Not for everyone, this life where less is more.

 From November 2001- after a special request from Mike, who awarded me the colyoom and subbed it for 27 years.  This is the final visit into the pre-online archive, I promise!

Ever since 1984, I’ve been living on a 24-hour financial cycle, and it’s as tiring as it is liberating.

Rent, food and bills are always covered, and generally I clothe myself in not too disgraceful a fashion. I run a car, visit family and friends in England two or three times a year, and my house is warm.

Most important of all, my life has exceptionally good people in it, but 90% of the time I have not a penny to spend.

Beyond presents for others, and the bare necessities, I do not buy things.

Nada. Zilch.

In the past there were day jobs, night jobs, shift work, temporary, permanent, and on the fly.

I was never perceived as so ‘successful’ as when I was working my backside off as a marketing whizz-kid, for a major Japanese corporate back in the early 1980s. I was earning more money than should be legal for a 23 year-old, and fast-tracking my way up to the Boardroom.

That was when I learned an absolute personal truth: there is no point in earning moolar if it comes in the form of compensation.

So I hate my job? Well, now I can go and spend lots of money, and see if it makes me feel better!

It didn’t, doesn’t and never will.

To me ‘civilised’ means having time to live.

In exchange for the fat wad of folding green every Thursday night, I take a walk on the beach.

Instead of buying CD’s and videos, I listen to the radio and play old cassettes.

Instead of the brimming bank balance, I have all the time in the world.

The stress in others’ lives is palpable. I see the tired black rings around their eyes, listen to their frantic gabbling about how they are trying to ‘fit it all in’, and in those moments, I remind myself that this relative poverty is worth a fortune.

It ain’t all easy. This is a life as tough as any other, just a lot calmer.

My life is less about acquisition, more about introspection; less about buying things, more about less things; less about climbing social ladders, more about spending time living in the present.

Sometimes it is a lonely path, especially when I’m home alone, aware that others are out, living life on the pig’s back.

Still, I’m hardly a slave to suffering, and when a particularly smart editor places one of my features, I drive to the city and splurge a wad in an orgy of consumerist conformism, and each shared whiskey and bite of restaurant food tastes better for the utter badness and excitement of it all.

This colyoom is not pre-scented with smugness. I couldn’t look my loved ones in the eye if I suggested that my life is a breeze.

Of course I get frustrated when I want to take herself out for a posh slap-up dinner, and I feel inhibited when generous souls drag me out to the pub, knowing that rounds only go one way, but hell, they seem to love me, and who am I to say no?

Sometimes, even when you know your friend really wants to help, you just can’t accept any more generosity.

And then you get over it and say

“Well, a wee whiskey would be lovely, thanks Dave!” 

 

©Charlie Adley

12.11.2001

One of my faves from 2011 to celebrate a million readers: 'This is my Jerusalem!'

                                                             www.irelandinpicture.net

Happy Ever After... is a pointless ambition. Happiness comes like a swallow in Summer, a snowflake on warm grass.

Happiness lasts for a second or two years, and the important thing is to realise it, feel it while it lasts. 

I felt happiness for a few precious minutes last week, and I drank deeply of it. 

A brief hiatus appeared in the midst of the maelstrom that has been life in recent times, so I packed Blue Bag and headed off to Newport, Co. Mayo. 

Walking into the first Bed and Breakfast I found, just outside the small town, I lingered in an empty reception area as an older man and an invisible woman had a heated discussion in the kitchen.

I paced up and down, knowing they knew I was there, slightly irked that they were ignoring a potential customer, but patient; grateful to be there at all. 

Eventually the older man decided to acknowledge me, walking towards me, asking what I wanted. I was standing by a reception desk with a bag on my shoulder, so I was just a tad surprised when he raised his eyebrow at my request for a room.

He called for Herself, and out she came. Fifty year-old deeply-lined skin on the face of a forty year-old smoker, she refused to return the smile I was pumping at her, instead telling me she had to check her book to see if she had a free room.

While she did that I cast an eye into the Visitors Book. The last entry was made two days previously.

She had a room. She had loads of rooms. She was just looking for the least good room she could award to this single traveller. On the ground floor, two single beds and a tiny en suite, but fine, I’ll take it, I said.

How much? Oooh, er emm, bit steep, but okay. I was tired and even though she pitched her price at the top end of the B&B marketplace, I wasn’t going to argue. 

So I unpacked, put on my trackies and a fleece and lay back on the bed. The wall opposite was one huge window that opened out onto the rear car park, so anybody and everybody could see me.

