“You just don’t get it, do you?”

Films are like music in that, for the most part, they have to be structured in a particular way or else they won’t make any sense. This is particularly true with regards to the plot of a film. The most common plot structure is the classic three act narrative. Basically, it goes like: Order, Disorder, Order Restored. In other words: Everything in Gotham City seems to be under control, then The Joker shows up, then he’s defeated and everything appears to be fine again.

There are other very common tropes. The hero who has personal problems, the misunderstood villain, the lover that got away, the failure who will only succeed when they learn to love themselves, the self-destructive successful person haunted by their past. It’s basic shit and we can all see it from a mile away, but if these tropes are done well we forget about how familiar it all is.

But some things in films are so overused that they have become cliché, or just tired and eye-rollingly cringey. For example, the ugly duckling. Who would have known that all Anne Hathaway needed to be pretty in The Princess Diaries was contact lenses and a blow dry?

So here’s a list of tropes, stock characters and cheesey dialogue and other various film tropes that I think are so overused, their use in a film tends to turn the film into a comedy.

⁃ If a character coughs into their hand or a tissue, and then looks at it and sees blood, we the audience now know they’re going to die from an illness, but the other characters in the film won’t learn for a while.

⁃ When the hero confronts the villain, and the villain tries to reason with the hero by saying, “You know, we’re not so different you and I.”

⁃ Why does nobody say goodbye at the end of phone conversations? There’s always just a dramatic hang up. If this was a realistic Irish film the scene would drag out for two minutes longer. “Go on, go on, alright I’ll talk to you, yeah, yeah, yeah, bye, bye, yeah, I will yeah, alright go on, yeah, no? Ah stop?! Really?”

⁃ If a female student drops a book and then goes to pick it up, only for her hand to touch a male’s hand who is trying to help her with her fallen book, those two characters are going to end up together.

⁃ A scientist is explaining a complex scientific problem or solution and for the audience’s benefit someone will tell them “In English, doc!”

⁃ How many people do you know that actually drink straight whiskey in real life? And as a simple afternoon beverage at work?

⁃ “Get in, no time to explain.” Cool, I’ll just trust you with my life so. The fact you’re covered in blood and clearly in a panic is absolutely zero cause for concern. Can’t wait.

⁃ A character is being chased and they get into their car and hurriedly begin to start it, twisting the key in the ignition. Uh oh, engine won’t start? Let it chug for a few seconds to amp up the tension so.

⁃ When the film is about high school kids but the actors are all 27-30 years old.

⁃ Two hard as nails characters come face to face and a stare off begins. The tension is so high that we the audience begin to wonder if a fight is about to happen, then suddenly both characters break into a smile and it becomes obvious that they’re old friends. I feel like Vin Diesel does this a lot. What a strange way to greet an old friend. Just say hello. Long time man. How’s your ma?

⁃ Why do a lot of women in films keep their bra on during a sex scene? Because the actor agreed to no nudity in their contract. Fair enough. Most sex scenes in general are unnecessary anyway though. Just have the characters initiate what they’re about to do then cut to the morning after. Audiences aren’t stupid, we can fill in the blanks. But if you’re going to show us some riding at least give us some boobs too. Which leads me on to my next point.

⁃ It’s very easy for women in films to orgasm within like ten seconds of penetrative sex.

⁃ Did a woman who has already had sex at some point in the film just throw up randomly? You know what that means. Better make a trip to Mothercare love.

⁃ In fight scenes or otherwise, if somebody is knocked unconscious and stays unconscious for a few hours, there’s a very strong possibly they’ll have severe lifelong brain injuries. Not in films though. Sure it was only a baseball bat full force to the back of the head mate. Get over it.

⁃ Actors clearly drinking from an empty coffee cup. Just put some fucking water in it if you have to.

⁃ I hate it when mom or dad has gone to all the trouble of making an elaborate breakfast but nothing gets eaten. There’s fresh OJ, coffee, pancakes, bacon, toast, cereal and fruit. But our super cool teen protagonist comes running down the stairs and picks up a single piece of toast and flies out the front door with a “See ya later mom, got to run!” First, have some respect you little cunt. Somehow, your parents found the time in the morning before work to make this huge spread of food, and you just fuck off without a care. Asshole.

⁃ When characters have full plates of food in front of them in a restaurant but then rush off to do something more important, leaving all the food behind. That shit must have been expensive. And for that matter, did you already pay for it? Most places bring you the bill at the end, so now I’m assuming you’re doing a runner. Saved by the Bell were always at this.

⁃ Smoking a joint calms most people down. They’ll want to watch a film and eat some food or else just put their headphones on and relax. For others it makes them anxious or gives them chest pain. That’s about it. In films though it causes people to act like they’ve drank half a litre of vodka and everything is hilarious or fascinating. Sometimes they see colours or shapes as if they’re on the strongest acid available. And then suddenly they get the munchies like they haven’t eaten in days and start shoveling food into themselves as if they’ll never eat again. Particularly first time smokers on screen.

