Castlemaine. Caislean na mainge.
Bet Westropp didn't have to pay his £1 to get into this place, at
least not to the two tarts in the small office, one reading her Seventeen magazine,
the other sewing a patch onto the arse of her jeans.
Reask. The monastic site with the early Celtic standing stone, maybe a grave
stone. The Reask Stone. This place could have been designed by Roger Dean, everything's
In the Hob Nob Cafe, down the street a bit is the Flowerpot Cafe, but we had
to draw the line somewhere. Driving to Tralee, from Dingle, over the Connor
Pass was just the best, totally fog bound, it has spectacular views, apparently,
but the fog just rolled in, mossy stone walls on the right, atmosphere extraordinaire,
totally gothic. Somewhere along the road was Glenagealt, the
madman's glen. It must have been there somewhere. Maybe
I wasn't meant to find it.
here was more like a pilgrimage. I've cleaned so many bones that came from
the cemetery here, feel like I own part of it. The bones will eventually
be reburied here, but not in the cathedral. It's closed, but asked some
worker there if we could look around anyway, "ask the boss, around
the side and doon from the top." So, around, and through the cemetery
to the front, ask again, the answers in Irish and the only thing I understand
is "yer man" over there. Told 'yer man', that I 'work' for the
OPW (yeah, I know, a tenuous connection with the OPW) and we're given a
few minutes inside. The windows are bloody enormous, the entire building's
being renovated, columns re-blocked, stones cleaned. It's a mess, but an
inspiring mess anyway.
And a wander through
Temple na Hoe and the Temple ne Griffin, but not a Virgin or a Griffin in sight.
St Gobnats. Ballyvourney.
Offerings, at the saint's grave. Rosary beads, pictures of Mary, and an asthma
22ad luguara, 1922
Collins. Ambushed here.
"Good evening Mr Collins"
the spot for a cuppa and a chocolate biscuit
Mallow. In a coffee shop that looks over the main street. Downstairs is a bakery.
Glanced through the new Q magazine, the one with what's left of the Beatles
on the front, all looking happy enough, probably knowing that untold millions
are about to be deposited into their respective bank accounts. Smashing Pumpkin's
"Mellon Collie" gets 4 stars, and Bono's in some kind of chat show
with Salman Rushdie and Seamus Heaney.
And the Rakes of
Mallow turned out to be a bunch of grotty looking travellers. Nice enough town
though, and the chemist is J.Joyce.
Through Castletown Roche, and a plaque on the bridge commemorates the author
of 'The Rustic Old Mill By The Bridge', the mill was there, and the bridge was
there, but I can't say the tune leapt into my head at all.
New Ross. Mac Murrough Farm Hostel. There's an Irish-English dictionary on the
bookshelves. Just what exactly do the Irish mean by gobshite, I wonder. But,
In Irish, Australia is 'An Astráil'. The word for shit, 'cac'.
Sweeney's here, under the well. Jaysus Sweeney, not even your grave
is marked. In the packed cemetery over there there's Leinster Kings, and Saints,
but you lie unremembered.
Through Enniscorthy, saw the windmill on Vinegar Hill, where the Brits slaughtered
18,000 Irish. Through Gorey, boring, through l'jardin d'Irlande to Avoca, to
Leo Burdocks. For some reason, always stammer in Burdocks, have trouble with
the word 'haddock'
"with that accent you must be Australian."
Jaysus, always thought Australian accents were the same all over. Apparently
However much I tell my family that Leo Burdocks are the best fish and chips
in the Universe, they're not. They're pre-cooked, too fatty and too floury.
I'd eat them anytime.
The Old Stand
I think I could get ridiculously fond of this pub, with it's black ceiling and
place green walls and the red lamps between the windows, and if this floor's
ever been sealed or varnished then it's been well worn away to the bare wood
for some time. On the telly, there's a replay of the AFL Grand Final. Geelong
Still here. Yep, Geelong lost. Jaysus, the got as much of the ball as Carlton,
but every time Geelong got it, they lost it, and every time Carlton got it,
There's a couple
over there, youngish, and they've been shopping, they have bags from Brown Thomas,
The Sweater Shop, and they've just had the chips they ordered brought to the
table. She's not eating any, "No, no, I'm not really hungry," she
Until her bloke goes to the loo. Then she chows down like she's been ravenous
for weeks. I'm imagining the conversation when he gets back.
"Where are the chips ?"
"Well, darling, while you were gone, I totally chowed down, stuffed my
face, really got stuck into them and didn't leave one, the half a bowl disappeared
incredibly quickly, actually."
"You didn't leave any at all, then ?"
"No, dear, I was waiting for you to disappear so I could plough my my through
Down at the Londis, and with the help of the Security Guy (who always seems
to be having a cigarette out the front), and the old woman behind the counter,
figured out that Parnell Park is the one near the Grand Canal, off Parnell Road.
Dublin vs Wexford, live throughout Russia. Hi, Boris, howyadoin' !
The fat arsonist and his gang have just been removing a cover from the lamppost
outside Tailors Court, revealing the wiring inside. Why, I have no idea, just
more brainless vandalism I guess.
Somebody has just tried to replace the cover, but gave up the attempt. Must
be too complicated if you've just sunk a few pints in Napper.
Been down there myself, took about 10 seconds to get the cover back on. Don't
really want the wiring ripped out by some passing bastard tonight. The street
sweepers don't work on a Sunday, so the charred body would still be lying there,
smouldering, until Monday morning. And there's enough garbage out there already.
News. The Israeli Prime Minister has just been assassinated, by a Jewish gunman
"acting alone". Apparently shot "on the orders of God".
Strange God. And a Presbyterian Minister from County Down is in some kind of
gay video importation scandal, while, also in Down, a drugs swoop on a nightclub
called Circus Circus, mainly ecstasy. Wonder if they have ecstasy tablets called
Stars of the County Down.
And three of the lovable rogues who threw the small stick of dynamite at me
have just walked down Bride Street. One of them has his hand bandaged. A pity
it wasn't his nuts that were blown off.
Up to O'Connell Street, taking the lane that comes out in Abbey Street opposite
the Oval Bar. There's Christmas trees being craned up to the first floor windows
of Clery's. Passing the GPO, and I'm beginning to think that no revolutions
are going to happen in there this year, at all. Maybe, though, if the Firecracker
Kid and the Fat Arsonist get together ...
Trying to find a map, and check if Parnell Park is really the one near the canal.