I boiled the kettle and out in the hallway found in the fridge with some rank smelly milk. The little pre-wrapped 3-pack of Custard Creams on my room’s tea tray was beyond its Best Before date.

Refusing to let anything get me down, I lay back on the bed.
Peace and quiet, hoo yeh baby. I never ever nap or take a siesta, but here, now, I had a chance. 

No I didn’t. Outside my door, noisy as if in my face, fresh B&B guests had arrived. Herself was laughing and chatting and being generally lovely with them and I wondered why I’d lost out on her charm.

She showed them into the room next door and was oh ho-ho having a good old laugh with them, so she was, ho-ho. 

They went to their loo and took a shower and I swear I felt like I was immersed inside the runway of a major airport. Explosive noises shot over under and around me as symphonic plumbing went mental in my lug holes. 

I felt miserable. All I’d wanted was to find a quiet clean place  The place was clean alright but it was neither cheap, friendly, quiet nor private.

Facing Herself again would be a pain, but ah, screw it. 

Dressed and packed, I headed back to reception, where I had to knock on doors and wait for ages. I could’ve just left, but I wanted to be polite, offer her a couple of quid for her trouble and the cup of tea with off milk and stale biscuits (oh come on, of course I ate them - it was only a Best Before date!)

Her face was a picture as I mumbled some excuse as to why I had to go.

She shook her grim chin at my couple of Euro and then headed off at high speed to the room I’d been in, doubtless to see what I’d stolen from her. 

As I climbed back into the car I laughed. What was I going to nick? Her ancient grotty bedspreads? I think not. 

At the top of Newport's hill I headed into the hotel, where Roisin quoted me a price ten euro more than the B&B (ignore any rate cards you ever see in Irish hotels, absolutely). She listened to my needs and gave me a quiet room tucked away far from the bar.

As I opened the door I let out a whoop! It was huge and modern and clean and well worth the extra tenner. The skin-piercing shower alone was worth the extra dosh. All of a sudden I wanted to sing out loud. 

Feeling for the first time that I might be on holiday, I started at the furthest point from the hotel, sliding into each of the five pubs in town, ordering a Jameson in each and being given exactly that. No urban enquiries of whether I’d like ice or water or essence of Christian Dior in my whiskey: just a simple glass with a neat Jamie. 

Many evenings of my life have been spent in rural pubs and small town bars in the West of Ireland, but that night I didn’t really feel like chasing the craic.

I hadn’t the energy, so after I ran out of bars, and while the midsummer sun was still above the distant dark hills, I walked up the road to the church. 

At the top of the hill, I leaned on the stone wall and realised it was June 23rd, St. John’s Eve: bonfire night in Catholic countries.

Below green fields fell away toward the windy wee road, twisting its way to somewhere. Beyond the road the valley rose with stone walls and lush fields, blending into the black distant Nephin Beg range of hills.

Bonfires, everywhere, how many? 12, 13, 17, every house that might have been invisible in the fading evening light became a point on the map. Smoke spires dotted the landscape, as if a thousand new Popes had been announced. 

Small purple clouds clipped the fading sun’s dazzle, as it started to slip below the hills, and I found peace. 

This is my green and pleasant land. This is my Jerusalem.

This was my moment to be happy. I've learned how to spot it now. So many people miss their own happiness. It’s gone before their next bad time hits them over the head. They might then wonder why life is worth it, and that is a tragedy. 

The only thing I didn’t know was how long this happiness would last, but I didn’t care. The sun was gone, the sky crimson and pink as I turned away from the stone wall and took a wander around the church.

Recently restored with shiny pointing and a mini round tower, it was lovely.

A woman in a house behind me suddenly said hello. She was having a ciggie out of her window and I said hello back.

"Hello, lovely evening isn’t it!"
"Lovely!"

Strangers who say hello, just because you’re there.

Around the far side of the church I came across a door with a sign that said Sacristy and Toilets and behind it, I heard a young man singing. He had no idea that I was there, but I could tell he was writing a song. Maybe he was a young priest, composing something for his Sunday sermon.

He sang as a priest might, with a strong steady falsetto voice, ecclesiastical, lyrical and ethereal. 

"La la laaaaaaaa..." 

He was writing a song. I wondered what it was about?  

"Laaa laa la la laaaa..." 

He coughed and then sang the words of his song for the first time. 

“Property Tax, Property Tax,
They’re going to give us a Property Tax,

I’m looking forward to the Property Tax.
Water Tax, Water Tax, 

How will we pay the Water Tax?
I’m looking forward to the Water Tax...

