Saint Patrick’s Day Humour....
The new young Priest arrived in the village to take up his duties due to the retirement of the old one. Whilst visiting his various parisioners he discovered to his horror that they were a most superstitious lot. The tales he heard of fairies, banshees and ghosts convinced him that he would have to preach a sermon at the Sunday Mass.
On the Sunday, he began “During my walk around the village and trying to get to know you all, I was greatly disturbed how superstitious you all are. I don’t worry too much about the fairies but ghosts. Tell me, has anyone here ever seen a ghost?” he asked. Without exception, the entire congregation put up their hands. “Mother of God” the Priest exclaimed “I can’t believe it”. “Right then” he continued “Put up your hands if you have ever touched a ghost?”. About twenty people in the pews put up their hands. “In the name of the good Lord” he exclaimed “I cannot believe it. Tell me then” he asked “has anyone in the congregation ever had sexual relations with a ghost?”. He was happy when no one put up a hand. Suddenly, he noticed Paddy at the back of the church with his hand in the air. “Are you seriously telling me that you had sexual relations with a ghost?” he asked. Paddy scratched his head and said “A ghost Father, sure I thought you said a goat”.
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A Missionary’s Work is Never Done....
The group of Evangelist Missionaries were on a visit to Dublin and during the course of the week they advertised a Faith Healing Meeting. On the night in question, the hall was packed. When they called all those seeking relief to come forward, the first was an old woman. “And what is your problem?” she was asked. “A touch of the ould rheumatism in me shoulder” she said indicating her right shoulder. The pastor placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on her head and began to call on God’s blessing. “In the name of all that is holy”, he wailed “heal this poor woman. Heal.....heal....heal”. As he removed his hands, the old woman raised her right arm and waived it above her head. “Sure all the pain has gone, sure ‘tis a miracle” she cried “sure now, I haven’t been able to do that for years”. Numerous other people came forward and the same ritual continued. When Paddy came forward he was asked “And what is your problem my son?” “’Tis me hearing” he quietly spoke. The pastor placed one hand on Paddy’s ear and the other on his head. He began to cry out loud “Heal this man O Lord. Help him O Lord. Heal.....heal.....heal”. He then removed his hands and said “Is that any better my son?” “Sure I don’t know” replied Paddy “me hearing is not ‘till next Thursday”.
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Paddy’s Sick Note…..
Dear Sir, I write this note to you to tell you of me plight And at the time of writing I am not a pretty sight Me body is all black and blue, me face a deathly grey And I write this note to say why Paddy's not at work today
While working on the fourteenth floor some bricks I had to clear Now to throw them down from such a height it was not a good idea The foreman wasn't very pleased, he bein' an awkward sod He said I'd have to cart them down the ladders in me hod
Now clearing all these bricks by hand it was so very slow So I hoisted up a barrel and secured the rope below But in me haste to do the job I was too blind to see That a barrel full of building bricks was heavier than me
So when I untied the rope the barrel fell like lead And clinging tightly to the rope I started up instead Well, I shot up like a rocket 'til to my dismay I found That halfway up I met the bloody barrel coming down
Well, the barrel broke me shoulder as to the ground it sped And when I reached the top I banged the pulley with me head While I clung on tight all numb with shock from this almighty blow And the barrel spilled out half the bricks fourteen floors below
Now, when these bricks had fallen from the barrel to the floor I then outweighed the barrel and so started down once more Still clinging tightly to the rope I sped towards the ground And I landed on the broken bricks that were scattered all round
Well, I laid there groaning on the ground I thought I'd passed the worst When the barrel hit the pulley wheel and then the bottom burst Well, a shower of bricks rained down on me, I hadn't got a hope As I lay moaning on the ground, I let go the bloody rope
The barrel then being heavier it started down once more And landed right across me as I lay upon the floor Well it broke three ribs and my left arm and I can only say That I hope you'll understand why Paddy's not at work today.
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A tale of hunger, greed and fear just after the war (1946) back home in Ireland.
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Ten Bags of Chips and a Piece of Cod....
In this modern time of plenty, with fridges, freezers and cupboards bulging with food, it is hard to imagine ravaging hunger. During the Second World War and for a few years after, back home in Ireland, Mum did her best to keep the gang of us fed. It was hard work for her. During late summer, it was not too bad as she knew all the secret places where wild strawberries, blackberries, gooseberries, apples, nuts and other such goodies could be gathered out in the country. At other times more devious means had to be employed.