⁃ What’s the story with drug deals in films? People walk up to a dealer and hand over cash and the dealer hands over the drugs and both people walk away without a word spoken. What? Is the dealer not going to count the money? Is the user not going to check out the product? And not so much as a “Lovely flaked buzz off that stuff there lad. Nice head high. So what’s your buzz for evening then bud? Yeah, yeah, gewon, sound, talkcha.”

⁃ When someone forces themselves on to a character (almost always a man forcing himself onto a woman) for a kiss (usually a creepy boss or coworker) and the woman’s boyfriend shows up just in time to see the kiss but leaves dejected just in time to miss seeing his girlfriend push the creepy man away and slap him.

⁃ In a scary movie or thriller when a character is hiding from the villain, and everything goes completely silent right before the villain appears out of nowhere. Is this villain the fucking wind?

⁃ What sort of amateur villain goes to all the effort of coming up with an elaborate scheme to blow up a building and kill countless innocents only to install a bomb with a countdown timer on it? Just blow the fucking place up.

⁃ Also, when villains capture the hero, why do they always have to explain to the hero where the hero went wrong in their attempts to stop the villain, thus giving the hero’s mates just enough time to save the hero and stop the villain? Scott Evil in Austin Powers makes a good joke about this. “Wait, we have a time machine? Why don’t we just go back in time to when Austin Powers is taking a shit or something and just kill him then and there?”

⁃ “You just don’t get it, do you?”

⁃ “Everything you told me was a lie?”

⁃ When one character grabs another character who is acting hysterical and shakes them while shouting “Get a hold of yourself.” Or else in a similar scenario when instead of shaking the hysterical character they just slap them and then the character snaps out of it and says “Thank you. I needed that.” If someone slapped me like that I’d be swinging digs at them.

⁃ In a horror film, if a character is looking in a bathroom mirror that opens up like a medicine cabinet, and they open said medicine cabinet, expect to see someone behind them when they close the cabinet again. Same goes for if they bend over to splash water in their face. When they stand up straight again, expect to see someone behind them.

⁃ A police man or detective is at a crime scene. There’s a bag of indistinguishable white powder. What does the detective do? Dips their finger inside and tastes it. “Yep, that’s cocaine.” Are you mental you mad bastard? Could have been acid or rat poison. Get that shit to a lab first.

⁃ “I’ll have a beer.” Which one? There’s like 20 on tap. Be specific you prick.

⁃ Is your character an overly confident, highly condescending person and you want them to seem extremely intelligent? Better give them a British accent so. On the other hand, is your character a lovable salt-of-the-earth type who ain’t got no time for your fancy ways and doesn’t understand basic fancy person etiquette cos they is a beer and BBQ type of guy? Best introduce them while they’re fixing up a car engine in a barn or riding a horse through a farm. And give them a Southern accent like Texas. The city gal who was once afraid to get dirt on her ‘spensive shoes will soon be all misty-eyed for that there fella, ya hear?

⁃ If you want your reckless police officer to solve a crime, have their superior take them off the case. That way they can act outside the law and save the day, thus earning back their job.

⁃ When a character needs blood for some magic spell or a blood pact, and they slice a knife down the palm of their hand. Are you messing? Just get the knife and knick your thigh or the top of your forearm or some shit. Your palm? Really? That’s gonna take ages to heal and be so inconvenient for basic functions, like using your sword or driving your car or even just pushing doors open.

⁃ The good guys are all in a room and they feel defeated because they don’t know how to defeat the villain. So someone (usually the token idiot of the gang) says a stupid throwaway line like “Well I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” And then the secondary main hero has a eureka moment and says “What did you just say?” So the other idiot character replies “It wasn’t meant to be?” And then the eureka moment character gets all exited and says something stupid like “Oh my God Gordy, you’re a genius. Bee! We can use bees! The villain revealed earlier that he’s allergic to bee stings. All we have to do is get a load of bees and then we…” And then they explain to everyone else how they’ll defeat the villain. After their explanation they’ll kiss or hug the idiot character and call them a genius. Problem solved.

⁃ “I did NOT sign up for this.”

⁃ Unpopular boy loves popular girl, even though the popular girl is a horrible person. So the unpopular boy asks his best friend, unpopular girl best friend, to help him get the popular girl. But in the end, unpopular boy will realise he doesn’t want popular girl. He wants what’s been right in front of him the whole time – unpopular girl best friend.

– Are both characters in your film only pretending to be a couple and never in a million years would you ever expect such different people to be a real couple? Well, guess what’s going to happen? Yep. Likely starring Eva Mendes, Sandra Bullock or Reece Witherspoon.

⁃ “But Chad, I don’t get it? Winning state is all you’ve ever wanted.” “No, dad. It’s all you ever wanted.”

⁃ The Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Basically, the carefree female who only exists in the film to teach the male lead how to appreciate life more and to inspire him. Think Zooey Deschanel in any role she’s ever played.

⁃ Is it even a Vietnam war film without Jimi Hendrix music, Credence Clearwater Revival or Buffalo Springfield?