But everything useful is closed. The Tourist Information Office, Eason's...
Back to Grafton Street, and red and yellow stars and green tinsel have been
strung across the street.
No, you stupid feckin' eedjits, you feckin' slag behind the counter and you
feckin' moron of a security guard. Parnell Park is not near the Dolphins Barn
bridge, you brainless fucks. It's on the other side of town, on the Malahide
Road, past Mount Temple, behind the Clontarf Golf Course, you stupid-brainless-thick-as-bricks.
Shannon and I have just walked down Patrick Street, South Circular Road, to
Clogher Road, bloody miles. Nothing happening at this park, absolutely nowt.
Ended up asking some man by the road. He knew exactly where it was, "hurlin'
man are ye ?" he asks. Well, I'd like to be, but I think the Gods are against
it. As the news today proved, Gods act in strange ways.
I may have to start
boycotting the Londis in protest. The stupid dumb fuckheads.
Harrison Galleries, South Great Georges. The pencil drawings that are almost
New Realist, like black and white photographs, a stockinged girl on a chaise
longue, ballet dancers. The guy 'on duty' wondered if I was Richard Lennon,
the artist. No, but if I could draw like that, you could call me anything you
And, in the hurling match that Shannon and I didn't get to see because of the
feckwits at the Londis, Wexford 0:11 defeated Dublin 0:7.
Down to the Londis, for matches. I reckon our four hour boycott of the store
has been long enough to really make them suffer.
Bewleys Westmoreland Street
A man with a tattoo of a bluebird between his thumb and finger. Mr Happiness
itself, bringing his tray to exactly the table he wanted, the one by the fire.
Carefully clearing away the things left by its previous users, setting out his
goodies before him, opening and reading his newspaper. Oozing happiness, an
obviously contented man. Bid us farewell when we left. There's an photography
exhibition somewhere along the quays.
Ended up asking in a corner shop about Moss Street.
"The art centre ?"
Next street up. Found it. Upstairs. Photographs of Belfast 1985-1995. Unionists
and Loyalists. A boy with Jonathon on his lambeg drum; orangemen and republicans,
RUC, IRA, INLA, SAS, funerals, drunks and banjo players. Kill All Taigs graffiti,
the imprint of a plastic bullet on a man's chest, while another lies in a coffin
and a 'soldier' in a balaclava and sunglasses stands guard; Gerry Adams, the
Peace Wall, Falls Road and Shankill Road, little children playing behind bars.
Surely there there must have been something of Belfast over the
last ten years that wasn't so relentlessly ugly. But, on the way back, considering
yet another photographic project, called 'Ugly Dublin'. The chewy on the pavement,
the rubbish in the streets, Golden Lane, kids spitting, the cinemas turned into
landfill, the SIPTU building, the beggars, the hunry and homeless, the stuff
that's been flung into the Liffey, the slag at the Ha'penny Bridge on Saturday
Waiting in the queue for some attention from Stella. Wondering what she really
looks like underneath all the make-up that gives her an orange glow, and without
the fake eyelashes. Not really tempting at all, more kind of nauseating actually.
She's looking through the Butterick's patterns in the low filing cabinet. Nope,
not tempting at all. I think she'd have to do a Gerty
McDowell at least. Not at all like the little Elaine in Dunne's,
who's now a bit of a regular at the end register. Wonder why they put her there?
Maybe the mayhem of blokes heroically leaping, salmon-like, over the triple
registers from both sides was too much to bear. Why has no Cuchulainn carried her away yet, why has she asked no passing Druid what it's a good time
for? Sad, really. Maybe she's not into Druid bonking. Maybe the passing Druids
only have time for buying milk (£1.12) and bread (49p.), like me.
read the November 'Top'. Didn't know that one of the Smashing Pumpkins, Billy
Corgan, is one of Courtney Loves' ex-lovers. Billy and Kurt. Same Hole.
News. 'Dunnes Action', trade union proposing strikes. Imagining Elaine, downing
register, demanding an end to injustice. Yeah, Elaine, go for it, stamp your
Museum. Over coffee at morning break, some underwater archaeologists' report
was condemned by all. Utterly condemned. Not just the report itself, but whoever
this archaeologist may be is, apparently, a total gobshite, a real feckin eedjit,
and, the absolute lowest of the low, the ultimate insult which stops every conversation
within earshot,, an anglophile. You cannot be called worse.
Westropp's. What the feckin' hell is Brookvale, and whereabouts
in Clare is feckin' Clonoon, jaysus, think the old TJW's really fecked up this
'Happy Birthday', if it's to a girl, is Breithlá Shona, to a male it's
back from another session at the Auld Dub, nothing particularly memorable, except
Donnica playing a brilliant version of The Ace and Deuce of Pipering, and a
dozen or so Greek women appearing, two who wanted to be photographed with 'the
band'. Well dressed, but absolute dogs. Aren't all Greek women meant to vaguely
resemble Maria Pappas ? Not these ones.
The computer is telling me that everything on 0006 has been edited or deleted.
Don't think so, I deleted nowt. You stupid machine, you fooked it.
Hodges Figgis Cafe, with C, reading the paper, the Irish Times. Then down to
Past Times, just for a browse, reading a book on the sex lives of the English
monarchs. Rampant / gay / both, it seems. Anything normal in there at all? Queen
Anne was a lesbian, hopelessly controlled by her maidservants. Pillowbiters
by the dozen.
Leaving the Museum, down Molesworth, where some model is standing by the Passport
Office railings, wearing this little black number, skinny legs and all exposed
to the chill wind. A photographer signals, and she sashays down the footpath.
Now, this one definitely wasn't with the Greeks last night.
Grafton Street, the
jewellery laneway. The Bosnians and the 'hunry and homeless' having a friendly
chat. The homeless inviting the Bosnians back, welcoming them to somewhere,
later. Probably home, for dinner.
and some girl opens a door for me. Jaysus, my face must be looking aged. Frail
and weak. Don't feel it though, feeling pleased to be in this city again. I'm
so joyful I could internally combust.
And somewhere, nine
environmentalists have been sentenced to death. And Doriemus won the Melbourne
Cup, and Nothin' Leica Dame came second. Whoopie. And Eric Clapton's just been
awarded an OBE, services to cocaine, or something. And the first Irish issue
of Playboy hits the streets tomorrow, and there's a guy on the radio arguing
that it's "morally not right." Typical.
