A Little Whack For Paddy

“So. Yer all set.”

“I am. Bejaysus I feckin’ am. Just let me at all them lovely creamy pints, them licks o’ whiskey. Craic. Bejaysus. I’ll be pukin’ lumps of pure green with the best o’ them.”

“That’s the feckin’ spirit.”

“Spirit, yeah. Loads o’ them. And gin makes yeh sin, and brandy makes yeh randy.”

“Shur yeh can’t beat the best lines. The great poets.”

“Yeh can’t. Yeh can’t. Yeh feckin’ can’t.”

“Sad about yer man though. Bishop whatsisname.”

“Sad, yeh. Sad, sad.”

“A true Irishman.”

“He was. He was. He feckin’ was.”

“Sure I can see him now, the owl chubby face and the big owl gormless smile. Now there was a man of substance.”

“Loved the cars. Feckin’ loved them.”

“And the women.”

“And the feckin’ craic, which is what it’s all about, the feckin’ craic. Sure I was only havin’ de bit o’ craic, as the bishop says to de actress.”

[Loud guffaws followed by several minutes of coughing and retching.]

“Shur if yer wan had kept her feckin’ mouth shut, the way people do over here, shur he’d a been grand.”

“People know ta keep their feckin’ mouths shut here. God bless all the lovely solicitors and judges. May He shine down on them from Heaven. But shur she was a feckin’ yank. That’s where he went wrong, Bishop whatsisname.”

“Yeh can’t stop them shootin’ their feckin’ mouths off.”

“Yeh can’t. Yeh feckin’ can’t. But Auntie Grey, Lord rest him, did a good owl job of puttin’ her in her place.”

“He did. But shur ’twasn’t enough.”

“Poor owl whatsisname.”

“Ah shur, that’s life.”

“Wonder how Enda’s gettin’ on with blondieballs?”

“That’s Mister Trump to you.”

“Oh? Tell us.”

“Yeah. The TD was on ta some of his people on the QT. We want ta get them interested in the owl field, y’know? Set up an owl casino or something.”

“Shur that’ll be feckin’ brilliant.”

“Spondooliks boy. That’s what it’s all about.”

“‘Tis feckin’ true for yeh. Enterprise. That’s what the Irish is all about.”

“‘Tis yeah. ‘Tis yeah.”

“Take this feckin’ Brexit shite, for example.”


“Why spend all yer time whinging about it? Shur some o’ de lads is already investin’ in those – whatyehcallem – people traffickers. Just drive a hundred fellas cross the border in trucks marked cattle or machinery, and yer feckin’ laughin.’ Few pound, few pound.”

“A few pound feckin’ aye.”

“It’s wha’ I never understand about all these whingers, all dem feckin’ Tribunals. Well, I can understand the lawyers – God grant light upon them – I mean they’re just tryin’ ta make a few pound right, of course they wants ta spin it out as long as possible like.

“As long as possible aye.”

“But shur: why would yeh put a public job out ta tender when Uncle Ned has the van and all his penalty points newly quashed? What’s feckin’ wrong with people?

“Eejits. Feckin’ wastes o’ space. Turn dem all inta feed for cattle, that’s what I say.”

“Oh yeah. On that subject, any word on – eh – my little bit o’ trouble there?”

“Shur yev nothin’ to worry about. Nothin’ at all.”


“Surely. Shur isn’t the judge a good personal friend of mine.”

“Ah shur that’s grand so. ‘Nother couple o’ small ones there please Maurice. Drink up so.”




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