Losing blood in Dublin's hospitals

I don't like hospitals. I'm not even keen on going in with other people, or visiting them. But if I'm the patient, I get an immediate and chronic dose of the galloping heebie jeebies - which is not like me at all. Courage is my middle name. Send me out to fight packs of mad dogs or platoons of armed men, and Frankie Flynn is your man every time. I laugh in the face of danger, spit in the eye of fear.

On the other hand, a little nurse with something sharp and pointy in her hand can turn my bowels to mush.

It just seems to me to be a completely unnatural situation. If someone is going to stab you with a needle or cut you open, the thing you want to do is to belt them in the kisser and run away; not sit there like a fish on a slab and let them get on with it, no bother.

One time last year I had to go up to A and E in the Northside General to have a splinter taken out of my thumb. I was doing something very technical with a bit of sandpaper - that only true working class people would understand, so I won't go into it here. Anyway, it went horribly wrong, and I ended up with this splinter right down the middle of my thumb.

'Splinter'! - What am I talking about? It was the size of a small plank! Peggy brought me up to the hospital and she had to get a porter and a nurse to help drag me in from the car park.

It took four of them to hold me down in the treatment room to get the splinter out. When they were finished, there was blood everywhere - on their uniforms, on the floor, up the walls...

At lease half of it was mine.


The hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' is now available as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com

Murder and the Late Late Show

I used to be very friendly with a man called Bartle Fogarty who used to drink in Magowan's until he had to move to the Southside. The reason he had to go was on doctor's orders, for the good of his wife's health.

Everyone: adult, child and dog in the street knew Eileen Fogarty. She used to get on the buses going through the Daymo and do the air stewardess's talk about the emergency exits and 'in the event of a sudden decompression an individual oxygen mask ...'

She had the Guards worn out investigating murders that she would confess to. The closest they ever came to finding a body was a spider that had been bludgeoned to death with a large flat implement, possibly a shoe.

At mass on a Sunday, instead of sleeping through Fr Collins' sermons like a good Catholic, she would stand up and tell him where he was going wrong. He threw her out of confession once after she spent an hour confessing to all her murders, and asking forgiveness for bad-mouthing the Late Late Show. As he led her out of the church, he said: 'Listen to me Mrs Fogarty. I'm telling you that that's not a sin.  The whole country bad-mouths the Late Late Show. It's what it's there for. Now like a good woman will you go, and don't come back to me until you've done something terrible.'

The final straw for poor oul Bartle was when she started her daily swims in the nip in the canal. By the third day, she had hundreds of on-lookers, and the traffic was grid-locked for miles around.

Dr Lawlor told Bartle that the problem was her environment. He said that there was too much stimulation for Eileen in the Daymo, and that the best thing to do was to move to somewhere quieter. Bartle didn't want to go, but he had to make the sacrifice. He originally came from some place on the Southside near Terenure, and he decided to go back there. And off they went.

Poor Eileen died within a month from sheer boredom.

The hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' is now available as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com

Harnessing rat power

The Daymo has a large, successful and prosperous rat population. Trapping them has been a source of harmless amusement for the lads around here since Adam was a boy. There's a lot of expertise involved, involving bait, snares and cages. The challenge has always been how to turn this knowledge and effort into a profitable enterprise. There's not much of a market for rats, dead or alive.They are neither ornamental nor tasty.

A few summers ago, some of the Daymo's more criminally inclined geniuses came up with a novel idea. They would wait near traffic lights for lone women in cars. As the weather was good, these ladies would often have left a window or a sunroof open. A few inches was plenty enough.

As soon as the car stopped at the lights, the lads would insert a selection of live rats. The rats, being rats, would squeal and jump around - as is their nature. The women, being women, would squeal and jump around - as is THEIR nature. 

Drop a rat onto a woman's lap, and nine times out of ten she won't be pleased about it. She'll want to put distance between herself and the rat, pronto.

Anyway the clear consensus among the women affected, was that the thing to do was to throw open the car door, jump out, and run away. This left the way clear for the lads to do a bit of looting and pilfering - as is THEIR nature.

People started to notice and comment. The general feeling was that aspects of this new local enterprise initative were commendable, but generally that it was a public nuisance, and needed to be discouraged. The Cruelty to Animals people had some objection, and had the biggest impact on putting the kibosh on the thing. It being the summer, there wasn't much else happening, and new cases were in the paper every day. A campaign against it got going. 

