And now my watch has ended

Since mid February I have had the most hilarious job ever. Every day from 8am until 5 or 6pm, I sit on a chair at the entrance to a building site and open a gate whenever a vehicle needs to enter or leave. That is literally all I do.

When I first started I was worried about boredom, so I sheepishly asked my boss, “Is it OK if I read my book?” He replied, “Mate, I don’t care if you sit there wanking, just open the gate when it needs to be opened.”

So every day I read my book, and maybe once an hour I have to get up and open the gate.

The gate is a steel gate on wheels. It’s really light. I’m actually laughing writing this. Because they pay me $26 an hour, or roughly $1,000 a week, just to read my book and push the gate open once in a while. And after a month on the job they asked me if I would be able to do overtime. So once the clock goes past 4pm I go from earning $26 an hour to $39. Ridiculous.

I must read 2-3 books a week. That’s no exaggeration. I like to read anyway, but being given 10 hours a day to read and be paid for it was a dream come true. Particularly when I started because it was summer so I just sat there in my shorts, soaking up the rays, chilling with my book. A lot of the workers on the building site ask me “How the fuck do you do this?” And honestly, I don’t get how they wouldn’t want to do this. A lot of them – especially newcomers to the site or delivery drivers – tell me “You definitely have the easiest job in the city.” I go on my phone, watch YouTube videos, read twitter, look at funny shit on the internet, read my book, go back on Twitter, and on and on until the last trade vehicle has left the construction site. Then I lock the gate and go home.

I understand that the job isn’t stimulating at all. And I don’t really talk to anyone. But honestly I fucking love it. Because it’s a means to an end. My rent is about $220 a week and I can earn that in a single day of reading my book.

But lately the novelty has worn off. Because it’s almost winter in Melbourne and cold as fuck. Like so cold. I have to wear two jumpers and a big heavy rain coat, and even at that I’m still cold. And it rains a lot too. And it’s windy. Imagine standing on the sidelines of a football pitch on a miserable wet and windy day; It’s like that. I can sit under the roofs of half-built houses on the site for protection, but still, it’s cold.

I never wanted this job but I got it because my friends work as recruiters for a construction firm and they absolutely sorted me out. I probably could have got a job in a restaurant without any problem. I have about ten years experience working in restaurants as a waiter. But I never want to serve another table again. It’s soul destroying, in my experience anyway. I’ve worked for great people in great restaurants, but the customers make it hard. There are so many cunts in the world. And a restaurant is a place where cunts thrive. Because it’s one of the few places of commerce where the customer can absolutely never be wrong, no matter how ridiculous their complaint is. For example: “Can I have the ribeye (the cut with the most fat) and can I have it medium rare but with no blood? (impossible)” And then when it arrives, “Excuse me, I thought I asked for no blood and also, this is very fatty. I’m not happy.” I’m surprised more murders aren’t committed by waiters. Also, FYI, when you’re in a restaurant, every waiter is talking about you and about how much of a cunt you are. But only when you act like one of course. Be under no illusion though. Most waiters hate your fucking guts. Unless you’re sound.

I digress. Back to the gate.

I never wanted to work in a restaurant again. And I didn’t want to work in a shop, because fuck that buzz. So my options were limited, because it’s very difficult to find work as a writer. In fact it’s almost impossible. Particularly now that nobody pays for the writing they read; I’m a culprit too. I read The Guardian every day, but I’m not a subscriber. The internet is killing publications. Because everything is free. So, with my options limited and with every creative job I applied for responding “No,” I tried finding work as a receptionist or something similar – generic office work – but my working holiday visa is the job application equivalent of leprosy. Nobody wanted to touch me. So I settled for labour work on construction sites because it pays well.

But after two days I hated it. Because I was spending my tram journeys to work googling how to use certain power tools. I fucking hated it. And I was scared going to work because one day I was handed a nail gun and nearly impaled my hand. Also, I was being sent to a different site every day and being spoken down to and treated like an idiot. And the work was so hard and monotonous, like carrying really heavy shit to a skip all day. It was so shite. I knew I couldn’t keep it up. It’s no way to live: waking up dreading the day ahead.