We’ll all go to jail for the Property Tax....
lal la laaa...”   

and then he was wordless again, doubtless penning the lyrics to a second verse.

But it was perfect.

A priest in touch with the plight of his flock.
A scribbler at one with the splendour of rural Ireland.
Happiness, for which I am grateful.

 

©Charlie Adley

27.06.2011

 

Celebrating a million readers, here's the first of my two favourite DVs: 'A loving and thoughtful act brings about my confession!'

 

Jon Lewin

A couple of weeks ago I received in the post a package which reaffirmed my faith in human nature. Although it only contained a simple T-shirt, I was surprised, delighted and emotionally overwrought.

By way of explanation, I have to offer a confession.

Back in September I was sponsored to participate in the Galway Hospice’s Memorial Walk, a splendid and very successful event which raises much-needed funds for the most worthy of causes. Each walker wears a T-shirt on which is printed the name of a person in whose memory they walked that day.

I chose to walk in memory of Jon Lewin, a life-long friend who died of a brain tumour a few short years ago.

Upon arriving at Claddagh Hall I was given a package containing the T-shirt I had ordered, and went off to the Gents to put it on.

At the back of my mind, a wee small irritating voice had been nagging me for days, wondering if they would have spelled his name right. And lo, as soon as I saw the shirt out of its wrapping, there was the name a certain John Lewin.

And then I cried.

Clearly, I didn’t cry because they had spelled his name wrong. There are many things that upset me, as regular colyoomistas know, but an excellent institution such as the Galway Hospice awarding hundreds of walkers free T-shirts in a thoughtful tribute to lost loved ones could never be a cause for complaint.

No, I was mourning, and it hit me like a tsunami. I had written about Jon in this colyoom the week before, when I related our nightmare teenage holiday in Greece, so his memory was fresh in my brainbox, and I felt his presence with me on that day.

'Stop being a prat, Adley!’ I told myself, and put on the T-shirt, but each time I looked at the name, John with an ‘h’, I had a ridiculous and irrational emotional reaction.

This geezer’s name on my shirt was not Jon’s, but what did it matter? This day, this walk, this fund-raising event was not about me and my pedantic neurotic needs.

Somewhat foolishly, I decided to mention what had happened to the organisers, making sure to stress that it really was not a problem to me in the slightest, but that maybe in future, what with there being all manner of new nationalities and names arriving to live in Ireland, attention to detail might help avoid people getting upset.

I hated myself for saying anything, because however I emphasised that I was fine with it, that it wasn’t about me but potential walkers of the future, the more the friendly hospice professionals apologised.

Maybe, through their depth of experience, they could see more in my eyes than they let on. I was certainly unaware of how emotionally messed up I was.

Stepping outside the Claddagh Hall, I stood by the dock and watched all the wonderful walkers turning up in their T-shirts. Nobody seemed to be alone, and even though I would normally loathe to have company on a walk, I felt strangely lonely and, once again sad.

Looking at the Irish names on all the others’ T-shirts, I suddenly had a bit of a panic. Oh no, I should be walking for my little four year-old friend from Mayo who died last year.

How could I forget Alana?
How could I not think to put her name on my T-shirt?

And who is this person whose name is on my T-shirt? It’s not Jon. And why do I feel so nervous?

Why do I feel so scared of being a part of this crowded walk? And why and why and why …

Jon was a very beautiful and calm man. As if he stood at that very moment by my side, I heard his gentle whisper in my ear.

‘Stop being a prat, Charlie! Get yourself out of here, and walk somewhere else. This is not for you today. You’re too much of a mess.’

With the rain starting to fall, I ran away, jumped into my car and drove far away from the crowds. I felt horrible, hopeless, guilty as charged, and could not, for some reason, stop crying.

Eventually I parked at the beach in Furbo, and proceeded to walk long and alone: stumbling over rocks; squidging wet-booted through flooded fields, and finally sitting, breathing, restoring my mental order on a boulder covered with clams.

I walked for all those who had sponsored me.
I walked for the Galway Hospice.
I walked for Jon.
I walked for Alana.

Jon aspired to be a real rock’n’roll person, always cutting his own personal swathe. I felt that he understood and truly appreciated why I’d done a runner from the official Walk.

And I walked for myself, taking time to lie on my belly at face-level with a river, mesmerised by the beauty of the babbling flow, as I regained control of my emotions, and accepted that evidently I had seriously needed to grieve.

What better organisation to be the catalyst for such an emotional outpouring than the Galway Hospice?

So that is my confession: I threw a wobbly, cried a bucket and walked alone. But what of the package in the mail?