⁃ If a native population is facing extinction at the hands of colonial rulers, send in a white male character to live amongst the natives and learn their native ways so that the final battle is all the more poignant. See: The Last Samurai, Avatar, Pocahontas, Dances with Wolves etc.

⁃ If you have a one-dimensional tough female lead who “can handle herself,” make sure she tells the male lead that she grew up with four brothers, ideally after she’s punched a man who just hit on her or said something sexist.

⁃ It’s not just the characters who become stock characters. The actors playing those characters often play the same roles in every film. Particularly lesser known actors. For example, do you you need the perfect actor to play the tough female lead who can handle herself? Get Michelle Rodriguez.

– Do you need an actor to play an awkward, nervous, stuttering but intelligent assistant? Likely as a politician’s aid, scientist, or sidekick to a villain? Get Toby Jones.

⁃ Do you need an actor to play the role of a generic boss or police chief – someone who isn’t a star but is also sort of recognisable, so they’ll just fill the gap and get the job done? Get this guy. Kurt Fuller.

⁃ Do you need a generic Mexican gangster? Get this guy. Noel Gugliemi.

⁃ Do you need a solid actor who can always do the job well but audiences never know what the actor’s name is? Get this guy. William Fichtner.

– Do you need another excellent actor to play a takes-no-prisoners type of villain or authority figure with a menacing voice? You need Charles Dance.

⁃ Do you need an actor to play an authority figure, likely a politician or king, who is brash and arrogant and doesn’t listen to the lead character until it’s too late? Get this guy. Brian Cox.

Do you need an excellent actor to play a typical middle-aged, average joe looking American man but the role of the character in the plot is less one dimensional than the character may seem based on appearance? There’s only one man for the job. John Carroll Lynch.

– Do you need an actor to play the old person who says inappropriate but funny things at the wrong time? Unfortunately for you, Ellen Rose Albertini died in 2015.

⁃ Do you want guarantee your film is nominated for an Oscar, no matter how terrible it is? Make it a biopic, preferably a music one so the great songs distract the audience from how bad the film actually is.

And one last one. Do you want to let your audiences know there’ll be more to this character even though the character seemingly died? Simple. Have the dead character twitch or open its eye just before cutting to black.

World’s Most Expensive Spliff

I’ve only been to court once, when I was twenty one, for possession of cannabis.

The night I was arrested, I was sitting in the back seat of a friend’s car, parked up near a local football pitch; normal behavior. As always, we were on the lookout for white Garda cars or Ford Mondeos with two extra aerials.

We mustn’t have been looking too hard though, because soon enough a white Garda car pulled up and flashed its blue and red lights. Two potato-headed Gardaí rolled out and waddled towards us. I’ll call them Fergal 1 and Fergal 2.

‘How ye lads?’ wheezed Fergal 1, rhetorically, as he approached the car.

None of us said anything. I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears.

Both Fergals were breathing heavily. Their breath fogged the cold dark air like big cumulus clouds. Their faces were red and full; the midnight 3-in-1s from Dragon City catching up with them.

Fergal 1 leaned in towards the driver window and gave us all a long look. Fergal 2 stood back, rearranging his belt and smoothing out the boxers that had bunched up around his arse inside the thick navy uniformed trousers he had on.

‘Is that weed I’m smelling in there now lads?’ asked Fergal 1 in a Garda accent.

We were made to get out of the car. There were three of us. I had the bag of weed in my pocket. We’d smoked most of it, but there was enough left for one joint.

Fergal 1 took our names while Fergal 2 searched the car.

‘Right lads, I’ll ask ye now, and now only,’ said Fergal 1. ‘Have ye anything on ye that ye shouldn’t have?’

I took out the little plastic baggy and gave it to Fergal 1. There was barely anything in it. He shook the little baggy, holding it up to inspect it under the orange glow of a nearby street light.

‘Nothing else, no?’ he asked.

We shook our heads.

Fergal 1 told us he wasn’t going to do anything. He kept the small bag of weed and made us sign his notebook to confirm we had been cautioned. That was the last of it, he said. Fergal 2 told us to go home and stay out of trouble. Then both Fergals got back into the Fergalmobile and left, presumably in the direction of Airside Swords where there’s a 24/7 McDonald’s.

And so, that brilliant use of taxpayers’ money came to an end. We got back into the car and left the car park.

About two or three months later, in early December, I was at home. There was a knock on the door. I answered it.

It was Fergal 1 and Fergal 2, looking smug – big round soft heads on them like brioche burger buns.

They mustn’t have met their arrest quota for the year, because despite having promised us that nothing would ever come of the caution they’d given us a few months prior, they served me with a court summons and waddled away with all the grace of two walruses headed for a comfy rock after a big feed.

My court date was a month or so away. I needed a solicitor, and got one based just down the road from Swords district court, where my “trial” would be held (if you could even call it that.)

My solicitor was a very short man in his 50s with salt and pepper hair and a Marty Whelan moustache. His office was on the main street above a spray tan salon. It was small and smelled like your granddad’s coat.

I sat opposite my solicitor, who was behind his desk. There was a picture of his daughter in graduation robes on the wall, and a framed degree. He started asking me questions about myself, trying to come up with a plea he could use.