With such a large family, Mum got extra tea coupons (Ration coupons that is, which were needed for everything). When I say they were pure gold-dust, you have to believe me. If you bargained wisely with the farming community, you could have the best of farm produce for a few tea coupons. The farmers had to have their strong tea. Mum was obliged to be a part of it. In actual fact, even after the coupons were finished, she was remembered for them.
Especially on a Thursday, she would send us out the country to a farmhouse, Mrs. White, where we were to ask for a drink of water. Of course when we got there, the farmer’s wife would not dare give us water. Instead, we were given large mugs of creamy milk, chunks of freshly baked bread, (Thursday was her baking day) farmhouse butter and homemade jam. We could have as much as we could eat.
Of course, on return home, Mum would ask if anyone wanted tea but always got a chorus of “No thanks, we're full".
One beautiful summer's Saturday night, Mum and about eight of us were sitting on the steps outside the house waiting for Dad to come home. At about ten o'clock we saw him walking up the street. You could see that he was in a really happy mood. He said to me, and not for the first time, “Which one are you?" “I'm Mick, Dad" I replied, hoping that the usual follow up question and result would come from him. And that was “How old are you now Mick?" I would say ˜Eight" or whatever and sure enough he would always say “Did I give you a birthday present on your last birthday?" I never, ever answered “Yes" but always “No" and this generally resulted in the receipt of a sixpenny piece.
However, this night, the conversation never took that route. Instead he said “Run down to Tony Kelly's", (the Fish and Chip shop man) ˜and get ten bags of chips and two cod. Tell him they are for Paddy.............". He gave me the money and away I ran.
Five minutes later, I found myself down a dark alley with the package containing the bags of chips and fish on my lap. Two chips out of that one. Two chips out of that one, two out of that one, and so on. However, I was very soon in Chip Heaven and forgot the count in my delight and greed. Suddenly I realised that I might have gone too far, so I wrapped them up and put them back in the package. I ran home to where they were all sitting on the steps in anticipation. I gave him the pack and he began to pass around the bags of chips.
Suddenly he exclaimed to Mum “Mother of God, Maggie, will you look at that. There's four chips in that bag for sixpence". And a moment later “Ah now, that's bloody robbery. There's only three in that one". He continued to check the other bags and he found no improvement. “Here Mick, take them straight back to Tony Kelly and tell him that I want my money back".
Once again in my short life, (I was now about seven), FEAR took hold. It was always a battle inside me as to who I feared most. Mum could be trouble. However, I never blamed her when I got the dishcloth around my ears - just like a whip - because I always deserved it when she gave it. Although, I dreaded her giving me a lecture - once, my brothers tell me, that I did in fact ask her to stop and hit me instead.
On the other hand, Dad frightened the living daylights out of me. Strange really, as I never saw him in a fight, have a proper row, or in fact, ever say a harsh word to my mother.
So, what was I to do? Certainly not admit my crime. Run away. No, I couldn't do that. I decided to be devious. I returned to the Chip Shop and spoke to Tony's son. I said “I bought these earlier, but my Dad says he does not want them anymore. He wants his money back". I can only think that this must have happened to him quite often, or that he did not care a damn about the business, or that he knew only too well what I had done, but he gave me the money back. I threw him the pack and ran for all I was worth.
Oddly enough, when I mentioned this story to one of my sisters, she told me of having done the same with a loaf of bread. First a nibble, then a pinch, and before she knew it, she ended up with a shell of a crust with no dough whatsoever left inside. She reckoned Mum beat her silly.
I learned a very important lesson that night - never eat more than two chips from each bag in future.
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Paddy and the Pub Competition....
