my plan, as someone would sneak in vodka and red bull and my pockets would be empty. I bought my first drink, and I was enjoying it. Nearing the end I got the nod from the birthday boy, ‘same again Rob?’ Panic set in, I never allowed for a birthday drink, schoolboy error. My tally of four drinks suddenly lost a beverage out of nowhere. ‘You are alright mate, I’ll get you this one, it’s your birthday’ I said squeaking the words out through my gritted teeth. £2.50 a pint, I was now drinking my second, and spacing out the time well, but secretly kicking myself at the mistake I had just made, but still, nobody could tell my game plan. Nearing the end of drink two, and with a great mood building, my bladder began to poke me from the inside and the seal was about to broken. Eagerly anticipating my third drink and the cross over from sober to ‘getting there’, I went to the bathroom and standing adjacent to the urinal I proceeded to pee.

As I was just about empty I could feel two eyes burning a hole in the side of my head. After my buttons were done up, almost like a panther, leaping from the shadows of the trees, out from behind the cubicles, came the toilet attendant or lollipop and perfume trader if you will. Full of chat and armed with paper towels and hand soap he turned the tap on for me, and then pointed at a little plate resting on the sink holding two pound coins. In my experience he was not telling me to take this money, he was asking me to pay for the service he was providing. Now, I was 28 years old at the time. When I was potty trained, I was presumably trained to subsequently wash my hands and dry them and this then grew into a habit and over the years I have perfected these actions. I am, not to sound vain or like I am boasting but, I am brilliant at washing and drying my hands. I have never been let down by this ability. In recent months I have had trouble with my laptop and put it in for repair, I spent close to one hundred pounds for it. Also I had to attend the doctor’s clinic to seek advice which cost me €55 euro. I was not happy paying this but I could not fix my computer nor could I self diagnose, therefore, this money went to good use.

This man had just asked me to give him money for doing something I can clearly do myself. I did not want a lollipop as a cola and strawberry Chuppa Chup would no doubt take from the taste of my beer and I had sufficient quantities of aftershave applied to decline his offer of a good spray. My game plan was finished should I decide to part with a pound for this ludicrous reason. Imagine you are at a concert and the act finishes a song and before you get the chance, someone grabs your hands and starts clapping them together and charges you for this service. Would you pay them? If I went back upstairs a pound light, I would have to sit there for the rest of the night with the same warm drink I had bought about half an hour previous. If I didn’t ‘pay’ him, I would not be able to come back to the bathroom as the guilt would be too much for me to cope with. Is it even a job? I had to think quickly. ‘I have no change man’, why did I say man, did I turn into Eddie Murphy all of a sudden or was I confirming his gender? This did not deter him, however. He had bags of change. ‘What change do you need Brutha?’ he asked, clearly overseeing the fact that I was ginger and in no possible way his Brutha or brother, or anywhere near his family tree. I explained then that I only had a fifty and said I would ‘pay’ him the next time I had to use the toilets. To this he looked distraught, like he had heard it before and been let down by it also. I avoided eye contact at all costs and sheepishly left the bathrooms. Drinking my third pint felt so good but peeing down the side street felt wrong. Financial planning has never been my strong point but surely no one would have accounted for this expense. I can wash my own hands!!!!!!!

The Master of Verse?

The intensity was there for everyone to see. Thinking was the new drinking as quiz master Jay Marone spat and spluttered out questions through his Beamish steeped false teeth. Some say Jay could have been the new Chris Tarrant but for a leg injury he sustained in a recent freak accident. Others say he could have actually been in Tarrants, (an early bar further along Marones route) but for that same injury! Jay Marone was similar in build to a shovel and you knew that if a strong enough wind blew, it was only the copious quantities of stout he consumed, combined with heavy metal crutches that would stop him from becoming an unsaddled quiditch broom! Formerly a brilliant butcher who had a way with women, a terrible way, he now sat, at the corner of J D’s bar minding his own business, but telling everyone else’s, physically preparing for, what was now, the legendary weekly mastermind challenge! (The term, physically preparing, in this sense, means, drinking an adequate amount of alcohol to keep his hands from shaking so much that the print did not fall off the newspaper).