News. The ink that OJ Simpson's lawyer uses is mixed with his own DNA so that
his signature can never be forged. And, according to some survey, in the last
24 hours, the majority of the Irish haven't had a wash, had sex, or had a drink.
Down to HMV, early. Not even the ticket chick is there when I arrive. Why isn't
the red carpet our for my arrival, and why do not they herald my arrival with
choruses of hallelujah's? Ticket chick finally arrives, I wait in the queue
behind some tart who's buying tickets for East 17.
Finally, my turn, but no, they don't have tickets for Andy Irvine at Whelan's,
just turn up on the night
Meath County just rang. Asking me questions about the Tara
Brooch. I would have been able to answer all their questions I'd
known that it dates from the C8th and it was discovered in 1850, and the Ardagh
Chalice in 1865.
Tirmicbrain? Tirmacbrain? Teerimaclane?
Jaysus, I've spent one and a half hours trying to find this townland. Feck it.
Waiting for the
123 in Lord Edward Street. This must be the time they let
the young'uns out of McKinlay House, as they emerged in droves. To Mount Temple
for Shannon's midweek gym, better than Saturdays. The bus passes through some
really grungy areas, Summerhill, bejaysus, and people think the Liberties is
Tower Records has finally reopened in Wicklow Street. The folky stuff is upstairs,
listened briefly to 'Elvis Ate America' on the Passengers CD.
Christmas trees are appearing all over. In Powerscourt. In Grafton Street there's
one that looks as though it'd been made of bent coat hangers. Brown Thomas has
covered its windows, undoubtedly getting their apparently legendary Christmas
display together, and I don't care how good or bad it it, I'll be saying that
it's better than the Myer's display in Melbourne. The covers have an Alice in
In FX Buckley the Butchers. And C is really giving the poor boyo
behind the counter a serve.
don't know if I can afford to shop here, you don't put prices on anything !" says C.
"But we do .."
"The mince, the sausages?"
" £2.50 a pound"
"See what I mean ?"
demanded an encore performance. Then the vegies, wanting
five pounds of potatoes, finding the stall where the seller is capable
of splitting the 10 pounds for £1 deal, I guess the maths is far
complicated for most of them.
Then up to the Flowing Tide. Nice pub, there's theatrical posters everywhere,
even taped to the ceiling, The Shadow of a Gunman, Twelve Angry Men, The Ace
and Deuce of Pipering (always thought that was a tune), The Rape of Lucrecia,
Ghosts, My Mother Said I Never Should, Too Late For Logic.
There's a rugby match showing on the TV. Llanelli vs Fiji. Llanelli must be
a bit later
On the radio, a bomb making factory discovered in Dunamoyne, in Monaghan, complete
with 2,000 pounds worth of explosives. Jaysus, you could blow Monaghan itself
off the map with that, or you could crumble the Swifts Building next door for
a lot less, and I wonder what the Moore Street stalls would be selling it for,
by the pound.
And on the radio, for the millionth time, "Fairground", and I'm beginning
to really hate Mick Hucknall loving the thought of coming home to me. "Piss
off," I'd say. Maybe, the Monaghan people could bomb Mick.
More news. Some American
group in Ireland is encouraging young people to remain virgins 'til they get
married. Please don't. There's enough wankers as it is.
Getting ready for todays epic. To the Dublin Mountains, raincoats, hats, bags,
cameras, bus tickets...
the 44B bus, after waiting in Hawkins Street, and the young
things stagger home in evening dress, she wearing his silver-black bowtie.
Hume Street, Wexford Street, Grand Canal complete with ducks, Madonna House,
"Sally Anne, will you marry me," and apparently the answer was yes,
Sandford Road, Milltown, Mr Ghandi Indian Tandoori, Fanagans Funeral Home, then
the Dundrum shopping centre, Penneys, a Bewleys, Ryans Dundrum House black green
and gold, Riverdale, Dun Emer Road, If this was your daughter you'd give her
a second chance.
At the Blue Light pub. Drying out in front of the fire, our jeans are steaming
away. Been here for nearly an hour. The walk itself, well,couldn't really get
into the 'be here now' philosophy at all. Chips!
Followed the map directions in the 'Wicklow Walkers' book for as basically far
as it was possible to see. Fog and mist and rain closed in, the narrow track
between the burnt and blackened gorse just about all we can see. Reached the
masts eventually, but no chance of finding the fairy cairns. Found a road, through
a forest, marginally better, while the pockets of my rain coat filling with
puddles. Continuing on to the pub, and we still have 40 minutes to wait for
the return bus.
I'm asked, as we're hogging the fire. And I'm thinking that pal, if you think
you're going to get anywhere near this fire, you can go and screw yourself.
Still, a nice pub.
U2 drink here.
The outside loo of the Blue Light has 'Elvis' scratched onto the wall. Bet it
was Larry. Bet he staggered out after three or few pints, and just couldn't
resist announcing his devotion to the King..
More logs and coal has just been heaped on the fire.
And, Bejaysus and his Mother and yer man the Holy Ghostie, what a trip back.
Waiting for the bus, outside the pub. In the cold, every minute seeming like
an hour. Saw the bus, the 44B, coming the other way, we figure we have to wait
'til he turns around at whatever his terminus happens to be, but no, he slows
and signals "get on !", so we do, getting a free ride up to Glencullen.
"Couldn't leave you out there," he says, "you'd all get colds
and pneumonia !"
On the way to Glencullen, people get dropped off, not at bus stops, but at the
closest points to where they live. Brilliant scenery, at least what we could
see of it through the seriously misted up windows. The driver telling us what
a brilliant walk it is from Glencullen to Enniskerry, takes about an hour. Not
And fifty minutes
later, we're passing the Blue Light again, on the way back. Jaysus, if we'd
been waiting that long, we'd have frozen to death.
At Dundrum, we have
to change buses. The steering has gone on the 44B. So, it's upstairs on another
bus, the one behind, except this one smells seriously of kerosene. Maybe petrol.
Ten minutes later, yet another bus change, "everybody into the bus behind
please," This time, it's a Cityswift, which gets us to Harcourt Street,
getting off near St Stephens Green.
It's all good fun
Liam's telling me I have to listen to the Braveheart soundtrack. It's awesome,
totally awesome. And, in the Import Section, there's a heap of Australian Crawl
CD's. People here listen to Australian Crawl? Do they down their pints and sing
the boys light up, light up, light up .. no, I didn't think so either.