‘Aha! That’s it. We’ll say you’re a college student and you want to apply for a Masters in America and that a conviction would put an end to that. The judge should let you off with that and strike out the case.’

It sounded like a plan, so I agreed. Before I left, he told me to wear a suit on the day, and to bring three hundred Euro with me for his fee – preferably in cash.

On the day of my case, I met my solicitor in his office before going to the courthouse. We ran over his plan. He told me not to talk under any circumstance, and that if the judge asked any questions, he would reply on my behalf.

‘What if the judge asks if I still smoke weed?’ I said.

‘He won’t. And anyway, like I said, don’t talk at all. I’ll do all the talking.’

He asked me for his fee. I handed him an envelope with three hundred Euro inside. He counted the notes then put the envelope in a drawer.

We walked to the courthouse.

I randomly met one of the lads outside the courthouse. He was up for a driving offense. Neither of us had known we were both due in court that day, so we laughed and went inside. We sat beside each other on a bench in the courtroom.

The courtroom was full of young men. Most looked like they’d be straight back to the bookies once their case was heard, or into the pub. A few were handcuffed and standing to the side, next to some bored looking Gardaí.

The judge eventually arrived, looking pissed off that this was how he had to spend his morning before tee-off at 11am in Old Portmarknock. We all had to stand up for him like children in a classroom.

The judge heard a few cases. Some for drink driving, some for theft, some for public indecency. Many people were convicted, receiving fines, and in some cases short prison sentences.

Before each case, an arresting officer would read out the accused’s criminal record. Some people’s convictions count was in the double digits.

I noticed the judge was in a bad mood. He often barked at Gardaí who supplied him with inadequate information about the accused’s arrest, or else he barked at the accused themselves for not giving one iota of a fuck that this was their twenty-sixth conviction.

My name was called. I walked up to the bar, stood facing the judge, and listened to Fergal 1, my arresting officer, read out my charge.

Fergal 1, looking sweaty and warm, told the judge that I was arrested for possession of marijuana, with an estimated street value of forty Euro. Forty fucking Euro. He caught me with one joints worth of grass and said it was worth forty Euro. Whoever he was buying from was ripping him off. Despite being annoyed at this, I said nothing, following my solicitor’s orders.

Next, my solicitor pleaded my case. He told the judge that I was in college, and that I was only experimenting with marijuana, and I knew I had made a mistake, and I was deeply remorseful, and that I planned on applying for a postgraduate program in America so a conviction would ruin that.

‘And do you still smoke?’ The judge asked, looking straight at me.

I looked at my solicitor. He hesitated, then turned to the judge.

‘Judge, as I’ve said, my client…’ he began to say, until he was cut off.

‘I’m not asking you,’ the judge snapped at my solicitor. ‘I’m asking him. Do you still smoke?’

I looked at my solicitor. He looked away from me, towards the ground then up to the ceiling, his master plan now fucked. I looked at the judge. Then I looked around me, then back to the judge. The judge tilted his head, staring at me impatiently. I stared at my solicitor again. He didn’t look back.

The whole courtroom was silent. I could hear the handcuffed accused sniggering at the side of the room. I looked around me again, to where my friend was sitting on the bench. With his eyes, he seemed to be telling me, ‘Man, fucking say something. Quick.’

I looked back at the judge, who’s face was now red, tense, and stiff with anger.

‘Answer me!’ he roared. ‘Do you still smoke?’

I looked at my solicitor again. Still, he wouldn’t look at me.

You little hamster-sized prick, I thought. Great plan, mate. Stellar fucking stuff. Really earning your fee today, aren’t you?

The judge roared at me again.

‘If I made you do a drug test today, would you pass or would you fail!? Answer!’

‘I’d fail,’ I quickly replied.

More sniggering from the wings of the courtroom. I may have heard someone call me a fucking eejit. The judge silenced the room.

Following my response, my solicitor pursed his lips and looked at the judge apologetically, like a parent whose child had just said the most embarrassing thing in the world.

‘Good answer,’ the judge replied, relaxed now. ‘An honest answer. I don’t get many of those in here. I’m letting you off.’

A wave of relief washed over me.

‘But you’re to pay a three hundred and fifty Euro fine to a charity of my choosing. I hope you’ve learned from this. I better not see you in here again, you mightn’t be so lucky the next time. The case will be struck out. Next.’

I went back and sat by my friend on the bench. My solicitor shuffled sheepishly to the side of the courtroom, knowing that for all the money I had just paid him, his game plan of me not talking had proved to be as useful as Anne Frank’s drum kit.

Fergal 1 stayed where he was, because he had also arrested the next person whose name the judge had just called.

A tall, fat, baby-faced teenager rose from a bench, flanked by his worried parents. They were told to stay put by the judge. The young lad was wearing a suit – a very baggy one – and the poor chap shook with nerves. He couldn’t have been a month over eighteen. He was definitely still in school.

The judge asked Fergal 1 what the young man had been arrested for.