When Paddy entered the pub and ordered a drink, the barman asked if he wanted to enter the competition. “It's a pound a go" the barman told him “and if you win you get about fifty pounds". “What do I have to do?" Paddy asked. ˜Well" replied the barman; “firstly you have to drink twenty pints of beer and twenty whiskies". “And second?" asked Paddy. “You then have to go out the backyard and pull out a bad tooth from my dog" the barman continued “it's a large Doberman". “What's the last one?" asked Paddy. “That's the tough one" the barman said. “My grandmother aged 85 is upstairs and you have to make love to her" the barman concluded. “Awe sure" said Paddy “I might as well have a go". He paid his pound and began drinking. By the time he finished the last whisky, he felt the worst for the alcohol. He went out the back yard and for the next five minutes or so, all that could be heard was cursing from Paddy and barking and yelping from the dog. Paddy returned to the bar covered in muck. ˜Right" he says “where's that old woman with the bad tooth?".
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The Tart with the Cart….
As soon as a statue is erected in Dublin, the quick-witted Dubliners soon find a name for it. Where Nelson’s Column used to stand in O’Connell Street they erected something that can only be described as a large bath with a woman in it. What it is supposed to represent, no one knows, or at least they are keeping it a secret. However, some Dublin wit quickly named it "The Floozy in the Jacuzzi". Likewise, when they erected one of the famous (or infamous if you prefer), Molly Malone pushing her wheelbarrow, another wit named it "The Tart with the Cart".
The song, Molly Malone is known to all schoolchildren in Ireland, but it took me all these years to find out today that legend has it that she was in fact a ‘tart’, selling a lot more than ‘cockles and mussels’. The following is a version of the myth.
Firstly, during the Dublin Millennium in 1988, and the unveiling of the commemorative statue one of the Protestant churches in Dublin claimed to have found an entry in one of their old registers dated 1663 for a Molly Malone and were claiming her as one of their own. However, we Catholics were having none of it as the Church of Ireland – the Protestants – never name their children after the Virgin Mary, and after all that is what the name Molly derives from.
The Dublin legend has it that she lived in the mid 1800’s and all her family were Fishmongers, specialising in Cockles and Mussels.
Molly was reputed to be a true beauty and spent her days pushing her barrow through the streets, in particular the wealthy Grafton Street and St. Stephen’s Green areas. That was of course during the daylight hours. In the evenings she would make a beeline to the area surrounding Trinity College where she sold her more sought-after wares to the male students.
It is a strange fact that cockles and mussels can be picked up along the foreshore close to Dublin in particular at Sandymount where the tide recedes about two miles out. The shellfish are everywhere and appear to be of a high quality. However, I never met an Irishman who ate them. It seems that many years ago, probably as far back as the Great Famine, or possibly during the First or Second World Wars, when there was a severe shortage of any kind of food, many people ate them out of necessity. The story goes that they did not know how to clean and prepare them and many died. As a result no one eats them now.
An Scotsman from Edinburgh, James Yorkston wrote a song in 1883 and it was first published in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It is believed to be based on the Dublin legend or myth.
How strange things are, for it was only today, at my age, that I learned that Our Molly used to ‘sell her body for acts of lewdness’. Furthermore, the story goes that she died, not only ‘of a fever’, as the song goes, but from typhus and venereal disease.
Come to think of it, I don’t think I will ever sing the song again even though it was only number 156 on my list of party songs.
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In Dublin's fair city Where the girls are so pretty I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone As she wheeled her wheel barrow Through streets broad and narrow Crying cockles and mussels alive alive oh
She was a fish monger And sure t’was no wonder For so was her father and mother before And they all wheeled their barrow Through streets broad and narrow Crying cockles and mussels alive alive oh
She died of a fever And no one could save her And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone Now her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow Crying cockles and mussels alive alive oh
Alive alive oh Alive alive ho Crying cockles and mussels Alive alive oh.
There is a version of the song by the Dubliners on the following link:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=vdxLxnhGnvo
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The Plate was Too Hot......
When the Second World War ended in 1945, my father returned to Ireland from serving in the RAF in England. He was supposed to be totally disabled but I really believe that he was ‘swinging the lead’.
Ireland was in total poverty and the many returning military personnel found that there was no work to be found and that the jobs they had left behind in Ireland no longer existed. My father’s family were all shoemakers specialising in Military/riding boots. There was insufficient work for him to rejoin his father’s business so, and this may sound odd nowadays, he set up shop in our home
About 1948, I think he must have received a grant from the British military pension’s board as he suddenly was able to open a shoemaking shop in Main Street with all new machinery and equipment. He was as proud as Punch and suddenly things were beginning to look brighter. He had many good contacts and bus conductors would bring him plenty of work from outlying areas.
