14-10-11
— D’YEH EVER READ poetry?
— Wha’?!
— D’you ever—
— I heard yeh. I just can’t fuckin’ believe I heard yeh.
— Well, look it—
— G’wan upstairs to the lounge if yeh want to talk abou’ poetry.
— Just let me—
— Unless yeh can talk abou’ the football in rhyme. ‘There was a young player called Blunt’.
— There’s no player called Blunt – far as I know.
— You’re missin’ me point.
— I’m not. I heard yeh. Yeh didn’t hear me.
— I did.
— You feel threatened by it.
— No, I don’t.
— Yeh do. Yeh even moved your stool there.
— I didn’t.
— Yeh fuckin’ did. To get away from anny mention of poetry. It’s mad.
— Well, it’s a load o’ shite.
— I agree with yeh. That’s wha’ I’m tryin’ to say.
— Yeh’ve lost me now.
— So listen. My young’s one’s youngest lad, Damien.
— The kid with the cheeks.
— That’s him. He’s good in school – the great white hope. Annyway, he has to read a fuckin’ poem an’ write a bit about it. The homework, like.
— Okay.
— So, he’s in our place, cos his ma’s visitin’ the da. An’ he asks me to, yeh know, look at the poem. So I get the oven gloves on an’ I give it a dekko. ‘The Road Not Taken’ – some bollix called Robert Frost. Have yeh read it, yourself?
— I won’t even say no.
— Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Stay where yeh are; I’m just givin’ yeh a flavour o’ the thing.
— And – wha’?
— Well, this cunt – Robert Frost, like – he’s makin’ his mind up abou’ which road to take an’ he knows he’ll regret not takin’ one o’ them. An’ that’s basically it.
— He doesn’t need a fuckin’ poem for tha’. That’s life. It’s common fuckin’ sense.
— Exactly. I go for the cod, I regret the burger.
— I married the woman but I wish I could be married to her sister.
— Is tha’ true?
— Not really – no.
— Annyway. Yeh sure?
— Go on.
— So annyway, the poor little bollix – Damien, like – the grandson. He has to answer questions about it. An’ the last one – it’s really stupid now. What road do you think you should never take? An’, like, I tell him, The road to Limerick.
— Did he write tha’?
— He fuckin’ did. An’ guess where the fuckin’ teacher comes from? An’ guess who’s been called up to the fuckin’ school, to explain himself to the fuckin’ headmaster?
— Brilliant.
— Tomorrow mornin’.
— Serves yeh righ’ for readin’ poetry.
— I agree. A hundred fuckin’ per cent. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood me hole.
15-10-11
— WHA’ D’YEH THINK o’ Dana’s sister sayin’ that her –
— No! No – please—
— Okay.
— Thanks.
— Can I just say one thing abou’ Miriam O’Callaghan’s outrageous bullyin’ of poor Martin McGuinness in the
Prime Time
debate? An’ then we’ll move on.
— Okay. One thing.
— Only one – thanks. She can bully me anny time she fuckin’ wants.
— That it?
— That’s it.
— The first sensible thing yeh’ve said in weeks.
— Months.
— Ever.
22-10-11
— SO GADDAFI’S GONE .
— From the chipper?
— Ah, listen – look it. You’re goin’ to have to broaden your fuckin’ horizons.
— Oh, the other one.
— Yeah, the other one.
— Yeah, I seen tha’. The man with the golden gun.
— Didn’t do him much fuckin’ good, did it? See they found him in a drainage pipe?
— Yeah.
— I’ll tell yeh. The last couple o’ months must’ve been rough. Cos he wouldn’t’ve fitted into tha’ pipe a few months back.
— We’ll kind o’ miss him.
— We will in our holes. An’ d’yeh see ETA’s declared a ceasefire?
— Thank fuck. That’s great news.
— Oh, you’re interested in tha’ one, are yeh?
— Fuckin’ sure – the noise she was makin’.
— Hang on – wha’?
— A woman of her age, buyin’ a fuckin’ drum kit with her redundancy – her fuckin’ lump
— D’YEH EVER READ poetry?