Walking. Doing a
Sunday Morning Bloom. Golden Lane, the Stephen Streets, King Street, St Stephens
Green, the Shelbourne, and yes it's open on Sunday mornings, the rich and famous
getting into their breakfasts already. Down Dawson and directing some lost Irish
motorist to the Mont Clare Hotel. Hope I was right; turn right at Nassau, a
block up, on the left hand side of the corner of Nassau and Merrion, except
it's not called Nassau there, it's something else, and on the left side it's
not called Merrion either, that's something else too. Anyway, down to Nassau,
across, Molly Malone, Westmoreland Street, Trinity, Bewleys, then left at the
Quays. Virgin's closed, to Parliament Street, the posterman's not there, cross
the Grattan Bridge, up Capel, Secret Obsessions and Utopia, then left near Jervis,
and up, Liffey Cottages, the Sunday morning market's beginning, toilet paper,
shampoo, macaroni in cans, around and into the quays again, Winding Stairs bookshop,
antique dealers entrance by catalogue £5 at the door, Ormonde Centre soon
to be having the American Doors Show love her madly and light my fire babe,
but no posterman, back to the market, the weather must have dumped a lot of
the grunge that's floating in savage masses on the Liffey. Watch the market
for a while, yep, he's telling someone, the use-by dates on cans is meaningless
as once the sugar's in it'll last for centuries. On the trestle tables they've
got Belgian chocolates "two for a pound", right then, outtamyway Paddy.
One last look for the posterman, but nope. Up Parliament Street, and back. Coffee
and chocolates. maybe the posterman didn't have the Andy Irvine poster anyway,
let alone the Shane MacGowan one. Maybe I should try for the PJ Harvey poster
too, she has nice tits.
On the bus, the
time I've been on a bus that actually goes past the apartment. If I'd been having
a cigarette on the balcony I could have said g'day to myself. And damn, just
saw an Andy Irvine poster. It's a horrible fluero yellow, but I want it anyway.
That damned, elusive, posterman.
At the ice-skating rink, Shannon's on the ice, with the light blue hire skates.
Found the place easily enough.
Yep, it's finished and she's wet, went for the big slide near the end, when
the ice is more like long, thin, cold puddles of water. Still, we get two plates
of chips from the cafe upstairs. Served on crockery plates, and not bad at all.
Steaming and greasy.
Mary Robinson is meant to be at Saint Michans this afternoon, but the place
looks locked and bolted, although there's a light on in the gatekeeper's house.
Somehow I expected the President's arrival to be heralded with a mass of preparations,
like security, and people rushing hither and yon, laying out all the sponge
cakes on trestle tables, or blowing up all the balloons in Irish colours. But
no, there's absolutely nowt going on here.
"I don't think she's comin'," says Shannon.
Yep, I agree.
Up past Merrion Square, on the William Wilde side, fantasizing about owning
one of those building with the wrought iron verandahs, and imagining sitting
up there, with an arsenal of 'foyerworks', as it's correctly pronounced, and
dropping them onto the heads of passing boyos, yelling "hey, catch !".
and the sweet young thing at the desk has just promised me an Andy Irvine poster,
just call back tomorrow. I will then. Then back, passing Adam and Eve's, with
the array of religious dolls. Little Jesus' with a red crown, little Jesus'
with a bleeding heart, and a load of Mary's, and a Bible Cookbook, and wondering
how many ways there are to cook loaves and fishes, maybe thousands, and maybe
there's a chapter on catering for a Last Supper.
On the way to Tower Records, there's some kiddie buskers doing their stuff outside
the lolly shop in Exchequer Street, while the adult buskers are outside the
Reading some of the magazines, Dirty Linen has an interview with the Roches,
bejaysus, Maggie Roche is a spunk, even her shoes are sexy, bet she wears red
Liam's giving my Pogues tape to some chick at Mount Temple.
So, whoever this 'really cool chick' may be, here's what you're getting.
| Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah (extended version)
The Gentlemen Soldier
Honky Tonk Woman
Young Ned of the Hills
Misty Morning, Albert Bridge
My Blue Heaven
Star of the County Down
Six To Go
Summer in Siam
Rainy Night in Soho
The Body of an American
Turkish Song of the Damned
Fairytale of New York
Thousands Are Sailing
Battle March Medley
"Alias 5 cool."
and just what the hell does that mean, Mr
and another 20 castles in County Clare just finished. Found the townlands for
all of them. What Westropp called Dunlecky was tricky, turned out to be Doonlickey.
Out the front of The Olympia, the huge De Danann poster has 'cancelled' written
across it. I cannot express my shock in words alone. Second time those bastards
have cancelled on me. I can't believe this. Not just one of the scheduled concerts,
but all three.
A bit of a student demo going on in Molesworth Street, with a tad more life
than the Farmers federation demo. Lots of whistle-blowing, and a stage, with
a band, who stop every time someone wants to make a speech, and each inaudible
declamation greeted with yells, whoops and more en masse whistles. There's jugglers,
stiltwalkers, a gorilla-suited idiot, there's students in white plastic coveralls,
all demanding an increase in their £42 a week allowance. Jaysus, £42.
I live on £20.
Ireland vs Portugal on the big screen.
In Lisbon it's 5 to 9, and the teams are on the ground. The Irish team look
beaten already, they look like boyos, the Portugese look like rock stars. The
national anthems get played.
it's on ..
no score ..
not yet ...
Nope, still 0-0 ..
Paul McAteer, my hero. Just get a goal, Paulie, now. I want a goal ...
Still nowt all ..
Dennis Irwin, yep, he's out of it. On his feet, but .. here comes the mobile
A yellow card for Phil someone ...
They missed ... ha ...
Another Irish injury, I think he's dead. No, he's off the stretcher and back
on the ground. An iron man ... SuperPaddy!
Half time, 0-0, and apparently, "everything's going to plan" ... some
Second half ..
Great Save !!
Another Great Save !!
Shit. A Portugese goal. And the flares are being lit around the stadium ..
Still goal-less. And "the sting" has gone out of the Irish centre,
Another Portugese goal, 2-0. The Irish boyos can only chase, and hope, and pray
Just one goal, please, just one ...
Close. But not enough. The Irish fans leaving the stadium in droves, apparently.
And, to the commentator, they're "grafting out the end of the game".
But not grafting well enough, I reckon, Portugal has just got another one, 3-0.
Please, just one, just one ...