Yes - you guessed it! Reaffirming my faith in the future of our species, and going way beyond any hopes, expectations, even idle daydreams, Fiona at the Galway Hospice saw fit to print a T-shirt with Jon’s name on it, and send it to me, with an apology and a thank you note.

At this stage, all I want to say is no, please, let me thank you, for bowling me over and showing so much love and care that I am, once again, quite emotional. Oh and thanks to the Universe for sending us people like that!

©Charlie Adley
12.10.2006

Celebrating a million readers, here's the #1 most read DV of all time: Galway, City, where nobody needs a name!

Thanks to galwaytourism.ie/

“How ya doing?”
 
“Mighty. And you?”
 
“Good thanks. Bit tricky this, but your mate with the northern accent, the lad we were drinking coffee with outside Pura Vida? I’ve known him for years. We’ll often stop and chat. Thing is, I’m not sure of his name.”
 
As my friend stares at me over the table I’m not sure if I’m about to be reprimanded or helped out. How could I possibly be so shallow as to say I know someone, when I haven’t a clue what they’re called?
 
His mouth drops open, his eyes stare at the table as a gathering red flushes up from his chin to the crown of his head.
 
“Jeeze Charlie. Now that you mention it, I’m not sure myself. I think he’s married to the sister of that Dave from the market, because it’s his brother I was talking to. Not the brother from Letterfrack, he’s not been around, the other fella, the one who married the Yank and moved over there and came back after the crash, he’s working in Thermo King now I think, and …”
 
As he rambles I find myself forgetting who it was I was asking about in the first place and no longer caring in the slightest. Over the last couple of decades I’ve become used to this.
 
U2 sang about the land where streets have no names, but the truth is that sometimes in Galway City, people don’t need them either.
 
Even though this city has changed in many ways since I moved here in 1992, all the things I first loved about it remain almost intact, so I was saddened to hear Whispering Blue and Soldier Boy, both raised here, agree that the place had lost what made it special.
 
They felt that the place had grown too big, lost its intimacy and spontaneity.
 
Whenever I walk around Galway City streets with one of my local mates I’m still to this day astonished at the number of people they know. I’m a Londoner and over there bumping into people you know is a rare and special event.
 
To me this buzzing upcoming European Capital of Culture is still also a provincial county town, with an extraordinary smile on its face and a spring in its step. 

Home to dreamers, scribblers, dancers and software designers, you’ll know many people in Galway, just not necessarily by name.
 
This city of 14 tribes has many more now. Scores of Brit blow-ins like me; Europeans availing of free movement; 20,000 students and a welcome tide of others from further afield. Also, let’s not forget those poor souls lost in the limbo of Direct Provision. It’s easy to ignore them. Many of us do, but they live here too.
 
Many wonderful tribes from all over the world on this western seaboard, colliding with local culture, wondering what on earth everyone is talking about. 

If you are one of the many thousands recently arrived in this wonderful patch of the planet, allow me to share the following snippets of advice, gleaned from 24 years of simultaneously sticking out and blending in.
 
Despite what they tell you, never ask anyone if there’s any craic. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing will plunge a conversation into silence, a room into panic, a mood from light into darkness than somebody asking if there’s any craic. 

Unless there’s been a very recent death in the community, the air will hang heavy until someone starts talking about sport or a new dress on sale in Monsoon or, thank the Lord for its ubiquity and neutrality: the weather.
 
As a naïve new Galwegian you will at some point inevitably find yourself trapped by a local, who is convinced that you know somebody that you don’t.
 
You need to be prepared. There’s more than a little bit of Mrs. Doyle about it all, but instead of a cup of tea being forced upon you, the other person cannot rest easy until you either admit that you absolutely definitely don’t know the person never have never will now please step away from my face, or simply lie and say oh yeh, him? I know the fella.
 
If for you, as it was for me, you find neither of these options attractive, because you don’t want to upset someone and you don’t like telling porky pies, then learn this my friend, and use it freely:
 
“I’d know him to see him.”
 
Works a treat every time. The Galwegian who was for obscure reasons obsessed with you knowing this absolute stranger will breathe out, nod, smile and like a humpback whale across hundreds of miles of ocean, return the call:
 
“Ah you would! You’d know him to see him.”
 
After this blissful exchange life will immediately return to normal, whatever that might be in Galway.
 
Just room for one more quick-pick of idiomatic signposting. Even though the Irish are fascinated by death, preferring a good funeral to a bad wedding any day, they don’t mean someone’s died when they describe them as ‘up above.’
 