Then I was given the gate shift. The site I’m on is a retirement village. Some of the houses are already built and occupied. The oldies that live in them love me. Some of them give me chocolate and bring their dogs to say hello. Now that it’s really cold, they give me hot food like chicken and leek pies or quiche loraine, and one of them gave me hand warmers for my pockets.

But today is my last day. I got a job in a startup as a marketing assistant. And I can’t wait. I’ll get to work in a warm office and actually do something stimulating where I have to come up with ideas. And I’ll get to talk to people. And they have an office dog who I’m never going to stop hugging and chatting to. And it’s 20 minutes from my apartment. I’m currently traveling 1 hour 40 mins to the gate but I don’t care because once I get here I sit on my arse. But not any more. That’s it for me. Today marks the end of the funniest job I’ve ever had (and I’ve had so many different jobs). After nearly four months I’m done. And winter officially starts tomorrow, so I’m getting out at a perfect time. God love whoever has to replace me and stand out in the cold.

I’ll miss the auld ones though. They’re a sound bunch. And they feed me. But thank the baby Jesus I’m finally done.

My watch has ended.

“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.

Vanilla Vagina

Etymology is the study of the origin of words. I love knowing where words come from, particularly unusual words or words that are hilarious.

A well known joke is that the person who decided on the spelling for ‘dyslexia’ must have been having a laugh. But, as is the case with many words, ‘dyslexia’ is derived from Latin and Greek and Germanic languages. ‘Dys,’ meaning ‘difficult,’ coming from German and ‘lexis,’ meaning ‘speech’ in ‘Greek.’ So, as you can see, there’s nothing funny about that. It’s pretty boring.

Some words are just lifted directly from another language, particularly French. Think of how many French words we use in English – ‘restaurant,’ ‘information,’ ‘comfortable,’ etc. There’s a German word used in English that my friends and I love: ‘Schadenfreude’ – that feeling of pleasure you derive from seeing bad or unfortunate things happen to someone, particularly your friends.

You’d be forgiven for thinking etymology is boring. But buckle up kids, because a lot of words have great stories behind them. Whether these stories are true or false is irrelevant sometimes, especially if the story is good enough. My favourite example of this is the word ‘marmalade.’ Apparently the origin of ‘marmalade’ – the word used to describe that minging old granny jam – comes from royalty.

King Henry VIII’s daughter, Queen Mary, was a mental yoke. She loved having Protestants executed as she tried to re-establish Catholicism as England’s primary religion. Burning people at the stake was a favoured method of Mary’s. As a result, she became known as ‘Bloody Mary,’ which also lends its name to that minging tomato based vodka drink. But back to ‘marmalade.’

Mary was once terribly ill, so the story goes, and she couldn’t stomach any food without vomiting. Her servants began to worry about her feeble state, so her chef – a French man – decided to make her something tasty and easy to eat. He made a sweet concoction of boiled oranges – Mary’s favourite fruit – and sugar. Mary loved the dish and was soon back to her old self, ordering the deaths of countless innocents and just having the all round craic. Her French chef decided to name his creation ‘sick Mary,’ which in French is ‘Marie malade.’ True or false? Who cares, it’s a good story.

Another example of fascinating word origin is ‘kangaroo.’ Apparently English settlers in Australia – when they weren’t busy butchering natives – wanted to know more about the strange animal, so they asked some natives what the animal was called. Obviously there was a language barrier, so the English men couldn’t get their question across. They pointed at the animal and asked the aboriginals for the name of the animal, who understood that a question was being asked, but didn’t know what the question was. So in their own aboriginal language the natives replied ‘I don’t know,’ which is ‘kangaroo.’ If you’ve seen the film Arrival you’ll have heard that story before. True or false? I think it’s false, but again it’s a good story.