The venue for mastermind, or plastered mind, was the old watering hole, J D s. A bar that brought the town of Cobh together in times of trouble, torment, treasure and thirst. Where the glorious pong of pigs trotters and tripe punched you in the nose upon arrival on a cold winters day. There was a family atmosphere with daily arguments, name calling and queues for the bathrooms a plenty. Local radio provided the soundtrack, local papers provided the stimulation and local psychiatrists provided the counselling if you spent too long in J D s. The intellectual, cerebral conversations that were heard between the walls of this bar, such as ‘that is my chair’ ‘no it is not, it is mine’ and ‘its your round’, ‘hey, I just got here’ ‘Tough!’, made it difficult to choose worthy candidates for Saturdays eagerly anticipated quiz. These questions came straight from Saturdays broadsheet to baffle and boggle the minds of the men brave enough to take part. As the days sun soared and cast its rays over the previous nights vomit and Chinese curry cartons, strewn across the street, two men, on opposite sides of town, left home, like ancient warriors, prepared for battle.

One man, Marty Keen, recklessly meandered his way through cross town traffic in a constant battle with his dashboard, desperately trying to gain an inch or two to see oncoming blurs. On Saturdays, dogs, cats and wheelie bins were on high alert along the streets of Cobh while the residents were warned to only go outside if absolutely necessary as hurricane Marty was blowing from 0-18mph in ten minutes. He was a cheeky chappy who had a grin from ear to ear that irritated the sombre anti socials sipping their drinks in J D s like lonely sociopaths, but he did not care. He drank for happiness and underneath his jam jar glasses which somehow made his eyes look smaller, and a baseball hat which defined his sporty casual look, was a man with less worries than Bobby McFerrin. When he finally did arrive at J D s, car sweating and breathing a sigh of relief, Marty always told a great story or was inadvertently the topic of a great yarn after he left. One beautiful summers morning Marty had been sitting and drinking for about twenty minutes, chatting randomly to some of the locals as usual. Suddenly the urge to find out the time got the better of him and he nonchalantly pulled out his Mother’s mantle piece clock which was the size of a big, hefty pigeon, from his inside coat pocket to check the time before returning it, with an informed look on his face, back where it seemed impossible for it to fit. There was a silence, almost taunting a piece of tumble weed to breeze in and add to the scene before one punter said ‘I think Big Ben wants his clock back’. Amid the laughter and confusion, someone composed themselves enough to ask, why he was carrying around this tick tocking time box?, and without even understanding why he was asked, Marty simply replied,’ sure my watch is broken!. Contestant number one!!!!

Living on top of the hill, a cats throw from J D s, reigned a man, so full of sayings and wisdom that, had you not met him, you would have considered him a figment of imagination, a fable, a legend, like the tooth fairy or Willie Nelson. Patrick Livermore, with a laugh that would open doors and a an argumentative streak that would slam them closed, was a morning quart drinker, he had 4 pints and no more or his frying pan at lunch time would have been considered a weapon of mass destruction. Many a morning the saloon style doors of J D s would swing open to reveal another customer and in his loudest, proudest voice, Patrick, would boast ‘ah sure, would you look who it is?’, before turning to his neighbour, only to ask in a whisper ‘who is that?’. With a yearly buster(a game to see how many goals your particular weeks football team can score, and if your collective teams, over the year, get the most goals, you win) running in the bar, Patrick would always wait until the very last moment to pay his entry fee, because, as he explained ‘well if I died half way through the season, it would be an awful waste of money’. He was like a first class passenger aboard the Titanic with his faithful flat cap, puffing on his pipe, wearing his unsullied, starched suit and also, he was as wet as a can of Atlantic Ocean. He and Jay Marone were like an old married couple who could only put up a front in public for so long before rude remarks and senseless snipes sparked from their tongues like faulty wires exposed in the rain. They argued about absolutely everything from the names of people stood in front of them to dates that their friends retired. Silly squabbles ensued and the only reason Patrick was always right, was because Marone was always wrong. Contestant number two!!!!