That's it. Didn'ae even get the one goal, I think it's the baggy, hand-me-down
That's it fer you Jack - on yer bike then, you loser ...
An extract from one
of Westropp's essays
"To those who wish to follow it on the field, great are
the fascination and interest; for the wilderness blossom with flowers and ferns;
and the dainty colourings of the rock-ledges and their shadows, the lovely outlooks
to distant hills and out on the sea, the ivied cliffs, the spray of the waterfalls,
the loneliness, and the strange weird sounds on the uplands, here a vast and
lasting charm. No one fully realizes how he loves the strange hills, glens and
plateaux till, after absence, he feels the joy of returning to them again, no
matter how often this may recur."
'Prehistoric Remains (Forts and Dolmens) in the Corofin Dustrict, Co. Clare.
in Papers by Westropp Vol.4, p.233
- the old romantic!
And who said the man didn't have a soul ?
Just found Moyasta Junction, of Davy Spillane fame. It's in Co Clare. One road
of the junction leads to Kilkee, the other to Kilrush. Maybe Davy had a few
pints there, maybe got laid there, maybe wrote the tune to commemorate the occasion.
"Can you give me 30p. ?" some bloke almost whispered.
"Can you give me 30p. ?"
"No." And walk on, thinking why don't you give me money for a change,
why don't you just drop it in my pockets, and why don't you just go and feck
Up to the Olympia.
Nope, De Danann have not rescheduled. Those bastards can go and feck themselves
Tower Records, for a free Gavin Friday gig, and there was Gavin Friday, at my
feet, singing 'Angel', nearly tempted to buy Shag Tobacco on the strength of
that moment. Yeah, je suis l'roi. And Gavin Friday is not only a King, but a
Virgin Prune as well, once ...
Out here, it's -1 degree, predicted top of 8. And the divorce referendum is
"on a knife edge", with only 46% intending to vote yes, and 39% no,
while a whole bunch is "undecided".
On our way up Thomas Street, to IMMA, the modern art gallery.
The Brazen Head. Chips with gravy.
Hmm..made short work of those chips. Should've recorded the event and stuck
in the video's at IMMA. Performance Art. Calling for the questioning of the
place of art in everyday life, I reckon. So does drinking this Guinness. An
art work in itself.
Jaysus, what a wank that was. The best bit was C getting into a serious argumentative
discussion with some red-haired boyo, beginning with the opening gambit of "everything
here is crap !" Couldn't have said it better myself. It was.
Industrial photographs, thousands of 'em, factory facades, furnaces .. on and
on .. the performance artiste who gets off on cutting herself with razor blades,
taking drugs meant for the schizophrenic, and exchanging places with some prostitute
for the night. Next room, whips made from the long shorn tresses of Korean virgins.
The Nicaraguan photographs were good though, but the souvenir boxes were better.
By a long shot,
though, the photograph of the hand crushing the lily was the best, the
one used on the cover of the Lament CD.
by Nigel Rolfe, and it's one of the 'Blood of the Beast' triptych.
And I got a A for Liam's essay on Parnell, with the comment "This is an
excellent piece of work - Unique !". Fair enough, too, although I would
have given myself an A+.
The Lost Scrolls of Newgrange. Apparently, Newgrange was built to protect the
scrolls of Psorsis, the mathematician astrologer of Atlantis. Yeah, right ...
Well, kind of. Amos'n'Andy's is the first floor of a building that has
The House of Astrology at street level."It's a cold day!" yelled
some guy in Temple Bar to some other workmen,
"But not as cold as a colder day," came the reply.
But not as
cold as it was just after seven this morning. Jaysus, it's cold.
Liam's totally determined
to score the £10 voucher deal from Amos'n'Andy's. The first ten people
in the queue get one. He'd been there ten minutes before I arrived. Huddled
in the doorstep. Looking frozen through, like he'd been there all night and
was one of the hunry and homeless. Stayed a while. About five minutes.
Down Dame Street,
through to Grafton Street, I have to exchange a Nike Jacket that C bought for
Shannon. 45 minutes to kill 'til Champion Sports opens. Window shopping, clothes,
suits of brown, shoes, Pepe ads, the Brown Thomas window display with the Alice
in Wonderland theme, feeling envious of the hookah-smoking caterpillar, and
the musical accompaniment to the display is playing, wondering if it plays all
night too. There's breakfasters in MacDonalds. Naussau, and up Dawson, but the
bookshops are closed. Then into the mall. Just to get warm. A wander. Everything's
closed. And, jaysus, it's a 'Lifestyle' where C bought the jacket, not a 'Champion'.
Hell. Wait. More browsing. Eventually they open. In, explain. The only other
Nike jacket they have in stock is XXL, too big. So, the lovely Fiona rings the
other branch. And yep, they've heaps. So, up to Penney's, in O'Connell Street,
downstairs. Explain, again. And it's changed, and the Penney's woman unclips
the security lead. And out, feeling like The Miracle On O'Connell Street itself.
Down Abbey Street,
over the Ha'Penny Bridge, icey, slippery, but the old slag of a beggar is there,
rattling her icecream container vigorously, but I'm hoping her arse is frozen
stuck to the bridge.
Along the quays, and up Parliament. Liam's not there. Jaysus, maybe he's given
up and gone home, maybe rushed to the Meath Street hospital suffering acute
hypothermia? But some guy from The House of Astrology appears. I ask if he's
seen a boy, about 16 around. Yep, he's upstairs. They took pity on him. So too
did the road work crew, who said he could wait in their truck. Negligent parents,
They've taken pity on Liam, and thawed him out with a cuppa. He's been waiting
in the freezing cold for an hour or so, clutching the 'Free CD' token, clipped
from the Dublin Event Guide. Some people being allowed in, despite the 'closed'
sign. But some blonde tart appears and gives Liam the much-suffered for voucher.
Then, upstairs. The others turn out to be the Irish Beatles Fan Club, and they're
decorating the shop with Beatles paraphenalia. Taking great pains to position
the stuff just right, the black and white poster over the window. newspapers
from the day John Lennon was shot; a real live gold disc. Beatles music. We
have to wait.
The blonde tart takes the voucher, checks that Liam has thawed out, and he's
already nabbed the Oasis CD. And I had the second voucher, and bought myself
the greatest Planxty CD ever, The Woman I Loved So Well, for 99p.
Chapters has gone. The place where I tracked down Mad Sweeney is no more. Gone.