At about this time holidaymakers would come in droves from the UK with most of the British cities having their own special week. For instance, you would have the Glasgow week, or the Leeds week, or the Cardiff week and so on. The town’s population would swell to about double from eight thousand. Every available room and bed was brought into service and a week’s full board could be had for about £4. It was not unusual for especially the boys of the house, to sleep in sheds or in fact anywhere during these holiday periods.
You have got to understand that this was the time before a lot of British working class people had even heard of Spain, let alone, thought of having a holiday there. 99 point 999 percent of similar people would never have dreamt of flying in an aircraft, excepting those who had been in the RAF during the war.
Anyway, visitors suddenly realised that Dad’s handmade shoes were, in Ireland, almost as cheap as ready-mades in the UK. Consequently, from about May onward, he would begin to receive written orders for new shoes to be ready in June, July or August when the customers arrived on holiday. Come to think of it, he charged locals £5 a pair and visitors £6. The foreigners were quite happy to pay. In order to fill the orders, at certain times, Dad would be working from the crack of dawn, about 5am. until way past dark into the night. He would make, I suppose, one or two pairs a day besides keeping up with his normal repair trade.
These were good times as it kept him out of the pub and away from the toss-school on Sundays. It did, however, mean that all his meals had to be taken to the shop. One evening, it was my turn to take him his tea. This was a task which each of the children looked forward to, as invariably, the meal consisted of a large fry-up and a billycan of tea. Anything he did not eat was YOURS to enjoy.
This was the major version of the Sunday morning ritual, when in strict rotation, one of us would take Dad’s breakfast up to him in bed. It was the only time that he did stay in bed a bit late. His breakfast comprised of a very large fry-up, which would be known to-day as a major cholesterol boost. Once again, anything he left belonged to the one taking up the breakfast. I know I did, and I strongly suspect that the others did as well, pray with the most devout fervour, that he had been drinking the night before and could not eat anything.
On a really bad morning, you would get nothing more than a couple of rasher rinds. However, on a truly magnificent morning, you might be lucky enough to get a couple of eggs on fried bread, sausages and all the black and white pudding. That was like winning the pools.
Right, back to the story: Mum got everything ready and I was too impatient to wait for her to put the two enamel plates in a carrier bag. I said I would carry them in my hands. She made me check to see if they were too hot, but I withstood the pain. My objective was to get it to my Dad as quickly as possible, him to eat what he wanted, and me to eat the rest. So, naturally, I was rushing.
As I began to cross the street, in my haste, I slipped and dropped the whole lot over the road. I stood there transfixed - what in the name of God was I going to do. Luck played a part, as, unlike today, traffic was at a minimum and you could if you wished, play marbles in the centre of the street with the very odd car, driving around you. You were in more danger of being bitten by a passing horse.
I decided that I had to do something quickly. If I went home, my mother would kill me and if I told him, he would even do worse, if it were possible. I suppose it is really, come to think of it, especially if he kept beating you silly before he actually killed you. At least Mum would have been quick.
Anyway, I sat on the kerbstone, picked up all the bits and pieces, wiped the enamel plates with my sleeve and began a reconstruction. The sausages I cleaned by licking them clean in my mouth quickly followed by a large spit out of the rubbish stuck to it. Next came the black and white pudding, which I similarly cleansed. There was a problem with the fried bread as some grit was stuck to it. However, with the aid of a matchstick from the gutter, that too was removed. The two eggs were licked clean and replaced onto the fried bread. ‘There, he would never notice’, I said to myself ‘but I must remember that whatever he leaves, I must not eat as I might get poisoned’. It never occurred to me that he might be so affected.
Right, so onward I went. To the shop and I gave him his meal. I was obliged to wait at the counter until he was finished. He soon got stuck in and was really enjoying himself. I thought to myself that I had made a remarkable recovery from my misfortune.
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After a couple of minutes, I noticed that a bunch of my father’s drinking cronies began to arrive and lean on the counter. “Are you enjoying your grub Paddy?” one asked. “Too true” said my Dad “the best of Lockner's - are you jealous?” "No" they chorused, "I bet it has a great flavour" added one. At this stage the hairs began to stand up on the back of my neck as I feared what was coming next. “Too true” said Dad. “It should do” the other said to Dad, “Mick hopped it all over Main Street. It must be covered with Billy Castle’s horseshit”.