English settlers have a history of misunderstanding native words from languages of the places they conquered. Irish people know that as well as anyone. Think of our town names. They’re meaningless in English – Dublin, Belfast, Malahide. But in Irish they have significance, and their meanings are often quite literal descriptions of the places. ‘Dubh Linn’ or ‘The Black Pool.’ ‘Béal Feirste’ or ‘The Sandbar at the Rivermouth.’ ‘Mullach Íde’ or ‘The Hill of Íde.’ The British couldn’t pronounce those Irish words though so they just anglicised them.

Place names often come from people, with ‘Rome’ being named after the mythical Romulus who was raised by a wolf before building the famous city. Or ‘America’ being named after the Italian explorer Amerigo Vespucci etc. So place names are less interesting, or at least, more straight forward. They’re often named after whoever ‘discovered’ or conquered the area, or for whoever sponsored such expeditions. Like how the English in America named some of the first states; Virginia (Elizabeth I), Georgia (George II), and New York (Duke of York).

But do you remember being in school and learning about Iceland and Greenland? That was some buzz, no? I’ll refresh your memory.

Viking explorers went in search of fertile land. They ended up in Greenland which is basically a giant glacier. Bollocks, they thought. So they left. Soon enough though, they came across Iceland. Lovely buzz, they thought, because there was fuck all ice there compared to Greenland. They didn’t want other people knowing that though, so to confuse other explorers they named the place with all the ice ‘Greenland’ and the place with all the green ‘Iceland.’

The Iceland and Greenland story is like when in 1488 Portuguese explorer Bartolomeu Dias named the bottom tip of Africa – where the Atlantic Ocean begins to merge into the Indian Ocean – the ‘Cape of Storms,’ because the area was a hotbed of crazy weather that often destroyed ships. However, who wants to travel through a place called the Cape of Storms? Exactly. So the name was changed by the Portuguese king, John II, to the ‘Cape of Good Hope’ to encourage further expeditions.

‘Assassin’ is a good one. It comes from the crusades. During the crusades, apparently there was a hardy bunch of lads who were members of a Muslim sect that loved smoking hash before going out to kill Christians. They called themselves the ‘hassishiyyin,’ basically meaning ‘stoners’ in Arabic. And over time, as is often the case, the world evolved.

And who could forget the famous origin of the word ‘sandwich’? I’ve heard variations, but most of the tales boil down to the 4th Earl of Sandwich asking his valet to bring him some beef between two slices of bread, because he liked to eat on the go, or because he liked eating while playing cards and didn’t want to get grease on his paper cards. Either way, his friends liked his style and began asking their own servants for ‘a Sandwich.’

The word ‘hokey-pokey’ is often associated with a dance move. For me it’s always been the name of an ice-cream shop in Malahide village when I was a kid. The shop used to be where Malahide cabs is now. Last year when I was doing research for my MA dissertation that I wrote on Italian immigrant settlers in Scotland and their influence on British and Irish culture, I learned the origin of ‘hokey-pokey,’ and it actually does mean ice-cream, in a way. Long story short, Italians were the ones to bring ice-cream to Britain. It was sold from steel push-cart vats that Italian men would wheel around Georgian and Victorian London while ringing a bell and shouting in Italian, ‘Gelato, ecco un poco!’ or ‘Ice-cream, here’s a little bit,’ offering tasters to customers. These men became known as the ‘hokey-pokey men,’ derived phonetically from ‘ecco un poco.’

‘Clue’ is a cool one and has its origins in Greek mythology. Theseus, founder of Athens, was a famed Greek mythological hero like Heracles and Achilles. One of Theseus’ most famous stories of heroism was his defeat of the Minotaur – the half-bull, half-man monster that lived in the labyrinth. Theseus’ lover, Ariadne, had given Theseus a ball of yarn before he entered the Minotaur’s labyrinth. This was so that Theseus could unravel the ball of yarn as he travelled through the maze. Ariadne hoped that once Theseus had killed the beast, Theseus could then trace his way back out of the maze using the line of yarn, much like Hansel and Gretel with their breadcrumbs that helped them find their way back out of the witch’s forest. A ball of yarn in Greek is ‘clew,’ and so the word came to mean something that points the way, or something that can help us figure out the origin of something by working backwards, like a modern detective using clues to solve a crime.