‘Up above’ can mean they’re still at home with Ma in Shantalla or taking a few months rehab in the cottage in Roundstone. I know from experience that this tiny bit of knowledge can save a whole heap of tragic confusion.
 
Only locals truly know how much this place has changed, but for me, never mind the streets, until the day comes when we need to know our friends’ names, there’s hope for Galway City.


©Charlie Adley
02.11.2016

Double Vision hits the million mark - thanks so much to my colyoomistas!

Double Vision started appearing weekly in the papers in 1992 and has been online since 2007. Last night we welcomed our millionth reader. 

A friend in London wondered how many of those visits were 'bot attacks', and certainly there was one day when DV had 6,000 hits from Singapore, so that must've been bot-mania at work. 

Beyond that, most visits are spread over the hundreds of colyooms posted here.

To celebrate this happy day I'll be posting three DVs: the most read colyoom posted here, along with a couple of my personal favourites.

Watch this space to see which ones I choose, and thanks so much for your loyal support.

 

 

©Charlie Adley 24.06.2026.

Thank you, Dagmar - only an artist could help as you did!

Scent of Memory by Dagmar Drabent. - click here to visit her website.

“Write it for fun!” Dagmar said, outside Tigh Neachtain - where else.

She’d asked me if I was writing, and I snuffled and blurbled a few imaginative excuses.

“Y’see, there’s this new nerve pain from a crushed vertebra high in my back...”

“Y’see when I was ill they put me on Disability and now I’m on a pension, and while I do need extra green folding most of the time, I’m loving the beach walks and staring into guilt-free space...”

“Y’see I’ve been rebooting the pre-online archive of Double Vision, as the online version nears a million hits...”

No, I wasn’t impressed either.

Since moving in to my little house, after seven years of overwhelming, all-consuming misfortune, I was happy to be a human just being. I avoided writing anything that required a deadline.

I’d lived off my scribbling for 27 years, and I give thanks for that.

Wooh Yeh. Thank you so much!

I wrote whatever I wanted and newspapers paid me for it. Columns and features.
It doesn’t really get better for a vocational writer.

There’s this play I was writing. The Abbey Theatre were running a competition to submit an idea for a play, and if you won they’d work on it with you and make it happen. I think it’s become a permanent offer these days.

My play is called Townland, and I love it it, mostly because I haven’t written it yet. When it becomes words on paper I’ll love it a lot less. I’ll see only weaknesses and how it could be better, but it’s been in the file for a few years now.

Until, that is, I’m sitting on Galway’s Cross Street with Paul and Dagmar on a Thursday afternoon, and she says:

“Why not write it for fun?"

Fun?
Don’t be writing it for the Abbey. Write it for fun.

How the hell had I forgotten Play, my core modus operandi?

I just finished teaching my first course since my illness, so for eight weeks I’ve been pummelling my poor pupils with the concept of Play, all the while ignoring my own rule; if it is a rule.

Play is my mindset; my canvas; my first draft; my everything. It’s the document I write in, the headspace I create in. 

When you’re playing you can’t go wrong.
When I’m writing I feel free.

Reflections on Galway Bay by Dagmar Drabent - click here to visit her website.
 

Dagmar couldn’t have known that I’d been avoiding Play, because I didn’t know either. Once in a while I should maybe listen to myself. And Dagmar.

For those colyoomistas who’ve spotted an absence of fresh DV content recently, here’s what’s been happening.

Back from Galway, I followed my instincts and trusted my experience. I fished out a bag filled with all the pics that have adorned the walls of my workspace, wherever I lived. They offered constancy in a life of many continents.

A postcard of an Utrillo street scene that evokes my teenage hitching years in France. A Modigliani woman that reminds me how strong simple strokes can be the most powerful and effective. 

 

Photos of my two dead Jons, both with no ‘h’, who used to live a mile from each other in London. Ancient photos of my posse, the Class of ’77. We have shared our lives all our lives. Significant cartoons which either illustrated my work or my ideas.

I didn’t put them up when I moved in, because I didn’t want a workplace.

Play.
Fun.

Then I ordered an office chair online, because if I’m about to write then I deserve it. Then I endured a ridiculous Saturday afternoon failing to put it together, while trying not to trigger the nerve pain.

When that mutha hits it can knock me off my feet. Like someone put my body into a microwave.

I’m sitting on that chair now, with my workplace pics up around me. Home.

 

No, I absolutely am not several thousand words into the play.

I’ve opened the folder called Townland Stuff, and made some fresh notes. I've edited the start of it which I wrote years ago. Less brogue. 

I’m not writing because the Abbey may or may not want to see the play. I’m playing.

