Archive for November, 2012


#3 Do not misuse my name!

Ok, so guys you are in bed feeling a little stuffy nosed and heavy headed, and you would kill and eat one of the kids for a cup of hot soup. We have all been there, all us veterans of the dreaded man flu, you are not alone. However, to feel that at this time your wife’s name is to be croaked down the stairs, as you cough and splutter in your fragile state of the  affliction of man flu, is a BIG MISTAKE!

It will be met with mutterings of labour hours, child birth and a numerous amount of instances of how you are ‘a mammy’s boy’. And for God’s sake, never ever drink the soup if it is delivered with a slice of smile and tilt of head. The toilet is the only safe disposal of this suspect package.

We, the married men, know the transition from mammy to wife is a big step, and one that needs time, but in this case go back to mammy. Harden yourself, hold your cough and get to mammy’s quick for intensive care on the dreaded man flu, and never call your wife’s name in vain….


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Rhythm moving, on beachhead groaning;

Unwed love. A discovery!

Blood! Two lives,

now one. But both hearts miss the beat.

No winners!

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Bon Jovi Tickets, A Cashmere Coat And A Ghost Of The Recession.

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.. a short story

John Smith fumbled the bundle of euro coins, his fingers balloon sensitive, onto the outstretched palm of the bus driver. It was the 101 to Drogheda, the ten past eleven and it was late.

“You took your time!” John snapped.

“Can only go as fast as the traffic pal.” The bus driver replied, the bus pulling away from the bus stop.

Reaching the first two seats vacant on the crowded bus, John slumped into the chair in a huddle of his cardigan ear wrapped and his arms tucked under his pits. A cocoon of self-warmth. But despite the huffs of hot air, walls of heat, blown from the air conditioning, John shivered. He held with scaled red eyes, grey yellow complexion and the vacant fuzzy head daze, all the evidence of night shifts. They were however, very much worth it!

His extra cash in the pay packet could get him two Bon Jovi tickets for next year’s concert, and that thought warmed him more that any air conditioning as he headed to buy his golden tickets. However, the warm air sent him into head dropping and then neck snapping slips of sleep- no awake-no sleep. The threat of drool puddles from chin to jacket, the type we all dread on the bus, keeping him from surrendering to heavy eyelids. It was a fight he lost however, obvious by the leg slapping from a rolled up newspaper.

“Sorry son,” a soft rasp of a voice, obviously elderly said. “Can you move your bag, it is on my coat?”

Unsprawling himself and confirming indeed his bag was on the hem of a grey cashmere overcoat, John wiped the dreaded droll from his lips and confused dazed he looked around. Catching whips of scenery as the bus sped on, John realised he had missed three or so stops.

“Sorry” John mumbled, his mouth all sleepy and nasty. “Here you go!” Lifting his bag onto his lap, and then shoving his earphones into his ears. Like who wants to talk to some auld codger on the bus?

“You remind me of my grandson”, the old man continued in a soft Dublin accent but cocktailed with a Louth drawl. “Tim is his name, he was always listening to music, and he never said much to me either.”

“Really” John answered in huff of a half reply and half giggle, turning up the volume.

More leg tapping. Don’t old people get it when someone is trying to ignore them?

“I miss him, I miss them all really!”

John would find out a week later, in a conversation between a mountain of triangular salad sandwiches and cups of chine held tea that his name was Paddy Mullins and he had two sons, Ian and Mark and four grandsons. All though living in Australia or America, part of the diaspora of the Irish middle class of the recession.

“I am sure the wife keeps you warm at night though!” John nudged a sly smirk of a reply to the old man, not the most solid of tactical replies to an 80+ old man, and as soon as it left his mouth, he feared the response.

“She died two years before they all left, breast cancer.” He replied, speaking into the air as if he spoke to a nearing ear.

Crap thought John time for some false sleep and  escape this awkward moment.

“Shocking!” John blushed, pulling up his hood and sticking his head to the window.

It worked. Within ten minutes, the bus rolled into the depot and as John gathered his things up, he noticed the old man had gotten off already.

“Good”, John remarked. “I could do with him slowing me down to get my tickets, I honestly could like!”

Eager to secure tickets and then sleep John irked aggressive as a crowd on the bridge beside Scotch Hall shopping centre blocked his way. Turning his mouth to a cradle of colourful expletives.

Shoving against the flow of the crowd, he soon found himself snaking along the handrail of the bridge and if honest, he would admit he held a gaze at the activity on the river for a moment too with swerving circles of speedboats causing swells of tumbling waves that crashed into the dock walls. And all this surrounded by whispering, nail and knuckle biting crowds.

It held John in its moment until he snapped back into Bon Jovi ticket reality, and continued to rub past rail and person along the iron handrail until a cashmere coat barred him, and held him frozen.

“Sorry guard” John asked as he tipped the yellow padded florescent jacket. 2The person who owns this coat…”

“Poor sod jumped in” the guard interrupted.

“But he can be saved, he must be in only minutes!” John replied, manic in voice and mind. Why was no one in any hurry he washed through his mind.

“I don’t think so son,” The guard added, looking back into the river, “He jumped in about half past ten!”

John turned and walked,  in his mind a muddle of;

Bon Jovi Tickets

A Cashmere Coat

And A Ghost Of The Recession.

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Newgrange from the river..written while just rambling with the kids.


Gurgling wash, and time’s own clock

Her silent gaze, watered through misty haze;

Words she speaketh not,

Mounted on her pedestal of myth.

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Ten Commandments of Staying Married..#2.

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Do not make a carved image. and false gods.

Ok guys, carved images, or DIY. A minefield of conflict. From feminine criticism to the obscenity blow out of a hammer to thumb, it is just not worth it. Do not race off in a excited flurry of newly wed activity to your shiny new toolbox. No, no, no, it is far more beneficial to blind her with talk of hidden pipes, electrical wires and then the greatest diversion of all..’I think my ex wanted that unit in her kitchen too’ and this will buy you weeks of free weekends as she tosses about in her mind ensuring she doesn’t have anything that is similar to your ex.

And finally false gods. As you enter married bliss you will soon find that many things on your pretty new wife can be false. Take the morning after a night out for example. You are likely to be woken by a rising sun, bleary eyed you walk across the bedroom and view a scene of carnage reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter’s basement, nails strewn across the floor, caterpillar furry strips on the locker (previously glued to your wife’s eyelids), clumps of abandoned weave on the carpet and activated built in airbags.

At this point make no comment, nothing, and as your beauty awakes like a car crash, panda smeared eyes and all, just peck on the cheek and whisper “wow how can you look so great in the morning.”

A sure way to get a Saturday morning fry up…

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