Another well known example is ‘caesarean,’ or a ‘C-section’ as it’s commonly referred to. This is the method of delivering a newborn child by cutting a woman’s stomach open. The famous Roman Emperor Julius Caesar was born this way, hence the name.

When writing or spelling, we’ve all heard of uppercase and lowercase letters – basically, capital letters or normal size letters. The origin of the words ‘uppercase’ and ‘lowercase’ comes from the beginnings of the first printing presses used for making books. Manuscripts were first printed using press machines that used carved out metal tablets and individual letters that could be arranged in whatever way needed to form words, before being covered in ink and then pressed onto paper. It was a bit like how names and numbers are printed onto football jerseys today in Lifestyle Sports. The individual carved out metal letters of the printing press were stored in a large cases; Big letters in the top part of the case, small letters in the bottom. Hence, uppercase and lowercase.

There are so many more. I won’t go on though. But here’s a final example and one that Irish people love to tell foreigners. ‘Whiskey.’ Irish people love to wax lyrical about how whiskey in Irish is ‘uisce beatha,’ meaning ‘water of life.’ This meaning makes our love of a drop of drink quite poetic, so we like to believe. But apparently the Romans got there before us. The Romans used to refer to hard alcoholic spirits as ‘aqua vitae,’ or ‘water of life.’ This phrase got adopted and translated into early Gaelic. The phrase was then translated again into early English as ‘usquebae,’ which over time evolved into ‘whiskey,’ thanks to the English anglicising the Irish word for water, ‘uisce.’

Actually here’s another last cool one. ‘Bankrupt.’ It comes from Italian, ‘banco rotta,’ which means ‘broken bench.’ Medieval Italian bankers, like the unfortunate and ill-fated Shylock in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, used to trade in public squares from wooden tables or benches. When a banker ran out of money, their wooden bench was broken. This practice was both metaphorical and literal. It meant they could no longer trade as a banker, because they were ‘bench broken,’ or ‘banco rotta.’ The English word derived from this Italian phrase also has some Latin influence, with ‘rupt’ meaning ‘to break’ in Latin.

Ah sure look, how about one more for the road?

Apparently ‘vanilla’ comes from ‘vagina.’ Firstly, vagina is a Latin word. It means ‘sheath’ – a protective covering. In the 15th century, Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés led an expedition to South America that resulted in the fall of the Aztec Empire and the establishment of Mexico. During that expedition, Cortés’ men came across the vanilla plant. The word they gave to the plant was derived from ‘vagina’ because of the appearance of vanilla pods, and because you have to split vanilla pods open to get to the sweet spot.

I’ll finish there, with the vagina one. Google some yourself though. It’s a roller-coaster of fun.

The Big Les Show

I’ve had a ridiculous amount of different jobs. This week I almost hit rock bottom with a new addition – telemarketer. I say almost, because they said no to me. And thank God to be honest.

In the interview, they told me I probably wouldn’t be hired due to my lack of sales experience. I was also told many other things that I found hard not to laugh at. Or cringe. I genuinely had to screw up my face and hold my breath to try not to laugh or cringe. This probably played a part in my failure to get hired. Either way, it was an experience.

As I said, the job was for a telemarketing role. Telemarketing is a real piece of shit profession; Cold-calling people to try and sell them something they don’t need so you can make commission. I went for the job because I want a change of scenery and better hours with the same basic pay as what I’m doing now. (Yes, I’m still working “security” on a construction site. And no, I would rather flirt with my mother than go back to restaurant/hospitality work.)

Telemarketing is scumbag work. I don’t care if you are a telemarketer and you’re reading this now. I think it takes a real McAsshole to be able to call a random person and try sell them a product you don’t believe in just for some money. A call from a telemarketer can piss someone off so easily. It’s capitalism at its worst.

There’s a brilliant scene in the film The 40 Year Old Virgin that I think sums up most people’s attitudes towards telemarketers.

Andy (Steve Carrell) is at home and he decides to finally call the woman he likes, Trish (Catherine Keener). But when Trish answers, Andy panics and pretends to be a telemarketer.