I thought it was a rejection letter they sent, but Conor 'Monty' Montague told me it wasn’t.

Monty pointed out that they’d asked to see it when it was written. I’d only seen the words they wrote about not making into their ‘Ideas’ process.

Monty is, by the way, the living breathing Patron Saint of Scribblers. Unsung, unlauded, altruistic, helping scores of writers for the love of writing, and a damn fine wordsmith himself, if you like gonzo madness, gore and ironic excitement. Who doesn’t?

When you’re a scribbler you gain a broad collection of rejections. They differ and dither between hope and damnation. When I lived in Connemara a friend close by insisted that I was a much better writer than him.

“You’ve a much better collection of rejections than I have, Charlie.”

Please take note, one Iris Leal. Back sometime in the 1980s you had just described my writing as ‘a cave painting’, and told me (or screamed wildly at me, if you’re English and not Israeli) that one day I would read a lot of books.

You were right.

Over the last six years I’ve read an absolute shitload of books, mostly modern fiction.

I’ve calmed the fuck down.

The Townland folder is open, and I’m a better writer than I was back when I hid it there, before all those books.

I’m on my spanky new office chair; my pics are up; I’ve written some notes, and realised today that English Tom’s voice needs to be more clipped.

Dagmar could not know how incredibly apt her advice was.

Then again, as an artist she recognises the importance of freedom, of creating for the love of it.

Thanks Dagmar!


©Charlie Adley
12.06.2026

 Dagmar on Spotify

 

Roy Keane’s passage and Ireland’s angriest man!

 

Great artwork as always from Allan Cavanagh at caricatures-ireland.com

(The final collection of clips from the DV archive never before seen online - 2005-2007)

July 2006.
Roy Keane’s passage. 

Alongside all football comes humour, and Ireland has in George Hamilton the greatest exponent of the Colemanball since the eponymous David Coleman started talking nonsense decades ago. 

The following gems are all Hamilton’s own:

“And Hyypia rises like a giraffe to head the ball clear!”

“The midfield are like a chef, trying to prise open a stubborn oyster to get at the fleshy meat inside!”

“He's pulling him off! The Spanish manager is pulling his captain off!”

And my personal fave:

“Redondo is blocking Roy Keane's passage!”

*

April 2005.
"When I was your age, I could flyyyy…!"

It’s the Cheltenham Festival, so I’m on my way to the bookies at the Westside when I stop in my tracks.

A young woman is helping an older lady out of the back door of a small silver hatchback parked next to mine. She appears to be having some trouble, so I hang back.

Gradually she emerges, clutching an extravagant wad of €50 euro notes.

For a moment she stands like a statue, her body pointed toward the shops as a gun dog at a kill, her eyes slowly moving along, scanning her prey.

“It’s over there, Ma, the blue building on the far right!”

Assimilating her daughter’s directions, yer wan marches at high speed towards the bookies, hand with cash held high above her head. A more confident stride I’ve never seen.

How great it is to be living in Ireland, where an older lady can feel safe waving her dosh around like that.

The front door of the same Nissan opens to reveal an older gentleman, who looks like he stepped out of an Irish Tourist Board advertisement.

Impeccably dressed with tweed jacket, flat hat and blackthorn cane, he turns his freckled lined face to me, and I smile back. 

As he talks, his eyes betray the weariness of age, although they shine too, with humour and a sparkle of gentle wit.

“Ye’ll have to be patient young man!”

“Oh, absolutely!” says I, not feeling particularly young, and eager to put him at his ease. “There’s no rush,” I offer, “It’s a lovely day, and the races don’t start for another hour!”

By now he has swung his legs out of the car, and I hesitate to offer a helping hand, because he has about him an air of individuality and independence.

He stretches out his arms in well-practiced manner, and assuredly lifts himself out and up onto his feet.

“Ah, yes, everything takes a little longer than it used to … ” he explains, as he turns back into the car to reach for his cane, “… and on occasion, that can be a very good thing!”

The septuagenarian’s double entendre surprises me a little.
He walks right up to me, and engages me eye to eye.

“Mind you …” he intones, somewhere between a wistful whisper and a challenge, his breath on my chin, “… mind you, when I was your age, I could flyyyyyyyyy!”

As he says ’fly’ he lifts his voice and raises his hand high to the sky, and for a second or two, I believe he could.

We both laugh and wish each other good luck on the gee gees. I’m delighted to be living in Ireland, where a gentle encounter with a perfect stranger leaves me enthralled, charmed and inspired.

*

March 2006.
“He’s my God, not yours!” 

