Jose Mourinho and pub landladies

I was in Magowan's on Tuesday watching the Chelsea match with Paddy Mulhall. Paddy knows about as much about football as I do about the workings of the female brain.

'Tha' fella Josey Mooringo is an awful gobshite,' he said.

'What are ya talkin' about?' I said. 'Sure hasn't he won the Premiership, the Champions League ... the lot. He could probably get Wicklow to win the All Ireland football if he put his mind to it.'

'Don't be ridiculous. Wha' would a Spaniard know about the gaah?'

'Tha' doesn't matter. It's all abou' man management. Motivation. Knowin' when a player needs a pat on the back or a kick up the arse. Anyway, he's not from Spain. He's a Portugeezer.'

'Same thing,' says Paddy. 'Anyway, I think he's useless. He can't hold down a feckin' job.'

Our analysis was interrupted by a drunk who fell in through the door, and made for the bar. Betty Magowan clocked him immediately. She stood waiting for him to park himself, which he just about managed like an aeroplane landing in a hurricane.

'Yes?' Betty asked him, at a temperature far lower than her normal warm greeting.

His chin seemed to be stuck to his chest, so it was hard for him to speak clearly.

I thought I heard 'Gizapint', and I provided a translation.

'He wants a pint,' I explained.

'Does he now?' Betty asked. She addressed the man directly and loudly.

'Ya'll get no drink in here. Ya've had enough. Now g'wan an' take yerself home like a good man.'

The drunk may not have had all of his wits about him, but he got the message. Betty has been in the game for years, and is as adept at this stuff as Josey is at the half-time team talk.

The man looked around to remind himself where the exit was. With a great effort he pushed off and just about got there after bouncing off Paddy and a few items of loose furniture. He clattered through the door, and via the window we could see him moving slowly along outside, clinging to the building like he was on a high ledge. He disappeared around the corner, and a minute later he slid in through the door of the lounge. We could see him clearly from our side.

He managed to weave his way up to the bar, just before Betty spotted him.

'Gizapint,' he said again, this seeming to be the limit of his conversation.

Betty is not used to having her writ challenged, and would want to quash any notion amongst the rabble that such a thing might be tolerated.

'I told ya,' she said. 'Ya're gettin' no drink in here. Now get yerself out to hell, before I come 'round to ya.'

The man unglued his chin from his chest, and eyed Betty.

'Jaysus,' he said. 'Do you run all the bleedin' pubs aroun' here?'

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

Jesus' message to His Apostles

Our Angela had the kids up at the school on Tuesday for the Easter assembly. It was a fairly sedate affair - not like the state of chassis at the Christmas Fair, when I was roped into being Santy and ended up assaulted and mauled by a mad dog! I still wake up screaming in the night from it. I'm sure that I have post dramatic stress disorder. I'm going to make a claim when I get my strength back.

Anyway, at the assembly they sang a few hymns, did a bit of drama, and Father Collins gave a talk about the real meaning of Easter. (It's not easter eggs, apparently.) As part of his talk, he asked the kids a string of questions - audience participation, they call it. You know the kind of thing:

Q -  'Were all the apostles nice men?'
A - 'Nooooooo!'
(Judas must have been out of town when Jesus was doing the miracles, because he was obviously unconvinced, and planning on giving up discipling and on taking up being a publican or a tax collector or some similar villainy.)

Fr. C. asked the kids what was the VERY IMPORTANT THING that Jesus had told the Apostles to do at the Last Supper.

Angela said that her stomach took a lurch when she saw her kid Chandler's hand shooting up.

Chandler had never shown much of an interest in religion before, and Angela feared the worst. Chandler is about six or seven, but is as sharp as a fishmonger's knife.

'Yes,' said the Rev C., like the eejit that he is.

Chandler stood up in front of the whole school, teachers, parents, the lot - and not a bother on him.

'So what did Jesus say to the Apostles at the Last Supper,' Fr C. repeated the question for all clarity.

