Thank you, Bernard

I read a lot of poetry at university. I wrote some too. Recently I found some old poems I had written in my bedroom. Reading them again made me want to gouge my eyes out. Straight, white, upper-middle class 21 year old men should not be allowed to write poetry.

A lot of the poetry I enjoyed at university was from the Romantic era. Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth and the lads. Or beautiful rhyming poems like those by William Butler Yeats and The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde – a banger. But my favourite was, and still is, Irish poetry. Poems about rural life and catholic Ireland. Seamus Heaney shit.

I read Heaney over and over at university, and I still read him. But I remember I wanted to branch out and buy a book of poems by another Irish poet – one I’d never heard of. So I went to my favourite shop in Dublin city, Books Upstairs (the old location on Dame Street), and went to the Irish poetry section. I quickly browsed the shelf until I saw a book of poems by Bernard O’Donoghue. I’d never heard the name before. Lovely, I thought, pulling the book down and only reading the name and nothing else. Straight in my basket.

On the DART home I read the book a few times, sometimes stopping to look out the window because a line had taken me by surprise. I loved the book so much I went back the next day and bought more by Bernard O’Donoghue. And loved those books too.

I wondered why I’d never heard of him, and why in school we had to study Robert fucking Frost and his metaphorical walls and roads, and not the likes of Bernard O’Donoghue, who described things I could see again or made me love home.

For some reason, I assumed O’Donoghue was dead. All the best poets are dead. But a quick Google search told me that Bernard O’Donoghue was alive and kicking. He was also the head of English at Oxford. So I wrote a letter to him. (I was going through a strange letter writing phase. The most embarrassing one I can remember writing was to Richard Dawkins after reading The God Delusion. Every time I remember that letter I wish to be hit by a bus to ease the cringe-filled pain.)

I wrote to Bernard O’Donoghue and told him I loved his poetry and that I was interested in studying poetry further – maybe even for a Masters once I was finished my BA in English. I told him I’d love to go to Oxford, but asked if he knew any other good spots to study poetry because I didn’t think I’d get into Oxford. I even sent him some poems and a short autobiographical story.

Bernard O’Donoghue wrote back to me a few weeks later. He said he liked my poems, particularly the one about my dog. But he said my story was better. He said he liked my writing style and said that I “showed a command for prose.” I was absolutely fucking chuffed with that. It meant the world to me.

At the end of his letter, Bernard O’Donoghue told me that I should look into studying Creative Writing rather than poetry. Ever since I was a kid I dreamed of writing a book. When I was three I wrote one called Fly Away With The Birds on pages of A4 computer paper and illustrated it with little drawings. I’ve no idea why it’s about flying away with birds. But I enjoyed writing it and illustrating the clouds and the birds which I drew as capital Ms. Then I taped the pages together with black electrical tape so it opened like a real book. My sister still has it.

In his letter, Bernard O’Donoghue told me to apply to the University of East Anglia in Norwich. He said he considered it the best college in the UK for studying a masters in Creative Writing. Hearing that from the head of English at Oxford, where they also offer a masters in Creative Writing, I knew that UEA had to be good.

A couple of months after receiving his letter, Bernard O’Donoghue gave a talk to first year English students at UCD. I got the time wrong and arrived an hour late – he was already gone. So I ran to the school of English office and asked if O’Donoghue was still on campus. He had gone for tea I was told, and had left his briefcase in the office, so he’d have to be back. I sat down next to his briefcase and waited.

Soon he arrived and I asked him to sign my books of his. He said he remembered my letter, and told me again that he had enjoyed the short study I had sent, and asked if I had given a Masters at UEA any thought. That blew me away. I doubt he remembers me know, but to have been remembered that day left me in awe of him.

It made me think I could try writing, or any form of storytelling as a career. So much so that I entered a competition in university called The Maeve Binchy Travel Award, where the winning proposal for a creative writing or storytelling project won funding from Maeve Binchy’s widower – the children’s author Gordon Snell – to travel and work on a story.

And I was chosen. The first undergraduate to win. It was some feeling. With the funding I went to West Africa for a few months and worked on a story that I hope to finish some day.

That prize was an amazing feeling, and only made me believe even more. So I went back to Bernard O’Donoghue’s letter and decided to look into a Masters at UEA. After doing some research, I applied and sent them a story. Then I got an interview and was offered a place to study Creative Non-Fiction and Biography writing. I was so fucking excited.