Last week I was attending a training course in a Galway hotel. When tea break time came around, there were three tables laid out with cups, coffee and tea urns.

On top of each table lay a piece of paper clearly stating the different company names for whom these cuppas were allocated.

A small group of women arrived, and much to the consternation of the young Polish lad running things, they started to lay into another company’s coffee.

He turned to them, waving his hands in the air.

“Sorry sorry no! No please no! This is not for you! This is not your coffee. Please to wait five minutes! I have your coffee then! Thank you!”

Even in less than perfect English he made his point politely and impressively. Everyone backed off, save for three older ladies who carried on as if he didn’t exist.

“Please no! Please no!” he repeated, “Then there is not enough for others! Please just wait two more minutes.”

The women completely ignored him and as he walked away, frustrated and upset, he muttered under his breath

“Jesus Christ!” 

Immediately, one of the older ladies turned, waving her finger at him:

“Don’t you go cussin’! He’s my god, not yours!”

However much I think I understand our species, ye lot can still knock me backwards.

Never mind the fact that yer man was very likely a Catholic too, the utter crassness, bigotry and blind ignorance of her comment sent my head reeling.

My god, not yours. My god, not yours.

Having tried it out for size a couple of times, I decided that her simple sentence summed up perfectly the situation in the world today.

What better way to describe a crusade than: ‘My god, not yours!’

Ever since the Cold War ended, the West needed a new official enemy.
Islam and Christianity have been exploited by those with vested financial interests to be the colours of our new war. 

Make no mistake: it is a crusade.

*

June 2007.
Gee it’s good to be back home!  

When I return from England I’m so knackered I can function only after a long self-indulgent soak in a lovely hot bath.

 Ahhhhhhh blisssss... now a flick of the radio, catch up with what’s going on in Ireland ... 

‘... he claimed that he had been falsely accused of being molested by priests when he was a boy ...’ 

Accused of being abused?
How does that work? 

Ahh, yes, back in Ireland.

*

August 2007.
Ireland’s angriest man wants the Irish to apologise to the English! 

Climbing into a Galway city taxi yesterday, I encountered the most abusive and angry person I have ever met in my life.

A local man of slight build, he started hissing and spitting as he turned his car around, temporarily blocking the traffic emerging from Cross Street. 

At first I took his torrent of ‘effs’ and ‘cees’ to be nowt but a burst of road rage, the like of which I suffer from myself, but it continued throughout the journey. 

“Fucking bastards can’t bloody drive. Stupid fucking fuckers. Look at the way he’s parked, bastard. Who does that cunt think he is?” 

For a moment, as we drove down Dominick Street, silence dwelt briefly and happily inside the cab.

 And then I went and spoiled it all by thinking perchance a little light conversation might ease our journey. 

“Well, at least it’s stopped raining. Looks like we’re going to have a lovely afternoon.” 

“Don’t talk to me about the fucking weather. I am so fed up to the back teeth with this bollocks country and its fucking weather, God almighty. And look at the state of those grass verges. That fucking council of ours, they make me sick. Lazy fucking pigs. Fat bloody pigs getting rich while we wallow in the muck they leave for us. Look at those grass verges. All fucking weeds and bloody litter. Really, makes me sick. How dare they sit up there in their bloody council chamber talking bollocks and taking fucking bonuses while they leave the city to rot? Cunts. Pigs and cunts the lot of ‘em. And look at this abomination. Tell me now, what bright fucking spark decided to paint the Prom yellow? And were we asked? Were we fuck! And did we even know until it was done? Did we fuck. Ruined Salthill they have, the pigs. And the city. Lovely it was, and now it’s gone to shit. Shitty fucking Galway run by a chamber of pigs, ignorant cunts and filthy fucking liars. I tell you. I fucking tell you. And look at the state of the grass by the car park. Ignorant pricks. What did they expect with 100,000 people watching the Air Show? Did not one of them think that might fuck up the grass? Makes me sick. I have had it with this fucking country. And yes, we have the Big Wheel now, but only after they had to fight the fucking council for the right to power. Yes, huh. I’ll tell you one thing I know. There’s not much I know for sure, but some things I do know, and this thing I know for fucking sure. Oh god yes, that I do. They wouldn’t listen, but if they had, I can tell you, this fucking mess of a country wouldn’t be in the fucking mess it’s in. One thing I know. Old Garrett was right. Oh yes, you might laugh, but let me tell you, old Garret was right with what he said back in the ‘80s. If only we’d have listened to Garret.” 

