To all Irish folk... and those who wish they were!

from Walt, Poor Len [and Ed.! Ed.]

Sure and `tis is a good likeness o' himself, too!

Happy Saint Patrick's Day

Walt, Poor Len [and Ed.! Ed.]

wish all our readers, Irish or Irish wannabes

HAPPY SAINT PATRICK'S DAY!

May the wind at your back

always be your own.

And now for something completely Irish...

Myles na gCopaleen was the nom de plume of Flann O'Brien, a columnist for the Irish Times before and during World War II. That's a bit like saying that Walter Cronkite was a reporter for CBS News. Many Irishmen [and Irishwomen! Ed.] bought the paper for no other reason than to see whose ox was the latest to be gored by Mr O'Brien's alter ego.

Myles na gCopaleen sometimes wrote in Irish, at a time when doing so was neither popular nor profitable. He held that the Irish language had far more colour and richness than the language imposed on the Emerald Isle by the English occupiers. He supported with a heart-and-a-half the movement to revive the language. Here is an excerpt from the section of The Best of Myles entitled "Irish and Related Matters".

Irish...provides through its literature and dialects a great field for the pursuit of problems philological, historical and ethnological, an activity agreeable to all men of education and good-will. Moreover, the language itself is ingratiating by reason of its remotesness from European tongues and moulds of thought, its precision, elegance and capacity for the subtler literary nuances...

True Irish prose has a steely latinistic line that does not exist in the fragmented English patois. Here is a literal translation of a letter addressed by Hugh O'Neill to a hostile captain:-

'Our blessing to ye, O Mac Coghlin: we received your letter and what we understand from her is that what you are at the doing of is but sweetness of word and spinning out of time. For our part of the subject, whatever peson is not with us and will not wear himself out in the interest of justice, that person we understand to be a person against us. For that reason, in each place in which ye do your own good, pray do also our ill to the fullest extent ye can and we will do your ill to the absolute utmost of our ability, with God's will. We being at Knockdoney Hill, 6 februarii, 1600.'

That seems to me to be an exceptional achievement in the sphere of written nastiness and the original exudes the charm attaching to all instances of complete precision in the use of words....

It is...dangerous to discourage the use of Irish because the revival movement...is a valuable preservative of certain native virtues and it is worth remembering that if Irish were to die completely, the standard of English here, both in the spoken and written word, would sink to a level probably as low as that obtaining in England, and it would stop there only because it could go no lower.

Further reading: "Clichés for the age of the coronavirus" (click on the sidebar at right), and "Two Irishmen discuss the coming election", WWW 29/7/20.

Two Irishmen discuss the coming election

We are just over three months away from the 2020 elections for the Presidensity of the Excited States of America and other positions. Walt has not yet officially endorsed any candidates for anything but assiduous readers will understand that I would vote for Sleepy Joe Biden only if there were reliable reports of the temperature in Hell having plummeted to 0. 

So I am encouraged by the daily release by the (((controlled media))) or new polls showing that Still-President Trump is way behind Creepy Joe and certain to lose bigly come November. We heard the same thing, from the same people, four years ago. Remember?

The American elections are much discussed elsewhere in the world, including the Auld Sod. What follows purports to be a conversation between two men in an Irish pub....

Who is going to win beyond? Which of the pair would you back?
I do not know.

The brother says your man is going to win. But begob I don't know. It'll be a long time before your other man hands in his gun.
That is true.

Your man is smart, I'll agree with the brother there. And he doesn't take a jar, that's another thing that stands to him. And of course he bars the fags as well. But does that mean your other man is a buff?
Scarcely.

Oh indeed begob it doesn't. It certainly does not. Because your other man gets up very early too. It wasn't yesterday or the day before your other man came up.
He has undoubtedly certain qualities of adroitness.

Of cousre the brother looks at it the other way. He is all for your man and never had any time for your other man. Says no good could ever come out of the class of carry-on your other man has been at for the last ten years. There's a lot in that, of course. The brother certainly put his finger on it there. But it's not all on the wan side. Your man was up to some hooky work in his time too.
No doubt.

There's a pair of crows in it. And I t hink your other man is six to four on. Do you know why?
I do not.
Because he knows the place backwards, every lane and backyard in it. Lived there all his life, why wouldn't he. And of course your man doesn't know where the hell he is. And do you know why I wouldn't be sorry to see your other man coming in first?
No.

Because it would be great gas to prove the brother wrong for once. And you'll live to see it too. Because do you know what I'm going to tell you?
What?
Your man is using the whip. Do you know that? Your man is using the whip!
Is that a fact?
I'm telling you now. Begob here's me bus. Cheers!
Byebye.

It's possible they may not have been discussing the 2020 election or any American election, but you can read the conversation any way you like, depending on who your man is, of course.