My year at UEA was one of the best years of my life. I met lovely, brilliant people who became friends and only made me want to make a living from writing even more. It’s not easy though. People aren’t really hiring writers in the same way they used to. The landscape has totally changed. But there’s always a way in and I believe that.

And all because of that random day in the book shop, and the letter. Mad buzz.

Thank you, Bernard.

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.

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.)

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.

Hail, Hail Ricky Hoops! part three (scroll down to read one and two first)

I was waiting to meet Ricky on a wet November Tuesday night in Norwich city. He had told to meet him in a car park at the back of a supermarket, again on the scruffy side of town. So I stood in the darkness and rain, waiting for him to arrive, wondering what a men’s shed was.

I heard Ricky before I saw him.

“Hail, Hail!”

He took me across the car park and towards a warehouse next to the dual carriage way.

“Good boys in this place,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

I just wanted to get out of the cold and wet. I would have liked the waiting area of the Motor Tax Office. My socks were soaked through my shoes.

There were no lights on in the warehouse, from what I could see. When we reached it, we walked around it to the other side. Five or six men were standing with their backs to the warehouse’s walls, shielding themselves from the wind and rain. They were all smoking in silence, standing a few metres apart, alone.

Most of the men were in their 40s and 50s. Some looked nervous or uncomfortable. Like students chain-smoking before an exam. Ricky nodded hello at a few of them as we walked past, but most kept their heads bowed.

I followed Ricky up a steel staircase at the side of the warehouse. Light was coming out of an open door at the top.

Inside the men’s shed was like a straight male college student’s dream. There was a room with a pool table and a dart board and a fuseball table, a room full of random couches facing a projector screen, a room full of half-built cabinets and furniture with tools laying about, and a kitchen full of toasters, microwaves and George Foreman grills.

The whole place was no bigger than a normal two-bedroom flat, but every inch of space was being used. It was quite cluttered. Every wall had a poster or a notice board on it. There were shelves stacked with plants and books and DVDs anyone could borrow. Random but useful everyday appliances lay about wherever, like bike pumps, a guitar, a vacuum cleaner, garden shears and high-vis jackets. There was also a desk with a computer and a printer.

Everything in the men’s shed looked like it had a use or a purpose, except the men.

I gathered that a men’s shed is a place for lonely men; Down-and-outs, lost souls, the socially awkward. But that’s not really fair, because I don’t mean to judge them. Not everyone there fit those descriptions. But for the likes of Ricky, the men’s shed definitely seemed like a haven.

In the few days between watching football with Ricky and now coming to the men’s shed with him, I’d been comparing my life to his a lot.

I had hundreds of names in my phone book – I wondered how many Ricky had. I lived alone in a ground floor flat with a garden and a big tree. Ricky rented a cheap tiny single bedroom in an old house and wasn’t allowed use the living room. And his landlord was always on his back, looking for a way to get rid of him.

Every day I woke up and went to university and studied something I loved. Ricky either went to get his dole, or hung around the Norwich city library using the computers to search for jobs that might hire 50-something men with no qualifications, basic formal education and very little job experience.

In the evenings I went to the gym or for a drink or stayed in watching Netflix. Ricky lay on his bed watching whatever free movies he could find on YouTube.

Ricky introduced me to some of the men in the men’s shed. They were friendly. Some seemed shy, but most were chatty and very welcoming. One man stood in the corner sucking on the sleeve of his jumper, his legs shaking. He was in his 40s but had the demeanor of a nervous twelve year old boy on the first day of summer camp.

I asked who would be watching the football. Most wanted to, but they said there was only a laptop hooked up to the projector, so no TV channels.

“Aye, but he says there’s free channels online,” Ricky said, pointing at me.

I went to the laptop and quickly found a pirate football stream. Everyone clapped me on the back or let out a whoop as if I’d just invented fire. We sat round on the random couches. Someone took tea orders.

The man sucking his jumper sleeve didn’t sit with us. He stayed where he was, looking around nervously and not making eye contact with anyone. He had the scared look of a threatened animal.

“One sugar, cheers.”

“Two for me.”

“No worries, mate.”

Tottenham were playing Borussia Dortmund in the Champion’s League. Everyone spoke about the players’ form and gave predictions. This happens any time strange men meet for the first time, and football is on.

Ricky told stories about Borussia Dortmund’s stadium, comparing it to the other German stadiums he had been in. He also gave histories of what German fans were the most passionate, like Borussia Dortmund, comparing them to Celtic.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. They seemed comfortable or at ease now that the tension had been broken by the football. At first our conversation was awkward, as if we were the boyfriends at a wedding where all the girlfriends were actually friends. But football saved the day. The sport was something to focus on.