‘Well, judge, myself and my colleague arrested him and found a marijuana grinding apparatus on his person,’ said Fergal 1, clearly referring to another past adventure of the Fergals.

‘But did you find any actual marijuana on his person?’ asked the judge, annoyed, rubbing his eyelids.

‘No,’ Fergal 1 replied, ‘but we did notice marijuana residue inside the apparatus, with an estimated street value of five Euro.’

The courtroom burst into laughter, led by the handcuffed men standing by the wall. Even some of the Gardaí struggled to contain themselves.

Again the judge silenced the room. Then he looked at the terrified young man. The judge seemed fed up, eager to get to the golf course ASAP. He exhaled long and hard.

‘Look. I just made him pay a three hundred and fifty Euro fine for a similar enough offense,’ the judge told the boy, pointing at me. ‘It’ll have to be the same for you. The case will be struck out. Next.’

Soon, I was back outside the courtroom with my solicitor. He shook my hand and said goodbye.

‘That went well,’ he said, seemingly oblivious to how useless he had been. Then off he went. I watched him go, thinking about how I’d just spent nearly seven hundred Euro on one joint.

Hopefully I’ll tell this story to kids in the future, and they’ll have a hard time believing me. The same way I can’t believe it when my parents tell me condoms and divorce used to be illegal.

Deco from Cabra

The Adrian Kennedy PhoneShow on Irish radio must be one of the easiest platforms to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes. I reckon half the callers and texts read out are fake. I know how easy it is to swindle listeners, the producers, and Adrian himself, because I did it myself for close to two hours, live on air.

The topic was men fighting on nights out. Too easy.

The first thing you need to do when you’re trying to get on The PhoneShow is send a text in. Don’t make it too far fetched though. Give it enough believability that the producers will bite. But get ready for what comes next, because if your initial text is what the producers want, you’ll get a call from them.

It was a late winter evening and I was sitting with my friends, parked up, in a local car park beside a football pitch. There was a row of cars full of us, each parked close together so conversations could be heard and joints easily passed back and forth. A typical Tuesday night for young lads in college. I was nineteen.

The lads knew I had texted in to The PhoneShow. But I don’t think anyone expected what was going to happen next.

Again, the topic was men fighting on nights out. I texted something like:

“Tell ur 1 ta shut da fuck up I always be in a scrap down me local its natural I luv it gets me mad respect in d local fuckin dopes talkin shite Deco in Cabra”

Two minutes later I got the call; private number.

‘Hello is this Deco?’ a posh south side woman’s accent asked me.

‘It is… eh, I mean…’ (Now doing my best inner city Dublin accent). ‘Yeh it is yeh.’

‘Hi Deco, this is Una calling from The Adrian Kennedy PhoneShow. You just texted in didn’t you?’

‘Yeh.’

“Great. I’d like to put you through to the show so you can join the live conversation on air, is that something you would be interested in doing?”

‘Eh, yeh. Wha’ever.’

‘Great, Deco. Just hold the line.’

The lads were all staring at me, excited and wide-eyed. I told them to hush. Everyone leaned in towards my phone.

I was put through to the show.

‘Adrian tell him to shut his fuckin mouth the stupid cunt. Eejit, so he is.,

‘Sarah, Sarah, please. I’ll have to ask you to not use that sort of language.’

‘But he is a fuckin eejit, Adrian, listen to him…’

‘…You shut your fuckin mouth!’

‘…John, please…’

‘…You see Adrian? He’s worse, fuckin eejit.’

‘OK, well let’s hear from Deco. Hello Deco are you there?’

‘Yeh.’

‘Deco, you said, and I’m reading your text here now, that fighting on a night out gets you “mad respect” in the pub. What do you mean by that?’

‘Just dat fightin is normal like. All lads do it. Your ones a dope der talkin shite.’

‘He can’t be serious, Adrian.’

‘Of course I’m bein serious. I’ve scars down me face and all and everyone knows not to touch me cos I can handle meself. All young lads should be able to handle demselves. Ye haven’t a clue what yer on about ye fuckin dope.’

‘And you do? Fighting makes you hard does it?’

‘Yeh, and the mots love it. I get loads of gee after I’ve floored some cunt.’

‘Deco, please, that sort of language isn’t acceptable.’

The conversation continued like that for close to two hours.

After the first few minutes, I had to leave the car I was sitting in and go stand in the cold, because the lads couldn’t stop laughing in the background and I didn’t want to blow my cover. Also, the lads obviously wanted to listen to the conversation, and there’s a twenty second delay between the actual conversation and what goes out live. So I couldn’t sit in the car with the radio blaring the delayed conversation.

Callers came and went, but Adrian kept me on the line throughout. I was stirring so much shit that people were getting really angry. It was too easy to wind some people up.

One man called in to say he’d like to see me put a pair of gloves on and get into an octagon. He said I’d crumble in an MMA fight. I called him a poxy little fairy who loves getting half naked and oiled up to hug his mates, and that he should skip all that and just go straight to riding fellas.

Another lad told me I was a coward, and that one day I’d get what was coming to me. I said the only thing coming to me was respect and his auld one.

During ad breaks, Adrain would talk to me personally.