Once again I was struck dumb and numb and could not move. However, I called up all my reserves of willpower and strength and legged it out of the shop. A quick look behind and I saw that Dad was after me with his hammer. I ran and ran until he could not keep going and I waited a long time before going home and telling Mum. I went to bed that night dreading his arrival.
However, he never did say anything, and years later I learned that he was quite proud of me for the way I had resolved a very delicate, tricky, and indeed, sticky situation.
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Paddy Dracula….
I am constantly amazed by what I find whilst surfing the Internet. There are things that can be immediately ignored (sometimes at one’s peril) and others that make you wonder why on earth ‘I never knew that’. Many, many other things one can say ‘Who on earth wants to know that?’ However, I like the following: ‘Was Dracula more Irish than Transylvanian?’
Dennis McIntyre is a director of the Bram Stoker’s Dracula Organisation and I am indebted to him for the information, which is the basis for this blog. It was part of an interview on Ireland’s RTE Radio 1. Personally, (and without bias), I accept his argument almost in its entirety.
Bram Stoker was born in Fairview, a suburb of Dublin on 8th November 1847 and considering that his famous novel, Dracula, has been the subject of more than 1,000 films, he is seldom if ever classed as one of the great Irish writers of his time. More importantly, the book has never been out of print since first published in 1897 and apart from the Bible, it is reputed to be the biggest selling book of all time.
McIntyre states that the name Dracula comes from the Irish Gaelic word ‘Droch Ola’ which he claims to mean ‘Bad Blood’. I have my personal doubts on that one, as although my Gaelic is not that good. 'Droch' does mean 'bad'. However, I feel that the ‘ola’ part refers to ‘drink or drinks’. One dictionary refers to 'ola' as meaning 'oil' so I suppose it could be loosely translated as he suggests.
However, Stoker’s mother, a staunch feminist, came from the West of Ireland where in 1832 there was a cholera epidemic. She told the young Bram that she had witnessed people being pushed into large graves with poles ‘while they were still alive’. She claimed that they had been actually buried alive in the pits.
The second point is that during the period of Stoker’s boyhood, it was believed that anyone who committed suicide would become a vampire unless a stake was driven through the heart. There was in fact a suicide burial plot in Clontarf, Dublin not far from his home and he used to spend most of his spare time playing in the graveyard. In fact, it was St. Michan’s Church and the Stoker family had a burial vault there. It is factual that anyone who committed suicide could not be buried in 'consecrated ground' thus barring them from internment in a church graveyard. It was not uncommon for such deceased to have their coffins lifted over the walls of the cemetery and buried without the knowledge of the Priest or Pastor.
"By some atmospheric freak in this church, bodies are preserved by a natural mummification, or they were in the past" McIntyre claims.
It is also a fact that when a young boy, he would have witnessed the emigrants making their way to the Port of Dublin to escape the Great Famine on their way to Britain. He would have been used to seeing near dead starving refugees dressed in rags making their way to the ‘coffin ships’. A term that he may have become used to hearing at the time was that ‘the landlord up at the big castle (house) was sucking the blood of the peasants’.
The most famous version of the filmed story is without doubt the 1931 version starring Bela Lugose.
Bram Stoker died on 20th April 1912.
Personally I have little doubt that the story incorporates various frightening aspects of old Irish storytelling and the fact that his mother was from the West of Ireland he would have been told whilst young many of the frightening stories that she would have heard from travelling story-tellers. His ramblings around the churchyard and what he without doubt witnessed as a boy fired his imagination.
Remember too that there was no television, radio or films during his youth and the majority of such stories were oral. I have mentioned before about the old time Irish 'seanchoi' (storyteller) who wandered around Ireland telling his stories in peoples’ homes. The more frightening the stories were the more popular the teller became. Not only were the seanchoi tellers of such frightening stories, but I can remember when I was seven or eight sitting around a large open fire in a dim dark room with one of my uncles telling with gusto the stories of murder, headless coachmen and other evil things. This was a regular event whenever I visited my grandparents in the country. I don't know about Stoker, but such horror stories used to frighten the living daylights out of me when I was a boy……………..