Goodwill to all men and women

At this time of year I remember a story that Joe Horgan told me. Joe got it off a postman who drinks in the bar in Kinsella's.

It was a few weeks before Christmas and the lads in the sorting office got a letter addressed to Santa. They opened it and found that it wasn't from a child but from an old woman living over near Oliver Bond flats.

'Dear Santy,' the letter said. 'I'm in a bit of a bad way. I'm behind on me rent and I'm afraid that they'll cut off the gas and electric if I don't pay them something. I haven't a friend or relation left alive to me, so the Christmas is going to be miserable. If I had £100, it'd be the difference between having some kind of a Christmas and ending up in the poorhouse. I'm at me wits end, and I don't know who to turn to for help - but you Santy. You're me last hope. '

The lads in the sorting office in Sheriff Street are as tough a bunch of desperadoes as you'll meet, but tears were shed when they read that letter. They immediately got up a collection between them and sent the woman £90 with a little card from 'Santa' thanking her for her letter and wishing her a very Happy Christmas.

The first week of the New Year they got another letter addressed to Santa in the same shaky hand.

'Dear Santa,' it said. 'Thank you very much for answering me last letter. It was really very kind of you to help me, and it made all the difference to me over the Christmas. I was able to get in a bit of food and a few bottles of stout, as well as paying a bit off what I owe on the rent, the gas and the ESB. I just wanted to tell you that the robbing bastards in the Post Office took a tenner out of it.'

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The power of silence

Peggy sometimes goes to the bingo with a woman called Carmel Behan. Carmel is married to a big lug known to one and all as '5 Seconds' because that is the approximate length of his fuse. He is one of the few Dubliners I've ever come across who was born without the ability to debate and discuss at length. After drawing on his limited vocabulary to issue his point of view, he rests his case. If a counter-argument is put forward, he seethes silently for about five seconds, and then belts its proponent.

On more than one occasion poor oul Carmel presented herself at Dr Lawlor's suffering from contusions and abrasions inflicted on her when 5 Seconds came home from Magowan's. Lawlor started off giving her his usual combination of blue, pink and brown tablets, but when that was having no effect, he decided on a different approach.

'This is what I want you to do, Mrs Behan,' he said. 'When your husband is coming back from the pub, as soon as you hear his key in the lock, take a mouthful of warm sweet tea, and swish it around in your mouth.'

Carmel was confused. 'Tea, Doctor? Drink a mouthful o' tea?'

'No,' said Lawlor. 'Don't drink it. Keep swishing it around your mouth. Whatever you do, don't swallow it. Not until your husband has gone off to bed.'

Carmel was bemused, but she gave it a go. And guess what? Peggy says that he hasn't laid a finger on her since.

So if you come into Magowan's and see me and the lads swishing stout around our gobs, while 5 Seconds is talking, you'll know why.


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Jem Kennedy RIP

I was at a great funeral last week. It was the best day out I've had in ages. The dearly departed was Jem Kennedy, who will be sadly missed by the publicans of the Daymo. Possibly by his missus, Rose, too, who seemed oddly fond of him - probably because he didn't come home very often. I often think this is the key to a happy marriage, as absence makes the heart grow fonder, and familiarity breeds contempt. My own dear wife, Peggy, worships the ground that I walk on, but only on the strict condition that that ground is as far away from her as possible.

In his younger days, Jem's interests and pleasures were wide and varied. He was always fond of the drink, and would eat all around him. If he couldn't eat it, he would set fire to it and smoke it. He liked to play cards, and would back horses, dogs, cats ... in fact he would have a bet on anything. Most of all, Jem Kennedy was a renowned ladies' man, known as the Gary Cooper of the Coombe. They used to say that he'd get up on the crack of dawn, whatever that meant.

In his latter years, Jem became a pale shadow of the man he once was. He came to look more like Gary Glitter than Gary Cooper, but he still tried it on with any female who came within range.

He spent his last few weeks in hospital suffering from some form of galloping dysentery. I'm not sure if he died or dissolved.

Back in Magowan's pub, after his remains had been poured into the grave, we were lining up to offer our sympathies to Rose.

'Ah, God love ya, ya poor craytur,' said some old Crone, who had shoved in ahead of me.

'Thanks very much,' said Rose. 'I'll miss him. I will.'

'Ah ya will o' course,' said the Crone. 'Ah bu' isn't he at peace now, the poor man, after all his pain.'

'Tha's true, it is,' sniffed Rose. 'He suffered enough.'

The oul-wan drew herself closer to Rose, and asked in a lowered voice:

'Tell us this - is it true tha' he died o' the diarrhoea?'

Rose jumped up and at the top of her voice said:

'He did NOT die o' diarrhoea. He died o' GONORRHOEA. Jem was an OUL SPORT - not an OUL SHITE!'

You can buy the hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers - especially the excellent Owl Bookshop in Kentish Town, London NW5, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com

Frankie's early career

When I was a young fella there was very little work going in Dublin and you had to be willing to turn your hand to whatever was available. I blagged my way into a plumbing job once, but that ended in tears - well, not tears exactly - more of a deluge when I turned a nut left when I should have gone right. I was a fishmonger, a bike repairer and a lorry driver's mate. I even thought of joining a convent except I didn't think I'd get through the medical. But the easiest job I ever had was in Dublin Zoo.