This piece was actually written some time ago by Flann O'Brien, aka Brian Ó Nuallain -- O'Nolan, for Americans -- born 5 October 1911 at Strabane, County Tyrone, died 1 April 1966 (!) in Dublin. Mr O'Brien was an Irish novelist, dramatist, and, as Myles na gCopaleen, a columnist for the Irish Times newspaper for 26 years. That's him on the right in the photo above.

I've excerpted it from The Best of Myles, Picador 1977, which I recommend highly, if only (but not only) for witticisms like this one.

VIDEO: Banned in Canada - how come?

Here's a modern remake of an old country and western number, "Squaws Along the Yukon", first recorded in 1960 by Hank Thompson. This version was recorded by The Indians (with Noel Brady singing lead) which is actually an Irish show band, still going strong.

Evidently phrases like "cultural appropriation" and "political correctness" haven't reached Eire yet, but they sure have reached Canada (Emperor Trudeau II, Prop.) where the NPCs and SJWs succeeded in getting the Canuck Broadcast Standards Council to ban it from the airwaves. Here are the lyrics. What's wrong with that?

The words which the PC police now find offensive are slang words from "north of 60" which have been in use since the 19th century and are still to be found in complete dictionaries of Canadian English. Some of them are now regarded as unsuitable for use in polite company -- like the N-word -- but hey, it's only a song. What's next? Pretty soon we won't be able to sing "Old Folks at Home" because it includes the word "darkies". Oh... wait...



Walt wishes to give Agent 5 a feather for his headdress for drawing this to our attention. Unfortunately 5 sent the news to an old e-mail address, so it didn't reach us until just now, when Ed. was tidying up our databases. 5, do ye likewise, and Happy New Year!

In Canada, everyone has a chance to be Irish

I could be wrong [It's happened before! Ed.] but I suppose many Canadians will remember Robert O'Billovich. Nicknamed "Bobby O" or "Obie", or more often just plain "Bob", Mr O'Billovich has been something of a fixture in the Canadian Football League [110-yard field and only three downs. Ed.] since 1963 in the roles of player, coach, general manager, scout, and several front-office positions. As a long-time coach in the CFL, he won 107 regular season games in the CFL, the eighth highest win total by a head coach in the league's history. When last heard from he was scouting for the BC Lions.

Bob O'Billovich is not Irish, nor Irish-Canadian, but American, having been born in Butt MT [Butte, shurely. Ed.] He is not even of Irish ancestry, but something southern Slavic -- Serbian or Croatian or some such. The way I heard the story, the family surname was pinned on his father when he immigrated to the US of A. The agent who met him at Ellis Island said the real name -- "Bilovic" of some such -- wasn't suitable for an American, and put the "O" in front of it to make it sound at least Irish-American. And "O'Billovich" it's been, ever since.

I remembered this story when skimming the mojo wire this morning. There's a story about an autistic boy -- a Muslim immigrant to Canada -- who drowned in a pond somewhere between his school and his home in Saskatchewan. Ahmedsadiq Hussein Elmmi was found in a pond near École Dundonald School in Saskatoon last September 11th and was pronounced dead in hospital. Not the kind of story that makes it into WWW, but wait (as Vince Offer used to say), there's more.

In Canada, any incident in which a "marginalized person" meets an unpleasant end is immediately followed by an enquiry, so that the blame can be pinned on white born-in-Canada Christians. The Saskatoon public school board was duly made to appear before a panel of SJWs to explain why, if they weren't racists, they had failed to provide the child with a personal support worker to prevent him from wandering off. The child was represented by the provincial Children's Advocate (seriously), whose name is... wait for it... Corey O'Soup.

I immediately asked Dr Google what part of the auld sod Mr O'Soup comes from, and was delighted to find that he is a native Canadian. Not "native-born" Canadian, but "native Canadian" as in "First Nations", which is the appellation preferred nowadays by the folks who used to be known as "Indians".

Mr O'Soup was a teacher, senior policy analyst for the Federation of Saskatchewan Indian Nations (FSIN), provincial superintendent for the Ministry of Education, senior manager for the Alberta Ministry of Education, executive director for Education/Post-Secondary Education and Training (FSIN); and is currently the First Nations and Metis Advisor at the Ministry of Education.

He told the Regina Leader-Post that his new role is "to advise, to criticize, to let [the government] know when they're doing good [sic] and when they're not doing good [sic] — particularly in the area of First Nation and Metis education." Sadly, he did not explain how he got his unusual moniker.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day to yez!

Walt Whiteman, Poor Len Canayen

[and Ed.! Ed.]

wish all our readers

(We'll all be Irish after a couple of beers!)

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Walt Whiteman, Poor Len Canayen
[and Ed.! Ed.]
have assembled for our first-ever group picture

to wish all our readers
HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

A Saint Patrick's Day wish for you

Walt, Poor Len [and Ed.! Ed.] wish you a

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

to be sure, to be sure...

Recommended reading: The Best of Myles na Gopaleen (Flann O'Brien) (Picador 1977)

Snapshot of an American couple in Ireland*

OK, it's not a snapshot. It's a prose portrait. If you don't like reading, look at the Swazi girls.