— Wha’?!
— D’you ever—
— I heard yeh. I just can’t fuckin’ believe I heard yeh.
— Well, look it—
— G’wan upstairs to the lounge if yeh want to talk abou’ poetry.
— Just let me—
— Unless yeh can talk abou’ the football in rhyme. ‘There was a young player called Blunt’.
— There’s no player called Blunt – far as I know.
— You’re missin’ me point.
— I’m not. I heard yeh. Yeh didn’t hear me.
— I did.
— You feel threatened by it.
— No, I don’t.
— Yeh do. Yeh even moved your stool there.
— I didn’t.
— Yeh fuckin’ did. To get away from anny mention of poetry. It’s mad.
— Well, it’s a load o’ shite.
— I agree with yeh. That’s wha’ I’m tryin’ to say.
— Yeh’ve lost me now.
— So listen. My young’s one’s youngest lad, Damien.
— The kid with the cheeks.
— That’s him. He’s good in school – the great white hope. Annyway, he has to read a fuckin’ poem an’ write a bit about it. The homework, like.
— Okay.
— So, he’s in our place, cos his ma’s visitin’ the da. An’ he asks me to, yeh know, look at the poem. So I get the oven gloves on an’ I give it a dekko. ‘The Road Not Taken’ – some bollix called Robert Frost. Have yeh read it, yourself?
— I won’t even say no.
— Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Stay where yeh are; I’m just givin’ yeh a flavour o’ the thing.
— And – wha’?
— Well, this cunt – Robert Frost, like – he’s makin’ his mind up abou’ which road to take an’ he knows he’ll regret not takin’ one o’ them. An’ that’s basically it.
— He doesn’t need a fuckin’ poem for tha’. That’s life. It’s common fuckin’ sense.
— Exactly. I go for the cod, I regret the burger.
— I married the woman but I wish I could be married to her sister.
— Is tha’ true?
— Not really – no.
— Annyway. Yeh sure?
— Go on.
— So annyway, the poor little bollix – Damien, like – the grandson. He has to answer questions about it. An’ the last one – it’s really stupid now. What road do you think you should never take? An’, like, I tell him, The road to Limerick.
— Did he write tha’?
— He fuckin’ did. An’ guess where the fuckin’ teacher comes from? An’ guess who’s been called up to the fuckin’ school, to explain himself to the fuckin’ headmaster?
— Brilliant.
— Tomorrow mornin’.
— Serves yeh righ’ for readin’ poetry.
— I agree. A hundred fuckin’ per cent. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood me hole.
15-10-11
— WHA’ D’YEH THINK o’ Dana’s sister sayin’ that her –
— No! No – please—
— Okay.
— Thanks.
— Can I just say one thing abou’ Miriam O’Callaghan’s outrageous bullyin’ of poor Martin McGuinness in the
Prime Time
debate? An’ then we’ll move on.
— Okay. One thing.
— Only one – thanks. She can bully me anny time she fuckin’ wants.
— That it?
— That’s it.
— The first sensible thing yeh’ve said in weeks.
— Months.
— Ever.
22-10-11
— SO GADDAFI’S GONE .
— From the chipper?
— Ah, listen – look it. You’re goin’ to have to broaden your fuckin’ horizons.
— Oh, the other one.
— Yeah, the other one.
— Yeah, I seen tha’. The man with the golden gun.
— Didn’t do him much fuckin’ good, did it? See they found him in a drainage pipe?
— Yeah.
— I’ll tell yeh. The last couple o’ months must’ve been rough. Cos he wouldn’t’ve fitted into tha’ pipe a few months back.
— We’ll kind o’ miss him.
— We will in our holes. An’ d’yeh see ETA’s declared a ceasefire?
— Thank fuck. That’s great news.
— Oh, you’re interested in tha’ one, are yeh?
— Fuckin’ sure – the noise she was makin’.
— Hang on – wha’?
— A woman of her age, buyin’ a fuckin’ drum kit with her redundancy – her fuckin’ lump
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