The Garda Síochána, stirred into action, made a study of the matter. Eventually they issued a statement, recommending what should be done:

'Our advice to motorists is to carry on, and take your chances with the rats.'

There's no better present for St Patrick's Day than a copy of It's a Desperate Life,available now from Amazon, etc., or through http://peterhammondauthor.com

St Patrick's Day in Dublin

I always enjoy St Patrick's Day. There's the parade, a bit of a stretch in the evenings, and horses running at Cheltenham. I think that's where St Patrick came from, but I'm not sure about that. They say that he cleared all the snakes out of Ireland, but I'm not sure about that either. There's a few living around here, and if they're not exactly snakes, they're very close relations.

The great thing about the Day is that it's an opportunity to go out and have a good few pints to toast the Saint. It's a kind of religious duty - you'd have no luck for the year if you didn't do it. Even the lads who give it up for Lent suck up a few on Paddy's Day. They're like camels at an oasis.

On the other hand, you have to put up with Yanks and other eejits infesting the city looking for the authentic (is that the right word?) Irish experience! Jaysus! If any of them stop me in the street and ask me where to go, I send them to Temple Bar. That's what it was made for - to keep them all together, singing the Fields of Feckin' Athenry, and leaving the rest of us in peace. It's like an Irish Disneyland for tourists. There should be a fence around it, and shuttle buses to and from the airport.

You'd never get a tourist in Magowan's except on St Patrick's Day, when nowhere is safe. Last year two huge Yanks in green suits came in, and after taking a photo of the old-time charm that is the bar, they asked Betty Magowan for two pints of the black stuff. As Betty turned to get them, one of the lads said:

"Hey Mam! Can you make sure that my glass is clean?"

Betty gave yer man a look that was like a fistful o' salt thrown at a snail.

They continued to savour the ambience, until Betty came back with the pints.

"Now gents," says she. "Which one o' yis wanted the clean glass?"

There's no better present for St Patrick's Day than a copy of 'It's a Desperate Life', available now from Amazon, etc., or through http://peterhammondauthor.com

Feeling sad?

The experts say that if you're feeling sad, anxious or depressed, the last thing ya want is to go near the drink, which by all accounts will only make you worse. They recommend exercise, psychobabble, and fruit tea!

Did you ever in all your life? Who are these bloody people? Have they never had a pint? I have yet to meet the man who wouldn't have his spirits lifted by the comradeship and the excellent scoops available in Magowans - and other leading providers of quality ales and spirits.

Now I'm not talking about overdoing it, which would be wrong. But five or six gentle pints are a balm to the soul, an aid to the digestion, and a support to the economy.

It reminds me of the time when Timmy Nolan and his missus were both suffering something horrible with the depression. Back then, Timmy usen't hardly drink at all, which proves my point entirely.

He told me that it got so bad that the two of them decided to do away with themselves, in one of them suicide pacts. She went first - Timmy always being the gent - and immediately after, funny enough, he started to feel better!

"Feck it, I'll soldier on," he said.

And he's been grand since. But he's careful to come to Magowan's every night just in case of a relapse.

The hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' is available as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all good booksellers, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com

Of cats and men

Years ago when we lived in the tenements in Mountjoy Square, we had neighbours living down in the back parlour, called the Coyles. Danny Coyle was a docker. The work was hard and the money scarce.

One Friday evening he arrived home after a hard week, looking forward to a nice dinner. The wife, Molly, met him at the door with bad news.

"There's no dinner. I only had enough to buy a mackerel," she said.

"WHAT?" he roared. We could hear him even though we were two floor up at the front with the telly blaring.

Molly explained to him what happened.

"I ordered two bags o' coal, bu' when the men were deliverin' it the parrot said: 'Make it ten', an' they put in ten bags, an' I had to pay them, so there was no money left for the dinner. Only for a mackerel."

She managed to tell the story before Danny exploded. He charged over to the parrot's cage, grabbed the bird by the throat and pulled it out. He proceeded to give it a right battering, kicking the poor thing from one end of the room to the other, and back again. Then he opened the window, and threw the parrot out. It landed in the yard, and lay on the ground with not a twitch out of it.

While all this was going on, the cat ate the mackerel.

Danny went ballistic. He grabbed the cat, and gave it an even worse beating than the parrot got, ending up by firing it through the window too. What was left of the animal landed beside the parrot.

After a minute, the parrot stirred, looked over at the cat, and said:

"Jaysus! How many bags o' coal did YOU order?"

The hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' is available now as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all good booksellers, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com