'He said: "Yis better get aroun' this side o' the table if yis want to be in the picture".'

Of course, I got blamed.


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

Seven-a-day risks the future of mankind

Our Tommy - my useless son-in-law - was going on at me about healthy living. He's a vegetarian and he hasn't had a drink since little Margaret was born when he badly disgraced himself. He's had every ailment known to man, and a few no one ever heard of. And he has the neck to give ME advice on healthy living!

'Ya need to eat seven-a-day.' he said. 'Tha's the requirement now.'

I looked at him with an expression which I hoped conveyed a brew of disinterest, suspicion and contempt.

'Seven?' I asked. 'Seven feckin' wha'?'

'Vegetables,' he said. 'Portions o' vegetables.'

'Are there seven vegetables?' I asked - myself as much as him. I could think of potatoes, carrots, peas, cabbage and turnips. After that I was struggling.

'Y'are allowed fruit as well, but they're not as good.'

'Is tha' a fact?' I said, not greatly impressed. 'An' who in the name of all tha's good an' holy is comin' out with this shite?'

Tommy hadn't a breeze.

'Scientists,' he said. 'Researchers. Experts. It was on RTE.'

'RTE!' I said. 'Ah well, why didn't ya say? Jaysus Tommy, would ya ever cop on to yerself? A feckin' horse wouldn't eat tha' much vegetation. Seven portions a day! Ya'd have to get up at five in the mornin' to make a start. An' wha' abou' yer ozone layer? If we all ate tha' much veg, we'd fart the planet into a different feckin' orbit. An' where would we be then? I'll tell ya where. Freezin' our arses off out beside Neptune. Tha's where.'

'I've only one word to say to ya now Tommy, an' ya can make out of it whatever ya like,' I said.

'Wha's tha'?' he asked, showing that even a gobdaw like him can have a thirst for knowledge.

'Rashers!' I said.

I know. It was probably laying pearls before swine, but what more could I do?


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

The fate of Dublin's homeless

One of the lads in Magowan's had to throw his son out of the family home to fend for himself. This was due to pressures on the available space, a father's understandable aim to encourage a young man to develop independent living skills, and because skangers kept coming to the door to buy drugs off the little fecker.

After spending a while braving the elements on Dublin's streets, Joey - that was his name - presented himself at the City's housing department looking for a roof, and ideally four walls. The housing officer explained that Joey had no chance as he wasn't a single mother, was without any obvious disability and couldn't claim to be pregnant. However, he was able to offer a one-bedroom cottage in County Clare, which is somewhere on the western coast beside (or possibly in) the Atlantic. Apparently the government is keen to populate such wildernesses, and as there are spare buildings going, it might be regarded as what they call nowadays a 'win-win situation'.

Joey had never been further west than Clondalkin, and he didn't think much of that, but he said that he would give it a lash.

He couldn't believe how bleak the place was. It was at least twenty miles beyond the back of beyond. The house was surrounded as far as the eye could see with rocks and green stuff. There was only one other house that he could see, and after he had settled in, he decided to pay a visit.

He was amazed to find a fellow Dub living there. The guy was a middle-aged character who had been moved from Dublin in an earlier resettlement campaign a few years previously. He couldn't have been more welcoming. Within minutes Joey was sipping Jameson by the fire, and they were chatting away like they'd been in school together.

'This is feckin' fantastic,' yer man said. 'I'll tell ya wha' I'm goin' to do. I'll throw a hooley on Saturday night to welcome ya to the area. It'll be great! We'll have a great night. A bit o' grub, a few scoops ... an' a load o' sex!'

Joey thought that things were looking up. Maybe the place wouldn't be so bad after all.

'Y'are very good to go to all tha' trouble,' he said. 'I'll bring a few bottles. Wha's the dress code down here anyway?'

'Ya can wear wha' ya like,' said yer man. 'Sure there'll jus' be the two of us.'


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