Replaced by another sports shop. So many sports shops in Dublin. You could understand
it if they were any good at sport. Like soccer.
Liffey Street, buy the Irish Independent and a couple of Lion Bars at the shop
near the Hags with the Bags. Ha'penny Bridge. The photographer belting old slag
of a beggar is still there. They may have to surgically remove her. Pathetic.
Almost as pathetic as the Moore Street 'Bosnian' granny and grand-daughter,
sitting on the steps of the Apollo, with palms turned upwards. Anyone with a
tan is calling themselves a Bosnian.
Odd how things work
"..do not stay in the flat," said a voice in my head, "go to
Temple Bar," it continued, "find Claddagh Records, read the notice
board .." So, I go, and, yep, up there, the last poster I read, Pierre
Bensusan. In Temple Bar. Trying to convince myself it's better than a De Danann
gig. Well, maybe not.
a little later
There's three drummers playing in Temple Bar Square, they'd rehearsed, they
knew the rhythms, knew what to do when .. again, felt like joining in, if they'd
had a spare drum, but, no, they didn't. To the Temple Bar Gallery. An exhibition
called 'Entwined Histories', prints. Two images in the same print, both small,
connect the two with your own imagination, a maze and a tree, a leg and a cut
of meat, others. Interesting, but a little samey. Still, better than anything
up at IMMA at the moment.
And there's absolutely no hurling matches on at all tomorrow, not in Dublin
anyway. In 'The Independent' there's an article on why Jack Charlton should
And back from the Cyber Cafe in South Great Georges. Playing on the Internet.
Couldn't call it surfing, more like dog-paddling. Finding out stuff like the
lists of favourite Irish CD's. Altan in the top two spots, apparently. Penguin
Cafe. Alan Stivell. The Cure's site took so long to load I ended up abandoning
Standing in the middle of Ballybough Road, holding a black flag. There's quite
a few thousand extra's here for the funeral scene of Some
There's an assembled throng of black flags, and I'm handed one as we arrived.
Take a place in a line across the road. Behind me is someone talking about the
other films he's been an extra in. Braveheart, apparently. Someone's yelling
instructions, inaudible over the ambulance siren. Yep, 10 minutes, then we're
going to do it all again. Walk slowly down Ballybough Road, looking sad. At
least I will be, along with all the other 11:00 people. Liam's knicked off to
be with the 7:00 people down the front. Jaysus, he's probably in the hearse
Waiting around. Some black flags are leaving. Some kids have put one through
a shop window. My thumbs have frozen. O'Neills' Pub, however grotty it looks,
looks mighty tempting. There's a billboard up there with the words:
is beannaithe iad
Slúd a bhful ocras
na córa rthu
I have no idea what
flags have disappeared. Still, I've made my contribution to the Irish film industry.
The Cyberplanet Internet Cafe on South Great Georges Street.
Finally got the words to a
few hours after this. The best
Cure song ever.
is beannaithe iad
Slúd a bhful ocras
(?) it (?) be/exist hunger
na córa rthu
(?) in the throes of death on/in
Talk back radio. And, once again, the topic is sex. Yer Irish just love talking
about it. This time, computer sex, Internet sex. Jaysus, been Internet surfing
three times now and nary a peep o' fanny, let alone the stuff that's meant to
be on there. The stuff that kids are meant to be able to find "with a couple
of clicks". These people must know exactly where to click. I'd better go
looking for it tomorrow.
The Beatles new single, now on the radio, wish they hadn't. maybe it's okay,
but it just kind of plods along, it's called Something Like a Bird or something.
Now what would have made it really interesting is if there'd been a new Elvis
Presley single released today too, "and in this corner ... The King !",
and see them battle it out for the 1 and 2 spots on the Top 40. Jaysus, there's
new Queen CD's, maybe we'll have new Doors, new Janis Joplin's, but Hendrix
has never really gone away anyway.
and my film debut has been captured in all its glory by The Irish Times. That's
me, down the back, carrying the black flag.
behind the bar, there's a 'Commitments' golden LP and CD.
Cybernet cafe. An Internet challenge from C.
How much does Australia earn in uranium sales to France ?
Took some finding but the answer's 272 tonnes in 1992. 272 tonnes projected for
1995. Bejaysus, Chirac's bombing of the Pacific meant nothing. We still keep
selling Chirac the stuff he wants to nuke us with.
On the News, Princess Di's "bombshell after bombshell - yes, I committed
adultery." Confession time for the Royals. Love it when they wash their
dirty, wet-spot stained linen in public. And for a country that hasn't been
part of the British Empire since the 1920's, and supposedly despises everything
English, the Irish certainly do like their Pincess Di. "Lovely girl, just
The guy whose job it is to keep the entrance leafless really has his work cut
for him this morning. Huge autumn leaves everywhere.
Cahercommaun is in the Townland of Tullycommon.
It's in Tullycommon too, but it''s actually Glencurran.
Moher Na Cartan is Mohernaglas, and that's in Knockans Upper.
While Mohernaglasha is Moherneglas, and it's in Slievenaglasha.
Clare Street. Greens, but on the other side, No.6. A woman entered. Wondered
if it's been kept as it was when Beckett lived there. A complete rathole.
Back at the Museum. Outside, though the IFA is marching up and down, while schoolgirls
are dancing in Grafton Street.
The other Mark that works here shows me a letter, written to the then Museum
Director, an Adolf Meagher, unanswered, as he'd returned to Germany to don the
Yep, have the Shane MacGowan poster, from my little freckled Colleen at Irish
Advertising. Two of 'em, in fact. Sinead Lohan has a Christmas gig at Whelan's
on the 23rd of December. Too bad, Sinead, I'm off to see Shane.
The directional sign that indicates that all traffic must turn at Bride Street
has been relentless kicked, the kicking continuing until well after it had ceased
to work, just mindlessly thumped, thumped, again and again. The kickers are
still over there, having just bought lollies from Gary's. They're hanging around on the corner, unable to speak to each other without
Now, they're leaving, up towards Bull Alley, while Gary has a hand-written notice
on his door, something £1, probably today's unsold milk.
And the feckin' French have just exploded their fourth one. Le Bâtards.
Wonder if there was any Australian uranium in this one.
last Night's session
was at the Oliver St John Gogarty, upstairs. The Auld Dub was closed, as the
owner's mother had died. The banjo player from Stockton's Wing, an idiot guitarist,
two pipers, a box player, another bodhran, and Tommy also on banjo. Does that
make ten? It was surprisingly quiet for ten. A tourist from Sydney, at the end
of the night, finally plucks up the courage to speak to me about the bodhran.