Trish: Hello.

Andy: Hey, how you doing?

Trish: Um… how you doing? Who is this?

Andy: This is… eh… James. (He hits himself with the phone out of angry embarrassment)

Trish: Do I know you, James?

Andy: I was… eh… wondering if you had a few moments to talk about… laundry detergent?

Trish: Are you a telemarketer, James?

Andy: Yyyyeah?

Trish: Are you at the top of a tall building? Can you get to a roof quickly? JUMP OFF! I mean, you people are fucking sick. Get a real job, why don’t you? Go shoot yourself in the fucking head. Hey, why don’t you just get a knife and run into it? Why don’t you just do that, huh?

Andy: Okay.

Trish: Alright I’ll see you later, James.

Andy: Nice to talk to you.

Trish: Fuck your mother James, okay? Bye bye.

End scene.

So, yeah. I went for a job as a telemarketer. And I take it as a compliment that they didn’t think I was cut out for it.

Any writing or publishing job I’ve applied for hasn’t got back to me, and I’ve applied for a lot. Maybe the jobs don’t actually exist, or maybe I’m just not that good. Either way, my desperation for a job I really enjoy waking up for continues. So much so that I thought I’d want to cold call unsuspecting members of the public to sell them shit they never inquired about buying.

But at least with telemarketing I got to have the experience of going for an interview. That’s one thing the telemarketing job had over the writing jobs I’ve applied for; They actually gave me an interview. And what an interview it was.

I arrived at the office and was told to wait on the couch in the reception. I picked up the only magazine on the coffee table, Men’s Health. Then, a short muscular man in his late 40s early 50s came out to see me. He had an east London accent – “alright geeza?” – and a sleeve arm tattoo. He was wearing tight ripped jeans and a painted on polo shirt that was so tight I could make out the contours of his nipples.

“Are you here to see Chris?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

“Chris aint here I’m afraid. Had to dash off to China last minute. You know how it is.”

I didn’t know if that was a question or not. The short stocky man lead me into a room with a big table and a white board on the wall with things like “Relate. Sympathy. Target. Repeat name.” written on it.

I sat down and the stocky English man introduced himself as the “CEO. Owner. Top brass.” He said he didn’t usually come in and do interviews etc, but he was today because Chris was off saving the world in China.

“That’s the game though, isn’t it.”

I don’t want to use this man’s real name, so I’ll call him Les, short for Lesley. Les looked like he was telling the truth – I believed him when he said he didn’t come into the office much. I reckon he spends most of his time inside sun-beds. Or in the gym flexing his triceps in the mirror.

With his balding pink head, big arms and puffy chest, Les had the look of a B-grade WWE wrestler. That famous discount teeth doctor in Turkey has definitely had a visit from Les. And so has the local hair transplant surgeon. Where he lacked in height, Les certainly made up for it in width, like a wheel of cheese. He reminded me of a beetroot, but with biceps. If you’ve been to the strip in Puerto Banus or Magaluf, you’ve seen Les a million times.

As well as smiling and showing off his blindingly white veneers, Les also liked to talk. A lot. Mainly about himself. Within five minutes of meeting him I got the abbreviated history of his life as a business man, or “mogul” as he put it. The ups. The downs. The ups again.

“And I mean ups mate. Big money, yeah? All worth it, y’know? If anyone knows the game, it’s me son.”

Eventually Les remembered I was in the room and he asked me about myself.

“Do you like people?” he asked.

“Fucking hate them. Prefer dogs,” I said in my head.

“It’s very important you like people,” Les told me. “Talking to them. Getting to know them. Getting to know their needs, so you can use that. That’s how you make someone buy. Anyway, tell me about some of the recent work you’ve done.”

I spoke for about ten seconds.

“Pff, writing? Ghostwriter? What does a ghostwriter do?” Les scoffed.

I gave Les the explanation I often give, about how someone like Cristiano Ronaldo would be in high demand by publishers for an autobiography, but he’d need help. So in steps a ghostwriter. Except when I used this explanation with Les, I swapped Ronaldo for Wayne Rooney, given the physical similarities between himself and the footballer.