‘Deco, how are you doing?’

‘Good yeh.’

‘Listen, this is great. I’m going to keep you going OK?’

‘Yeh grand yeh. Fuckin dopes the lot.’

‘Brilliant.’

It did get tiring at times though. I was standing out in the wind and cold so long my hands went pink and numb. My teeth were chattering and I needed a drink to cure my cotton mouth.

Every thirty minutes one of the lads would come over to me, silently, with a big smile and giving me the thumbs up. They’d hand me a half smoked spliff, because I’d chipped in on a bag with the rest of them, and then leave me with it. I’d make the hand signal for a drink and someone would grab me a water or Coke from one of the cars.

The distant laughter from the lads in the cars fed me. When I knew I’d said something good, I’d turn towards our row of parked cars and wait for their delayed response. Plumes of smoke billowed from the car windows. So did fits of laughter and choking coughs. It spurred me on.

Sometimes my accent slipped. Maybe the producers and Adrian noticed, but I doubt they cared. I was controversial, unrepentant, and winding the other callers up to the point of hysteria. Deco from Cabra, The PhoneShow’s wet dream.

I told Adrian I’d been glassed and bottled plenty of times, and had the scars to prove it. I said I wore my scars with pride, like war medals. I said any woman who says my behavior is disgusting is only lying to herself, because one sight of me knocking people out in a smoking area and their knickers would be drenched.

Adrain was loving it. He knew how angry everyone was getting with me. I reckon the phone lines in the studio were lighting up like the control centre on board the Millennium Falcon.

One caller – let’s call him Terry – said he was from Cabra as well, and he’d like to see me outside one of the locals for a straightener tomorrow night. I told Adrian I recognised Terry’s voice, and that Terry was a well known sham. I said Terry was always throwing shapes and running his mouth, but couldn’t back up the chat with his fists. I told Terry I’d seen him “go down more times than a bleedin whore with bills to pay, know what I mean Adrian?”

That really boiled Terry’s piss. He eventually had to be cut off the line because of anger and profanity.

I stayed on the line until the midway point in the show, where Adrian winds up the conversation and takes an extended ad break before changing the topic and getting new callers.

Then I joined the lads back in the cars.

I’d like to bump into Adrian Kennedy in a pub, or one of his producers, and ask how many callers he reckons are faking it. I reckon every night of the week there’s a group of stoned young lads parked up somewhere, giving it a go.

Mícheál, Me-hawl

I have a Jack Russell called Mícheál. He is named after a character in The Wind That Shakes The Barley, a film by Ken Loach about the Irish Civil War of 1922-23, starring Cillian Murphy.

The film opens with a scene of men playing hurling in the hills of West Cork. Hurling has been outlawed in Ireland by the ruling British government, so the men must play in secret. After their game, some of the men return to a local cottage. The Black and Tans – an immoral and murderous police force sent to Ireland from Britain by Winston Churchill to terrorize the Irish – soon arrive. They arrest the men for playing hurling.

“All public meetings are banned, and that includes your poxy little games,” the Tans’ angry commander shouts, as he pulls a hurley from the grip of one of the men.

The commander demands that each man line up against a wall and provide his name and occupation. One young man, seventeen year old Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin, refuses to give his name in its Anglicised version: Michael O’Sullivan.

“What’s that shite? He doesn’t want riddles, he wants your name. In English, boy,” the commander growls at Mícheál.

“Is Gaeilge m’anam. Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin fós é,” Mícheál calmly replies, but knowing full well the risk he’s taking.

The commander of the Black and Tans squares up to Mícheál and threatens him. Mícheál stares back, defiantly. Again, the commander demands Mícheál speaks English, not Irish.

The women watching – Mícheál’s family members – plead with the commander to go easy. So do the men. The commander orders them to, “Shut the fuck up.” He then physically harasses one of the women, throwing her aside, and orders the men to strip.

Mícheál refuses.

The commander pulls Mícheál close to him, then punches him. Mícheál punches him back, knocking the commander to the ground. The commander gets up and orders his men to take Mícheál inside a nearby chicken coup, where he is tied to a pole and beaten to death off screen. We only hear his howls of pain. Then the Black and Tans flea, hands red with Mícheál’s blood, no longer caring about the arrests.

It’s one of the most blood boiling – particularly if you’re Irish – and difficult scenes to watch in the film. Mícheál’s mother collapses with grief at the sight of her dead son. Everyone else watches on in anger and disbelief, totally helpless.

The sight of his friend, bloodied and lifeless, is enough to radicalise the character of Damien, played by Cillian Murphy. Damien, a highly-skilled and qualified doctor – pride of the parish – was due to travel to London and take up a prestigious job at a hospital. Instead, he stays at home and joins the I.R.B to fight for Irish independence from Britain.

The Wind That Shakes The Barley is definitely one of my favourite Irish films. But I didn’t name Mícheál after the character for political reasons. I chose the name simply because I love how all the characters in the film, especially Cillian Murphy as Damien, pronounce the name in that airy West Cork lilt.

“Me-hawl.”