He reels back when he hears my accent.
"You're not Irish are you?"
Nearly got to vote in the Divorce Referendum. Mary suggested I could take the
place of her husband, who'll be out of the country, but she balked, later, when
I told her I'd actually do it.
Yep, it's in Murrooghtoolly North, Black head, County Clare.
And if I'd read the flyer about Tower Records £3 off CD's over £10
deal for the 24-26th November, I could've saved a heap. Damn. Feel so stupid.
That £3 could have gone a long way; a pint and a half, half of 'Ireland
on Three Million Pounds a Day', a seventh of 'Legendary Ireland', a serve of
fish'n'chips from Leo Burdocks, three mugs of Bewley's coffee, would've gotten
change from the next Cruachain gig at Behans, another Celtic hair-clip for C,
could've gotten a hair-up from the Moore Street goddess herself, six cuppas
at the National Museum, half a gig at Mother Redcaps, a new block of rosin to
replace the one that shattered, fifteen diaries at 15p each, or 6 at the price
of this one. Heaps o'stuff. Damn.
The Pope himself has entered the Divorce debate, predictably urging the 'no'
vote, and has been told to bugger off.
On the radio, Shane McGowan is singing "Cracklin' Rosie".
and Bill Clinton will only be in Ireland for one day. The Kerry and Limerick
itineraries have been cancelled. Pathetic.
And according to the new DEG, the tickets for the Odessa/Dervish gig on are
sale at the Amnesty International Shop. 48 Fleet Street. And, also according
to the DEG, the Pierre Bensusan concert is limited to an audience of 50. If
he sings I'll get spat on.
Yep, two tickets for Dervish and Odessa. Liam's coming too.
Todays Headline. "Pope Versus Bono". Love it. Could this be the Poper
news. Bono has abused Jacques Chirac, at some European Music Awards, "using
what can only be described as a vulgarity."
Apparently, it went:
"What a show !
What a city!
What a bomb! What a disaster!
What a (insert vulgarity here) you have as President!"
The GPO. No revolutions in progress. But we mailed the books we've bought back
to Australia, 22 kilos worth, £46. Bejaysus. The GPO Christmas display,
elves sawing wood, and the three wise men almost jitterbugging with excitement,
Santa replying to letters, a pregnant Mary, an empty crib. Maybe she was just
a chubby Mary and some local boyo has stolen the Jesus doll. Deserts and snowflakes.
It's kitsch, but a nice kind of kitsch.
The RHA Gallery. Upstairs. Works by Albert Irvin, who doesn't appear to have
developed much over the years. A one idea man. Large canvasses, paint applied
geometrically with what looks like a 6" house brush, using fleuro colours.
C "likes this stuff", I think it's a wank.
The Burning Beds exhibition at the Trinity, at the Douglas Hyde Gallery. Road
maps painted on children's beds. The journey of life, apparently. This is better.
Best, though, where the two body-stockinged people, totally black, apart from
lipsticked mouths protruding from a small slit, making kissy noises at everyone
that entered. Like kissing machines, kissing robots. My thoughts were on the
possible reaction if they got kissed back. They're a little scary, I guess,
these anonymous kissers. And they were being videotaped. Performance Art, I
"Red, green, or blue ?"
"Green, I think."
The next Gallery. The Design Yard. About a hundred plastic A4 sheets suspended
by fishing line from the ceiling. Clever, I suppose. I wonder if the Pope would
have been impressed if Michelangelo had decorated the ceiling of the Sistine
Chapel this way. I guess some artists use plastic sheets and others use paint.
I guess you use whatever talent you have. The next gallery had nothing but an
illuminated, but empty, fish bowl. In the tradition of Duchamp maybe.
Outside the Savoy, waiting for Liam.
The celebrities and well-heeled are arriving for the premiere of Goldeneye,
the James Bond movie. A line of stretch limos. The crowd ten deep, waiting for
a glimpse of Pierce Brosnan. There's one woman, stopping for the photographers,
flashflashflash, in a low cut dress. She looked like a dork.
Outside Dr Quirkeys, in O'Connell Street, waiting for 'tirteen' bus, to make
sure Daryl catches it home. In the window is the Sega Simulator, unused, although
the sign promises that 'people throughout the world' will enjoy it. Maybe somebody,
somewhere, actually enjoys the Sega Simulator.
Still here. There's a fight going on, over the road, outside the Burger King.
The garda just drove by, ignoring it completely.
Meanwhile, over at the Savoy, the crowds are gathering again for a glimpse of
the celebs as they emerge from Goldeneye.
Finally, the bloody tirteen bus arrives.
But they won't know the results of the Divorce Referendum until tomorrow, at
about 3:00pm. Apparently, 'lashing storms' prevented a lot of the West from
voting, and 40% didn't bother voting anyway, such is the concern with protecting
the rights of the minority.
The counting has begun. Currently it's running at 52% Yes, 48% No. Well, I guess
that just about wraps it up the the strangle hold the Catholic Church has over
the minds of the Irish. Guess the priests and bishops'll be packing their bags,
waving a tearful farewell to their ex-faithful flocks, and buggering off.
You cannot buy treacle in Dublin. Golden Syrup yes, treacle no.
Divorce Referendum. They've been counting all day and they've only managed a
quarter. Less than 1% difference, in favour of the Yes vote.
And next Friday, Bill Clinton will be presented with "the freedom of the
city" in College Green.
The result is 'imminent', and the difference 'neck and neck'. The No's slightly
in front at the moment. 51%, with two Dublin constituents left, both likely
Yes victories there.
Newsbreak. Those who want Ireland to become a more tolerant, caring community
50.2%, and those who want it to remain a bigoted, stuck in a boghole closed
Odessa and Dervish. Fight my way to the bar, "two pints of Guinness."
Fight my way back, stairs are slippery, make it.
"Stay cool about it," I tell Liam.
"Do I look eighteen under these lights ?"
Well, not really, but tonight's the night for his first pint, and this is the
bejaysus, don't the audience just adore Dervish, and don't they just deserve
that adoration, with the song 'Maire Mhor' being introduced, with, typically,
an explanation, and this time a song "from the times before divorce".
To roars of approval.