The excitement in J D s was as contagious as the crowd that converged to witness that Saturdays series of questions. There was Matthew ‘I’ll have a pint of rob there bud’ Canavan, Pepe ‘I own a brush, therefore I am a painter’ Burke, along with Teddy ‘the bottle broke on its last bounce’ Mulligan all awaiting in anticipation, this contest of kings. Jay Marone was in place, newspaper in hand, face in a grimace, a pint and a half Beamish reflecting in his eyes as mastermind was about to commence. Marty, was working the crowd, waving at foreigners and cleaning his lips of lingering lumps of dry stout. Patrick, with his lungs full and satisfied, and an empty bladder begging for a refill called another pint and gave Marone the nod to signify the start of this weeks challenge.
So to question one: How many of each species of animal did Moses take on his Ark?
It was Marty’s question. It went so far over his head, NASA knew about it and the whole ark story had to be explained to him, including a descriptive doodle on a beer mat of the biblical boat. Like a blind mugger, Marty took a stab in the dark and said 18! It was passed over to Patrick who answered ’2′, to steel the point. Jay Marone with his typical tone and aided with the answers made fun of the two confused contestants with the fact it was actually Noah who had the ark and not Moses!! 4 questions in and still no points between them, the pressure was growing and as the bar got full up, well, the bar got full up!

Question 5 and 6 were the reason Marone was assigned the master of ceremonies as it proved his reading power was as strong as his calcium deficient bones. He was a caring man once a month when he went to the local GAA to donate alcohol to blood donors group, but a selfish man on Saturdays, Marone prided himself on a perfect performance to outshine the contestants.
He went on, ‘number 5, which country is famous for the the dish, ven-delow?’ Bewilderment was now etched permanently on Marty’s face and Patrick looked so lacking in inspiration that they, along with the rest of J D s, asked Marone to offer up the answer as ven-delow befuddled the whole bar. As he answered, ‘India’, a perplexed onlooker leaned over his shoulder to view the question, as he was a keen cook and ven-delow was not something that ever probed his palate ! ‘VINDALOO, ya clown’, he blasted, grabbing the paper from Marone as the bar was now up in arms. ‘Who let this idiot in charge of the quiz?’. ‘How was I supposed to know?’ Marone squealed apologising abrasively before snatching the broadsheet back. Shouting over the uproar, Jay now went with the final question and the decider. It was a tie, at a whopping zero each, and now this was it, whoever answered this, won. ‘According to Roman Mythology, who pulled the thorn from the lions paw?’. Neither Marty or Patrick were experts on Roman legends nor had they ever come across such a story from their intensive research for Saturdays. In Roman times, remember, this was sure to be a name that they had known as youngsters, yet may escape their tongues in this day and age but not Marone. Glowing and gloating, as no one knew it and with his peacock feathers about to show, he announced that it was in fact ‘Andy O’ Neil’ who was the fearless Roman soldier that tore that treacherous thorn from the Lions paw?????? That common Roman name of Andrew, shortened to Andy, probably by his father, Seamus to distinguish him from his other Roman friends in the school yard like, Alan, Siobhan and Padraig! Andy O’ F****** Neil was repeated up and down the bar as beer mats and betting slips were hurled in Marones direction. Needless to say, this was the last official quiz in J D s as master Marone was now clearly a flustered fraud with no idea of his own idiocy. It ended on a draw and a fair result to finish on, as neither Patrick nor Marty deserved to lose, or win for that matter. After a long and arduous appeal from a certain, Andy O’ Neil, amazingly, Androcles has since been credited with the removal of the thorn from the king of the jungles paw, and despite Jay Marone’s best efforts, Roman Mythology still remains void of random Irish men.