This word picture appears in McCarthy's Bar (Hodder and Stoughton, 2000), written by Pete McCarthy, by birth but fully Irish in spirit. His mission in life is to visit any and every pub named "McCarthy's",  hence his travels to the Auld Sod which this book describes. This scene is set in Killarney...

Outside the big hotels, pony and trap drivers with the faces of medieval assassins are touting for business among gaggles of befuddled recent arrivals who are wandering around in a collective trance, like Stepford tourists. "Will the horse expect extra oats?" enquires an admirably self-aware American, who, at a guess, has won a trip to Europe as first prize in the Fattest Arse in the Midwest competition.

Perched on top of the card in baseball cap, stripy stretch fabric polo shirt and vast architect-designed shorts, he looks like Tweedledum. It takes two of the assassins to hoist his wife up there to join him, like Tweedledee in drag. The horse craps ostentatiously in derision, and off they trundle, to provide a bit of comic relief for the people stuck in traffic jams....

I'm beginning to realise that the parts of the country I've been in so far have been deserted because every bugger's here. Suddenly the gridlocked traffic is overtaken by Tweedledum and Tweedledee, careering along in their souped-up tumbril as the assassin cracks his whip.

To show that they've been assimilated into Celtic society, they're both now draped in tartan picnic rugs. He's smoking a large cigar, while she's opted for a packet of fudge as big as Dobbin's nosebag, to tide her over till dinner in half an hour's time.

Irish hotels catering for Americans are aware of the need to serve American-sized portions, so she'll soon be tucking into a whole spit-roast pig, followed by a main course, all washed down with pints of Diet Coke to stop her from getting fat....

As I'm about to leave [the pub], the crowded room is suddenly filled to bursting point as the Tweedles come in with great commotion, accompanied by an even heavier couple....
"So how are you enjoying your holiday?" asks the barman, as he pours whiskey for the men, and something green for their partners.
"Oh, it's just gorgeous," says Tweedledee.
"Yeah, terrific," agrees Tweedledum. "So old-fashioned."
"And so unspoiled," says Dee. "Say, do you have a rest room?"
"Upstairs."
"Guess I'll wait then," says Dee. "We don't do stairs."

"So where are you folks from?" asks the barman.
"Oh, we live in Chicago," says Dum, "but my father was Irish."
There's a general murmur of approval and I feel ashamed. This man I've been mocking as a stereotype of mindless tourism turns out to be as authentically Irish as I am. I feel like apologising, though we've never even met.
"Sure, that's great," says the barman. "So where exactly was your daddy from?"
"He was from Texas."

McCarthy's Pub is a fine book, a rollicking good read. And let me reassure American readers that McCarthy  is not anti-American. He's just anti-tourist, skewering alike the English, the Germans, the Italians, the Scandinavians...and did I mention the English? Here's a trenchant quote:

Once somewhere has more tourists than local people, more knick-knack shops than newsagents or groceries, then equilibrium has been destroyed, the game is up, and the balance has irrevocably shifted in favour of revenue, occupancy and the forces of darkness. Real life may continue, but to the visitor it's all but invisible.

Agent 3, who lives in a tourist trap (and sent McCarthy's Pub to me) says this is all too true.

* Note from Ed.: Walt wrote "Eire", not "Ireland", but I changed it so Americans would understand.

The Irishman who ordered three beers

Agent 36, who has been mentioned in Walt's blog under his own name, gets his Agent Number for this lovely (and timely) Irish tale...

An Irishman moves into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry, walks into the best pub and promptly orders three beers. The bartender raises his eyebrows, but serves the man three beers, which he drinks quietly at a table, alone. An hour later, the man has finished the three beers and orders three more. This happens yet again. The next evening the man again orders and drinks three beers at a time, several times.

Soon the entire town is whispering about The Man Who Orders Three Beers. Finally, a week later, the bartender broaches the subject on behalf of the town. "I don't mean to pry, but folks around here are wondering why you always order three beers?"

"Tis odd, isn't it?" the man replies. "You see, I have two brothers, and one went to America, and the other to Australia. We promised each other that we would always order an extra two beers whenever we drank... as a way of keeping up the Irish family bond."

The bartender and the whole town were pleased with this answer, and soon "The Man Who Orders Three Beers" became a local celebrity and a source of pride to the hamlet, even to the extent that out-of-towners would come to watch him drink.

Then, one day, the man comes in and orders only two beers. The bartender pours them with a heavy heart. This continues for the rest of the evening. He orders only two beers. The word flies around town. Prayers are offered for the soul of one of the brothers.

The next day, the bartender says to the man, "Folks around here, me first of all, want to offer sincere condolences to you on the death of one of your brothers. You know... the two beers and all."

The man ponders this for a moment, then replies, "You'll be happy to hear that both of me two brothers are alive and well. It's just that I, myself, have decided to give up drinking for Lent."