The songs, Maire
Mhor, and the one about being up the rigging again or something, the sean-nos
Dear Sweet Dublin in the encore. And the thunderous tunes. At the end, the two
dancers. A glass falls from someone else's table and shatters where the dancers
are, but they haven't noticed, and I'm madly trying to clear away the broken
glass before it gets danced on. One dances on it anyway, but she doesn't notice,
and keeps dancing with bloody feet. I guess Dervish does that to you. A band
that people would dance on broken glass for. Afterwards, she's picking the tiny
shards out of the soles of her feet.
And the referendum results was just a tad over 9,000 votes out of 1,600,000
voters. Close, and if the voters out in the West hadn't been hampered getting
to the polls by torrential weather, it might have been defeated. Maybe it was
God speaking, telling the bigots to stay home.
Down to O'Connell
Street. And somebody's souvenired one of the three wrought iron arches from
the Ha'penny Bridge, the one on the North side. Maybe souvenired, maybe just
been thrown into the Liffey. But, I'm thinking that some rather nice souvenirs
would include the Museum sign above the front gate, and maybe the Bewleys fireplace,
and most definitely the Henry Street hair-wrapping goddess.
The Long Hall. Not many in here, yet. In the corner, a mother, daughter
and grandchild in a pusher pram, and a few others down the other end of
the bar, and us.
Obscure fact. Dermot MacMurrough arranged to have nuns raped, so they couldn't
be nuns anymore. I didn't know that.
Meanwhile, it continues to be foul and rotten outside, equal to the day we finally
got possession of the Tailors Court apartment.
Whelans, for Andy Irvine.
At least I didn't have to queue up outside, like normal. Over there, there's
a couple on the steps. Oh, to be young and in love. She's rather pretty, and
The support act, Eiglish Moore was crap. Sickly sentimental songs about Innisfree.
Enjoyed the gig, although he didn't play the hurdy-gurdy this time, and his
playing seems a bit more restrained, but far more political this time too. James
Connolly, Michael Davitt and Woody Guthrie all got a mention. Johnny Moynihan
was in the audience, Lintheads and miners, and yep "you fascists bound
to lose", and a mention of Planxty after the first song, and quite a lot
from the Patrick Street repertoire. Manassas Green Glade. Maybe, when he played
in Melbourne back in 1984, it was the whiskey being consumed on stage for 'medicinal
purposes only' that led to the monster, berserker versions of the instrumentals.
Not this time. Pity, I really enjoyed the Melbourne gig more.
Trying to buy a comb. C's decided she needs one. Should be easy enough. But,
nope, the pharmacy in Patrick Street doesn't have the right kind, it's suggested
that I try a travellers shop. Down to Wicklow Street, the Beaten Track. Nope
again. Try Brown Thomas in Grafton Street, nope, they wouldn't have a clue,
but try the 'womens accessories', nope, then the barber shop downstairs. Fascinating,
but nope. Another chemist, Conynghams. Yep, combs.
Christmas Pudding is being prepared in the kitchen.
News. Some kind of
breakthrough in the peace process, which involves the US administration telling
John Major to give Sinn Fein some slack. Yes, John, it's that bloody obvious.
Irish Times Office
and without any hassle they hand over the two double passes to some film that's
having a pre-screening next Saturday. Liam ripped the 'special offer' from the
Grafton Street Bewleys.
It's really belting down outside, so this Bewleys will have to do. Don't really
like it all that much, compared to the Westmoreland
Street one. Being told to move by someone as we were "in
the way". In the way? How could we feckin' be in anybody's way since we're
sitting at a table?
weather," Raghnall says, "God is not pleased with the referendum result."
Maybe God is not pleased with the number of No votes, I reckon.
and Andy couldn't see that the terms of the divorce debate were small fry, that
the scope should have been widened to question the role of the Church in State
matters. Nope, and apparently I missed the main question, wether divorce is
good or bad for society. This can't be serious. Why should the adherents to
one religious dogma be allowed to determine what is good or bad? Bigots. That
the Church should have no role in the affairs of State is utterly beyond comprehension.
But I'm just a pagan anyway, I guess.
Westropps in one morning. And what was Westropp doing a week after the
Easter Rebellion? Taking photographs of St Colman's Cathedral and Round Tower
in Cloyne, County Cork.
But, out there, in Molesworth Street, the sheep farmers are getting restless.
Whistles, this time, and lots of 'hip hip's' for the Claremen and the Limerickmen
and the Corkmen.
must really hate that tree."
"I do, I really do," replied the man whose job it is to rake up
its fallen leaves every morning. Piles of leaves.
TJW15:73. The first
Westropp of the day. Ballygally Castle in Antrim. Which I think was also the
name of the castle in The Island Of Nose (a truly wonderful children's book
by Jan Marinus Verburg).
And while there's a Ballygally in County Down and one in County Galway, County
Waterford has a Ballygally itself as well as a Ballygally East and a Ballygally
West. But no Ballygally's in County Antrim. Damn.
Because it's Ballygalley, with an 'e'. And the Giant's Causeway is in the townland
of Aird, and is why isn't the Skerries Windmill in the townland of Skerries
Because it's in Townpark, obviously. Jaysus, took nearly all day to find it.
News. Bill Clinton's
on his way. He'll be in Belfast first, John Major's been telling him how hospitable
the Irish are, apparently it's 'second nature' to them. And, over Dublin, there's
an 'air blanket' zone. Security has gone berserk, apparently. Wonder if they'll
close the pubs, like they did for Reagan. Now there's something to really get
up the nose of yer local Dub.
Not much evidence of the security blanket that's been thrown over Dublin's city
centre. Unless the guy unwrapping his newly-bought Mars Bar in Stephen Street
near Aungier Street was a cunningly disguised semtex expert, or the blue woollen
glove dropped outside the Museum on Kildare Street is actually a state of the
art surveillance device.
Mount Venus dolmens (in Woodtown townland), and Glendruid (in Foxrock), and
the Walnut Tree in Tallaght. Otherwise, nothing really interesting, except that
Inchigoill appeared, but typically, only a few pictures of the structures there,
impressive enough, entirely missing the beauty of the place.
"Nollaig Shona", a Happy Christmas, in Irish, wished to me by the
Dublin Corporation, and about time I got some acknowledgment. It's not just
Bill that's graced your shores this year, Paddy.
O'Connell Street is bedecked with Irish and American flags and bunting. Hey
Billy, bend over, so the Irish can kiss yer arse a little easier.