Post Natal Thoughts

It has been eight torturous, tedious weeks and there has been no let up in this insufferable noise. Hugs to help or harmonise just make it worse, way worse, I don’t need hugs, being that close to someone stings, no one knows how I feel, how can they? Constant commotion makes my ears ache. I hold my hands over them to drown out the sounds; my loved ones do not understand, and tell me leave my ears alone. My head hurts, I am dizzy, my eyes close but I cannot sleep. The screaming, how can I explain to them so they can comprehend the pain? They just look at me with pity, but no offers or answers to fix this. Am I broken even? How long will this last? The doctors mentioned colic, but it is not that, I know this is more than colic but it is all I hear everyone say to me, colic colic colic, it will sort itself out. Just when I do manage to drift off into a hazy noiseless dream, my only refuge from the bellowing blare of daily disquietude, the need to feed takes over and I am awake, agony.

As morning approaches, birds start singing sweet melodies but automobiles rattle pass, and drown out their songs, it begins again. The beautiful smell of morning fills the air, coffee wafts, which means the kettle has been whistling, fresh bread encourages the oven timer to toll but as the breakfast table tumult increases I break down. Again! Morning is firmly here. As I sit amongst the newly bought build a bears and singing soft toys and look out the bay window of the second floor, I do not just weep, I wail, shout, as I cannot express my pain in any other way. My family rush in but that is all they do. I do not understand what they are trying to say to me, in fact, I am not listening, their words just hurt me. I have dark thoughts, evil thoughts but I do want to be here, just under different circumstances. Being a lone parent is very hard, and people understand what stress is involved, so would someone judge me if I left. At least it would be quiet.

Morning, noon and night, I cannot take it anymore. It is week nine and I am sick, beyond tired and what is more, nobody seems to be able to care or understand. They pass it off as a post natal fad that will ware off with time. I, myself have wondered if indeed it is just something I will get used to but as the slow-paced pandemonium of the day-time melts into the shush that echoes the halls and rooms at night when the darkness is meant to be roughly translated as silence, I cannot see it ending. Maybe I feel too sorry for myself and am not being so sympathetic of the people around me who, I know are worried for me and the welfare of me and my new family but I cannot concentrate on that when, with each atom of sound, I crumble into a ball and try to deflect these decibels somewhere else. It doesn’t work. What will I do, please help me, this noise is too much, how can I explain that each morsel of sound, high pitched or silently humming or ticking is shrinking and shrivelling my senses. After all, how could they know that I, a baby, could be allergic to sound?

Home is Only a Stones Throw Away

There are a number of times in life when a man truly feels like a man, for instance, eating particularly hot food without shedding so much a tear, drinking alcohol while watching any sporting event, even ping pong. Fixing or hanging things, anything, even if incorrectly, says I am a man, as does wrestling a wild animal…successfully, if you are in such a situation or for many men doing something as simple as breaking glass tends to raise their testosterone be-it a glass bottle, a picture frame, perhaps with an ex encased within or, in P D’s case, his own window!

Like most small towns Cobh has many little Drinking taverns whose daily topics consist of the customers who frequent the bar and their everyday antics, the content of the newspapers that somehow make it past each foaming head and through each fried food soaked finger to last the day and also great sporting injustices of the 20th century is a popular subject matter.. J D’s bar was one such establishment and P D was no stranger in a semi coherent chat with its classy clientèle. P D had a set Saturday routine you could not just anticipate but actually set your watch by.

P D’s Saturday morning: Up at eight. Full Irish breakfast in to the frying pan and subsequently in to his Santa shaped belly. A wash of his lightly bristled face, and up over his forehead to shine his scalp in one sweeping motion. All this before brushing the hair that clung to the sides of his hat holder, desperate not to become another victim, laying amongst its friends as a temporary carpet on his bathroom floor. He would then iron the collar of that days shirt which would hang respectfully out over his cosy woollen jumper while the remaining 95% of shirt hung, hidden and wrinkled below. Half ten and a dash of brut to complete the man, and out the door.