“One sugar, there you go.”

“Lovely stuff.”

The man making the tea seemed out of place. His clothes were nicer than everyone else, and I noticed he had new looking Audi car keys in his hand at one point. When I had arrived with Ricky, he seemed to be asking everyone how they were doing; He was keeping tabs, checking in.

We hadn’t been introduced. I got up and followed him into the kitchen to ask if he needed a hand with the drinks.

His name was Ken and he asked me what brought me to the men’s shed. I could tell he was suspicious about me, but not in a negative way. I told him about Ricky bringing me along. He said he liked Ricky a lot. And that Ricky was one of the more sociable and confident members. But Ken also worried about Ricky, because Ricky still couldn’t find any work and apparently he was having issues with his landlord.

Ken wasn’t a member of the men’s shed. He looked after the members, locked up at the end of the night and basically ran the place. Ten years ago his brother in law hung himself, so that’s how he got involved in the men’s shed. He wanted to help vulnerable, lonely men, like Ricky. I liked Ken.

As Ken and I were speaking, the nervous man sucking his jumper sleeve hurried past the kitchen door. Ken excused himself and went after the man. I finished making tea and handed out the mugs. Ricky updated me on what I had missed in the match. Then I went back to the kitchen to clean out my empty mug. About twenty minutes had past. Ken came back.

He said the man sucking his jumper sleeve was one of the men who struggled the most with anxiety and nerves. He was a bit on the spectrum too. Socialising was terrifying for the man but his family made him come to the men’s shed because they felt he needed to socialise, and Ken agreed. Some nights he was better than others. But tonight had been a bad night. He had wet himself.

When the football ended I stayed with Ricky to help Ken clean and lock up. Then we said goodbye and Ricky and I headed towards my bus stop.

Ricky said the shed was open again in a few days, and asked if I wanted to go again. I made up an excuse and told him I was busy. Then he asked if I wanted to watch Celtic again on Saturday, and suggested my flat. (I had told him I bought the sports channels along with my WiFi from BT.)

I told Ricky I couldn’t watch Celtic, I had to study on Saturday. He looked at me strange, wondering how a fellow diehard Celtic fan could ever not make time to watch a match. Then he asked if I was free on Sunday maybe?

I told Ricky I wasn’t sure yet, and that I’d let him know. A look came over his face that I felt he was used to making. He seemed to understand. Here I was, another person making excuses not to see him.

To be honest, even though I liked Ricky and he was a nice guy and everything, it was all a bit much for me and I didn’t really want to be his friend, which sounds mean. But I didn’t want to keep meeting up, and I knew he would want to often. Also, it was getting difficult pretending to be a Celtic fan. And in the few days between the Celtic match together in the pub, and now at the men’s shed, Ricky had texted me many times. He was only looking for a chat, but I wasn’t bothered.

I felt bad.

For the next three weeks I kept making excuses when Ricky texted, and I never answered my phone. I felt mean, so one day I agreed to meet for a coffee. Ricky looked very upset when he arrived.

His landlord had kicked him out. From day one the landlord had never liked Ricky and was always trying to get rid of him. I can’t remember exactly what it was that he used an excuse, but Ricky had finally been kicked out.

He was sleeping on the couch in the flat of a friend from the men’s shed. Ken had helped arrange it. But it could only be temporary. Ricky said if only he could find somewhere else, someone else’s couch. An awkward silence followed.

Ricky looked visibly stressed and said he was thinking of going back to Glasgow. Coming to Norwich had been a failure. He said he knew someone in Glasgow who might let him stay with them for a bit. Or else he could just keep couch surfing online. He was also thinking of reaching out to his brother, but didn’t sound optimistic.

He asked if I knew anyone who would buy his bike? He needed money. I said I don’t know anyone. I told him I’d put a sign up in the Arts block at UEA though. He shook my hand and said I was a good guy. I never put the sign up.

That was the last time I saw Ricky. A week later I went back to Dublin for the Christmas holidays and when I came back to Norwich I stopped using my English phone number. Not because of Ricky, but it definitely helped with avoiding our friendship.

I felt guilty for a long time for going cold on Ricky, and sometimes I still do. I reckon he is – or now perhaps was – used to people like me in his life. People who disappeared as fast as they had arrived.

I’ve no idea what happened to him.

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?”