It’s not, “Me-hall.”

It’s, “Me-hawl.”

The first syllable rising high, the second syllable prolonged – emphatically drawn out. It’s great fun to say. Anything said in that lyrical West Cork accent often sounds funny, even if it’s not. Think of The Young Offenders, or the similar Limerick accent of The Rubberbandits.

I once heard a great description of how the Irish speak. The person said that Irish people pronounce every word using all the muscles in our face, giving almost every syllable its moment. It’s often true, and funny.

So, because of Cillian Murphy, I say Mícheál’s name with a West Cork accent. And it suits him. I thought the name would give him character, and it did.

I love when dogs have normal names. One of the lads used to have a red setter called Ross. Another one of the lads has a fat black labrador called Douglas. Gas.

One time Mícheál ran off on me during a walk in Malahide Castle. I was shouting his name, looking all around for him. A man rushed over to me with a worried look on his face.

“Have you lost your son?” he asked me.

“No, a little Jack Russell,” I told him.

The man walked off saying nothing, a look of, “Fuck off mate,” on his face.

Mícheál tears around our garden, ripping rabbits to shreds and leaving the carcasses on our doorstep as a gift. He’s a skilled, intuitive hunter. A born killer. Mícheál can sit for hours like a lion ready to pounce, hidden in a bush, totally still, watching rabbits eat the grass, waiting for his moment.

He also skips like a rabbit and often runs on three legs, alternating the raised leg. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a Jack Russell thing to do with hunting. Whatever he’s doing, it works. Because our garden used to look like the Teletubbies garden before we got Mícheál – happy rabbits prancing about all over the place. Now it’s like the elephant’s graveyard from The Lion King, but with rabbit skeletons instead of elephant.

During his downtime, which there’s plenty of, Mícheál also cuddles up to anyone he meets. My mom carries him like a baby, and if anyone is sitting on the couch, Mícheál is straight over for a belly rub, looking up at you whenever you stop, wondering why.

When I’m driving, Mícheál climbs up my arm and onto the back of my shoulders and sits there, perched, like a neck pillow people wear on airplanes. Every night before bed he gets a bath in the sink. His favourite dinner is boiled chicken with rice, or a can of tuna. Dry food is an insult to him. Prince George probably doesn’t live a better life.

Even though his name is Mícheál, he also responds to any variation of the name Michael: Miguel, Michel, Mikel, Mikael, Mick, Micky.

There’s no real point to any of this. I just love my pal. And I love saying his name.

“Me-hawl.”

Have a listen for yourself. It’s music. Skip to 1:56 of the video. And try not to get angry. Just enjoy the accents if you can.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=MDLBVXZXnN8

Dirt Road John

Australia is crazy. It’s like California, Hawaii and sub-Saharan Africa had a child that got inhabited by Pokémon. God was smoking very strong crack when he made Australia.

I’m picturing God on the day he came up with Australia. He’s sitting back, red-eyed, reclining on a cloud.

God: (Taking a huge hit from his crack pipe, dictating to an assistant): OK, so what was the last thing I said?

Assistant: “The head of a camel.”

God: Haha, yeah. The head of a camel. And give it a tail like a dog too. And make its legs exactly like a rabbit, but like twenty times bigger. Lol. And instead of walking, just make it jump everywhere, like it’s on a pogo stick. That’d be hilarious.

Assistant: My Lord, I think…

God: Don’t interrupt me. Make it jacked too. Give it a huge chest of pecs, with mad triceps and guns. And I want it to be able to punch. Oh, and (hitting his crack pipe again), also (coughing), when it has kids, make it have a pouch on its front where the baby lives, like a packet of crisps in the pocket of your hoodie.

Assistant: My Lord, I think this is getting out of hand.

God: Shut your bitch mouth. I’m God. What does it say on your name tag?

Assistant: Gabriel.

God: Gabriel. Does it say God?

Assistant: No.

God: No, it doesn’t. It says Gabriel. Little bitch boy Gabriel. Now shut the fuck up and take this next one down.

Assistant: Yes, my Lord.

God: Ok, so for this next one. Right. Check this, its got the body of an otter, but the head of a duck. And it swims like a water snake. (Hitting an outrageous amount of crack) Oh and give it webbed feet and a tail.

Assistant: Of course, my Lord.

God: Sick. (Staring into a now empty pipe) Where’s Lucifer? Go get him. I’m out of ice and this shit is banging.

Assistant: Yes, my Lord.

God: Hurry though. I’ve got an idea for a bear that lives in a tree, and we’ll make it look all cute and cuddly, and actually I might give it one of those pocket things for the baby and – oh my Me! – we should make it give its kids piggy back rides everywhere. That would be so funny. But this cute looking tree bear won’t actually be cute. It’ll be vicious as fuck. And be able to scream. I can’t feel my hands or face.

And that is how God created Australia.

I love Australia. The beaches are white, the sea is an opal green and blue, the landscape is stunning, the weather is warm, the food is excellent, the wine is great and the people are always up for a good time. They’re really funny too. And friendly. Australians are a solid bunch.