He would proceed to get onto his blue 1999 c mope-head which had its own anti theft device which consisted of P D taking off the front wheel and leaving it behind the bar . He would point ‘Betsy’ in the direction of J D’s and depending on wind-speed, like a balding cat on a hair drier he would arrive at eleven O’ clock. Stepping into the bar, wheel in hand he would be greeted with the waft of beer and shampoo, yawns and exaggerated and enthusiastic stretching which were heard up and down the bar by the early birds who probably did have some sort of worm. P D would get a quick pint bottle of Bulmers to cure Fridays lingering hangover before turning to Murphy’s Irish stout to encourage Sundays illness to begin.

Headline stimulated conversations would begin after a few drinks and would then transcend into verbally challenged arguments and one man debates about horse racing, betting and about those conmen running our country. P D often instigated lively tête a tête s about Gaa and politics and the politics in Gaa which would rile the rest of the cast of Saturday in J D’s. The more they drank, the more they would all argue, which would in turn have them say throughout the argument ‘I need another drink’ and born was the vicious circle. Every Saturday was like this but one Saturday particularity stands out in the minds of the casual drinkers, drunks, tourists and gossip mongers associated with this bar.

P D had a habit of drinking his fill, and then being the only man in the world to sleep standing up oblivious to accident. Upon waking from his Murphy induced coma, invigorated from his involuntary forty winks, he would simply continue on drinking until closing time. A day of fluttering, banter and big time boozing came to an end and P D decided it was safer to get a cab than chance the perilous back roads of Ballybrassil on Betsy. A slight stumble and and slur of his address later and he was in the cab heading towards his home and his bed. The talk in the cab was a little, but a lot, according to the cab driver. P D was on repeat and with neither a pause nor a stop button within his grasp, the driver drove on auto pilot while his mind was eating pizza. As the cab eventually pulled up outside P D’s house, some inaudible words druelled from P D’s lips as he opened the door and got out. Leaving the door open and not paying him, the driver assumed what P D said was that he will go inside and get the money and he begun to wait,with his headlights leading P D’s path to his front door which his eyes followed but legs refused.

At the door the driver saw Paul doing what he recalled as the ‘I cant find my keys, Macerana dance’. After five minutes checking and rechecking, scratching and checking again, the perplexed look on P D’s face turned to a look of ‘I have an idea here’. With an apologetic whimper of a wave to the cabbie who was by now chewing his steering wheel in frustration, P D knelt to the soil out of the glare of the headlights. After a few seconds of blindly fumbling in the foliage, he arose to his feet like a flip chart of the stages of evolution before hurling what, from the sound it made crashing on the kitchen floor, was a boulder, through his window, and with no fear of self harm dove through the window after it like an acrobat through a flaming hoop. There must have been shards of glass impaling, if not his flesh, his clothes, but P D was oblivious. Entry was gained, the light went on and as the cab driver waited impatiently for his fare he spotted glimpses of P D inside the house. So out the door came P D………… What? He what? He didn’t? He did what? Are you sure?

What happened next is what can only be described as one of the worlds best subconscious, comedic moments of drunken genius/madness. You would have expected P D to resurface, cash in hand out the front door nursing a few cuts from his glass breaking triumph but no.. To the disbelief of the cab driver and the people who the cab driver has told since(everyone) P D, on his bloodied hands and knees began, for no explainable reason, clambering back over the broken glass like some old aged action man and out the same window he smashed not five minutes previous. With no thought of using his front door to avoid the chance of stitches, and with only the thought of paying up what he owed, P D tumbled from the window sill and delivered the fare which by now was secondary in the cabbies mind. For now, the cab driver struggled to, firstly understand what he had just seen and secondly, keep the laughter from within, bellowing outward causing a severe belly ache. Whenever the sound of glass breaking is heard, money in his mouth, determination and confusion on his face, climbing back out over sharp splinters, P D comes to mind and I make sure my house keys or a big rock are close by!!!!!!!