“Anyone can do that – write a book,” Les informed me. “We’ve all got a story in us, don’t we?”

I nodded, agreeing with what he said. The second part anyway.

“I’m going to write a book. Actually I’m already planning it. In fact, I’m so busy that I might need a ghost-whatever. But probably not. I have my book waiting to be written though. It’s all up here,” Les told me, tapping a finger to his purple fivehead.

“What’s it about?” I asked, hoping to keep him talking about himself for as long as possible, because I knew he enjoyed it, and then maybe he might remember our interview as a pleasant encounter for that reason alone.

“It’s about me, clearly. You seen the Wolf of Wall Street? Well imagine The Wolf of Wall Street meets Jerry Maguire meets The Social Network with a bit of The Big Short thrown in. Except better. It would also have a mix of The Office thrown in – the UK one obviously – because I like to have a laugh. And I already know who’ll play me.”

“Ross Kemp?” I wanted to ask.

“Tom Hardy. Can you see it?”

I just nodded, my lip nearly bleeding from having to bite it so hard.

“I know it’ll be a best-seller, and a number one at the box office,” Les added. “I’m thinking Summer 2020.”

It’s early May 2019. Now it was my turn to scoff. I didn’t.

“Anyway, enough of this. Let’s just take you inside and let you see where the magic happens.”

Les got one of his employees to come into the room. He introduced us and told the young man to show me around. We left the room and followed the smell of instant noodles and yesterday’s dinner being heated up in a microwave.

The magic was happening in a room the size of a tennis court. It was full of young people, mostly Irish and English backpackers or working-holiday types in their early 20s. They looked hungover. And exhausted. And depressed. Everyone was wearing headphones and talking into them, saying things like “Hello, my name is Danny and I was wondering…” before being cut off and having to start again. “Hello, my name is Danny. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to…”

Sorry Danny, try again.

“Hello, my name is Danny and I…”

Nope. Try again Danny. And again Danny. And again. Ad infinitum.

I thanked the guy who showed me around then headed for the exit. On my way out I walked past the room where Les was interviewing people. He was now talking to a young woman, with his arms spread far apart as if describing a large fish he’d caught. I reckoned he was coming to the ups and downs part of his life-story.

“Big money.”

Fr. Pat Noise

The next time you are in Dublin city, go to O’Connell Bridge. Go to the west side of the bridge, leading upriver towards Temple Bar and Heuston Station. On top of the wall of the bridge you’ll find a plaque. It reads:

“This plaque commemorates

Fr. Pat Noise

Advisor to Peadar Clancey

He died under suspicious circumstances when his carriage plunged into the Liffey on August 10th, 1919

Erected by the HSTI”

The plaque is an intriguing one. Not because of the “suspicious circumstances,” but because not a single word printed on the plaque is true.

There was no Fr. Pat Noise. He never existed.

Apparently two brothers had the plaque created in memory of their father. His name wasn’t Pat Noise, and he wasn’t a priest, but rumours suggest that the name Pat Noise is a play on the Latin ‘pater noster,’ meaning ‘our father.’

Historians and academics were questioned about the veracity of the plaque’s claims, but nobody could give an answer, because there was none to give.

Dublin City Council eventually had the plaque removed, but it was swiftly replaced by the pranksters with an identical. This was in 2007. As a result of the plaque’s initial removal and subsequent replacement, councilor Dermot Lacey proposed that Dublin City Council have a vote on whether or not the plaque be allowed to stay. Lacey was for the plaque remaining on the bridge, saying it was ‘a bit of madness, a bit of colour… It’s a monument to eccentricity and it adds a bit of colour to our lives.’

The council voted in favour of the plaque remaining and it’s still there today. Go have a look.

Personally, I love that buzz – that something harmless and far fetched was allowed to stay, purely because it was nothing more than a bit of clean craic, and apparently a nice homage for two sons to their father (who presumably loved a good yarn.)

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.

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?”