Australia can be dangerous though. And it’s huge. You don’t want to get lost in it. My friends and I got lost in it, on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere – the outback – with nothing but dessert for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. That’s how we met John.

Four of us were in a rented camper van traveling the west coast. It was a shit camper van. Every 200 kilometres we would have to refuel. Even with a jerry can of extra fuel in the back, we often almost didn’t make it to the next petrol station, which are sometimes hundreds of kilometres apart. We always made it though. Until we didn’t.

We were driving along the highway with almost no fuel left, and we had used our extra fuel from the jerry can. We knew the next petrol station was 50 kilometres away, so things looked bleak. And then the highway became a red dusty dirt road. Fuck, was the general consensus.

Panic seeped in a little. The sun was going to be gone in about two hours, and we were in the middle of the North Western Australian outback. It’s an absolutely stunning place to break down – think Arizona cowboy plains during a pink sky sunset – but then night would fall and snakes, spiders, flies and all sorts of mad shit would show up. And it was hot.

We knew a car would pass us soon, but then we had to bank on them having spare fuel. And stopping for us.

A car appeared. A 4×4. Most Aussies drive 4x4s, with bull bars at the front so they don’t wreck their bumper whenever a suicidal kangaroo jumps out in front. There are more mangled, dead kangaroos on the roadside in the outback than road signs. No joke, there’s a bashed up kangaroo every kilometre.

The 4×4 was getting closer to us. Thank God, we thought. We beeped our horn and waved. The car stopped. A man got out. His name was John. He was dressed in a cowboy hat, jeans, work shirt and boots. His skin was red and wrinkled from a life of sun exposure – like well-worn leather. His hands were rough, thick and purple.

John told us to follow him to his house, four kilometres down another dirt road. We barely made it.

John’s house was a cattle ranch. He had a petrol pump for his farm machinery, and he filled us up to a half tank. While this was happening, I threw a stick for his beautiful Australian sheep dog, Mabel.

Full tanks of unleaded at a petrol station were costing us one hundred dollars. We asked John how much he wanted for the half tank he’d given us. He wouldn’t take any money. We insisted, but so did he.

“When the time comes, and someone needs your help, do right by them,” John told us. “Just do right by someone else, and that’s enough.”

We shook hands and drove down the dirt road, away from John’s ranch, our tires kicking up red dust as the sky blushed.

Geebags and lovely hurling

I love a good euphemism or idiom – words or phrases that mean something different than what is actually being said.

For example: “Wear a raincoat,” instead of “wear a condom.” That’s a euphemism.

Or, “I’m over the moon,” instead of “I’m very happy.” That’s an idiom.

Irish people are excellent at using euphemisms and idioms. Because euphemisms and idioms are fun to use and the Irish are very creative with language. When someone uses a euphemism or idiom it’s for comedic effect, or simply for the enjoyment of talking. And we enjoy talking.

Instead of “he was ugly,” we might say, “ah, he’d a head on him like a bulldog chewing wasps.” Instead of “vagina,” we might say, “gee.”

An example of our creativity with language, is how we often incorporate a euphemism into an idiom. “We go get gee-eyed lads?” doesn’t mean, “Guys, let’s put vaginas in our eyes.” It means “let’s get drunk,” obviously.

I don’t want to get all technical though and go on about euphemisms and idioms or etymology (the origin of a word). Instead, here’s some examples of great Irish linguistic creativity. I’ll unintentionally be leaving so many out. There’s too many to remember, and our creativity is bred into us. We improvise on the spot. I love that.

Also, I don’t want to give any explanations for them. Here we go.

A sniper wouldn’t take her out. If I’d a bag of mickys I wouldn’t throw her one. He has a face only a mother could love. Face like a slapped arse. Sure he fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. The tide wouldn’t take her out.

Deadly. Lethal. Insane. Mad buzz. Mental. Unreal. Savage. The craic.

Knacker. Gurrier. Head-the-ball. Skanger. Bowsie. Pikey.

He wouldn’t give you the steam off his piss. Tight as a nun’s hole. Scabby. He still has his communion money.

Your man. Your one.

The craic was 90. Gaf was on wheels. Whale of a time.

The town bike. Like throwing a sausage down O’Connell Street.

Like hen’s teeth.

There’s a dose going ’round.

In the horrors. Like boiled shite. My mouth is dryer than Gandhi’s flip flops. Dying of the fear. Rag order. Sicker than a plane to Lourdes. In a jocker. Banjaxed. Rattled. Shook. I’m off it now for a while anyway.

Give it socks. G’wan ya good thing.

Story horse? How’s she cutting? Craic off ye?

Your arse is falling out of your trousers. There’s more meat on Good Friday.

Pull the other one. Ya chancer. I’d rather flirt with my ma.

Like a drowned rat so ye are.

… I could go on forever. There’s endless examples of Irish phrases and sayings. And I’ve barely scratched the surface. The beauty of them is that they come so naturally. In trying to list them I’m actually struggling. They’re best left for off the cuff conversation.

But here’s a gas one my dad always says if someone farts.

“Who’s coughing in their knickers?”