I replied to an ad in the Herald looking for a general assistant. I was interviewed by the man who looked after the apes and monkeys.

'Wha' I'm goin' to tell ya is highly confidential,' he said.

'Whatever ya have to tell me will go to the grave with me,' I assured him.

'Well, it's like this,' said he. 'Our male gorilla - Buster - is after dyin'. He's very popular. If the word gets out tha' he's brown bread, it'll do awful damage to the gate receipts.'

I thought he was going to ask me to bury or stuff the poor animal.

'Wha' I want ya to do, Mr Flynn,' he said, 'is to put on a gorilla suit, go into the compound, swing aroun', eat a few bananas... Ya know the kind o' thing.'

I did and to make a long story short, I took it on. And if Buster was popular before, I don't mind telling you that he was a big hit now. Real gorillas are all well and fine, but they're lazy bastards. They sit around all day scratching their arses and not much else. As a conscientious employee, and in all fairness a bit of a show-off - I threw myself into it. I made faces. I pranced around. I swung off the ropes like feckin' Tarzan. The kids in particular were delighted with me. There was even a spot on RTE television when they discussed breeding from me.

It all went great until one day, I got a bit carried away swinging on the ropes. I let go at the top of a swing, flew over the fence, and landed on my head in the compound next door. When I could gather myself, all I could see was a bloody great lion bearing down on me.

'Help! Help!' I yelled, trying to get the gorilla costume off. The lion pounced and pinned me to the ground. He was all teeth, claws and hot breath. I said my last Act of Contrition and committed my soul to my maker.

'Shut up, ya feckin' ejjit,' said the lion, 'or ya'll get us all sacked.'


You can buy the hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers - especially the excellent Owl Bookshop in Kentish Town, London NW5, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com

Scottish Irish Unification

I was talking to Ginger Celtic in Magowan's last night about the Jock Referendum. As you know Ginger yields to no man in his adoration of Glasgow Celtic Football Club. Having attended many home games, he regards himself as an authority on all things Scottish.

'So wha' do ya make of it all then?' I asked him.

'I'll tell ya,' says he. 'This has bin comin' for a long time. Whether they say yes or no, there'll be a split.’

'A split? Bu' after the vote, won't they all get back to workin’ together like feckin’ ants?' I said to get him going.

'Not at all,' he spat, like I was an eejit. 'Hell hath no fury like a Scotsman with a bee in his bonnet. They're like the shower in the North. Irreh - whatyacallit?'

'Irritatin',' I said.

'No - irreconcilable. Tha's it. There'll be no peace there. The Yessers won't give up, and neither will the Unionists. Eventually they'll split the place up, with the Yessers comin' in with us, and the Noers stayin' with yer man Cameron.'

'Comin' in with us? Whatya mean?'

'It stands to reason. The Yessers all the Gaelic gang. We're all Celts. They want to stay in the EU, fly the flag, and give the two fingers to England. Sure we're like peas in a pod.'

I warmed to the idea.

'The oul oil will be handy, right enough.'

'An' between us, we'll have a better football team.'

'Well roll on the Republic of Ireland an' a lump o’ Scotland then,' I said.

Remember where you heard it first!

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Frankie is on holidays

A uniform is the mark of authority

A uniform is the mark of authority. Put a man in a hi-viz jacket and he will be obeyed like the emperors of old. The notable exception being bored members of the Garda Siochana holding up the walls of the GPO who manage to make a uniform look like a badly tied up potato sack.

Back in the day the hi-viz jacket hadn't been invented, and we had to make do with a peaked cap. Me and Joe Horgan had one each and we regularly delighted in reorganising the cinema queues outside the Savoy and the Carlton. Once we told people lined up outside the Plaza that the showing had been cancelled by the Department of Health due to an infestation of something. This was more plausible than you might think! They all dutifully trooped off, and me and Joe went in and had the place to ourselves. The management must have been mystified.

Another time we diverted traffic coming down the North Circular Road into a cul de sac. This was great fun until the cul de sac got full and people realised what we were up to. We would have been lynched only that the irate motorists couldn't leave their cars and chase us very far.

A great little money-spinner used to be helping drivers to park their cars in Parnell Square. This was before the Corpo muscled in on the parking racket and put in meters, clamps and their own extortionist employees.

The drill was to make a big show of guiding a driver into a parking spot, opening the door for him or her, and then offering to 'look after' the car while they were away. There were a lot of break-ins to cars back in those days, stealing radios and the like. The unspoken suggestion was that if they didn't pay a suitable fee, that something very bad might happen to their pride and joy. The great majority smiled grimly and coughed up. This was especially the case if they were visitors. The best were culchies up to see a match in Croker, who had heard and believed terrible stories about Northside gougers.

One smart-aleck - obviously a local citizen who knew the score - said to Joe:

'No, y'are alright. I won't be long, an' there's a rottweiler sittin' in the back seat.'

Without batting an eyelid, Joe responded:

'Puts out fires, does he?'


You can buy the hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers - especially the excellent Owl Bookshop in Kentish Town, London NW5, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com