Clearly the man was fishing for a question. I was worried that if I didn’t give him what he wanted, he might have a heart attack, or worse, I might be considered a filthy fucking ignorant cunt-prick myself. 

“So what did Garret FitzGerald say back in the ‘80s?” 

“I’ll tell you what he fucking said. He said that we should go cap in hand to the English, and apologise! Yes, that’s what he said, and that’s exactly what we should fucking do. Go cap in hand to the English, apologise, and ask them if they wouldn’t mind taking the country back, and maybe please make it better again.” 

Was I really going to take him on?  

Nearly home, exhausted by his tirade of abusive language, I was feeling a better, more wholesome human being with each disgusting phrase and tortured clause that hammered into my ears. 

“Wow! Did old Garret FitzGerald really say that? He - I - wow! Well, bugger me!” 

“Yes he did. And he said a lot more besides. Fucking pigs. Lazy fucking pigs and stupid fucking cunts. That’s what we have become!” 

“Keep the change!” 

“Why, sir, you’re a gentleman and a scholar!”


©Charlie Adley
24.05.2026

10,000 Galway Howyas, Curried Wisdom and Freedom Fries!

(clips from the DV archive never before seen online - here's come 2004!)

March 2004.

Freedom Fries and a Justice Burger! 

It’s late as I stumble out of Taylor’s Bar, and follow my tipsy chin over the road to Vinnie’s Takeaway. While I wait for my chicken, I’m entertained by the Dominick Street late night show.

Over by the wall, two 20something American tourists are chatting, flirting, cavorting with the lads behind the counter.

One of the girls is quieter, hanging back, while her friend appears to want to embody the image we have of her Mother Country: she’s loud, proud, and wants everybody to know it, standing out like a beautiful sore thumb.

She's the one everybody is watching, and not only is she evidently aware of this, she seems to like it.

Standing centre stage, she yells

“Can I come behind the counter and see your kitchen? Do you have ketchup over here? Do you put beef in your burgers?”

Not USDA baby, I think to myself, but say nothing.

By now the air is thickening with the need for some kind of response, and sure enough, it comes, in a European way that contrasts with the brazen abrasion of yer one from across the pond.

One of the lads by the window calls out (in a thick and chewy Dublin accent)

“Err, couldja change moy orda to a portion of Freedom Froize … yez, oid loik some Freedom Froize and … and … and … a Josstiss Burrga, tanks!”

The place erupts with laughter, a sense of relief and camaraderie spreading throughout the non-American munchers.

I cannot help myself, and laugh alongside them.

The quieter American girl looks up, aware that not all in da Hemmarold Hile are the dingly-dell-leprechaun-luvvin’ folk we’re supposed to be.

Trouble is, I feel unsettled and displeased with myself for mocking the young lass. It’s not fair to exploit her naïveté, just so that we can vent our collective spleens over Dubya’s imperialist ambitions.

May 2004.
More Sligo curry than Tubbercurry.

Just south of Sligo I see a vision of my new Ireland.

We take sanctuary from the wind and rain in the warm glow of a pub, where an Indian gentleman behind the bar is chatting to two older farmers on barstools.

We’re excited to find a comprehensive curry menu, and as we peruse, I sit back and enjoy eavesdropping on the banter between the landlord and his customers.

“Yez cannot be sheerious!”

“But yes I am. I am being very serious.”

“Ye’d seerioushly prefer to have the Hin-glish back than have yer own independence?”

“I am being very serious. With the English yes, we had suffering, but we knew where we were. Now there is much fear. There is sometimes chaos and always there is fear. Fear of a war with Pakistan. Fear of many religions.”

“But but but to be free! Jaaayyyzus chroisht man, what can be more important? How can you shtand there and tell me dat dat’s not the foinest feeling?”

“Free yes, freedom is a wonderful thing, yes it is. But freedom is not about who rules you. It is about how you rule yourself.”

“Sure, and tell that to the millions who starved to death!”

“You are right, and I was wrong, but I am meaning no offence. I think what I am saying is that the country was much more organised with the English. Now it is a mess, yes, messy, and there is not an order to things as there was before.”

“So why are you opening a restaurant here?”

“Because I am not a good cook!”

Flash of toothy smile and all three men laugh together.

Our curry arrives, and it tastes really good, washed down by pints of Guinness.

I am in heaven.

April 2004.
In off the wall genius.

Big Ron Atkinson has taken the football cliché and turned it on its head.

No time has he for the ubiquitous ‘sick as a parrot!’ or the execrable ‘It’s a game of two ‘alves!’

Not a bit of it.

“Zola’s split the defence with a birthday ball. Candles, the bumps, and a sloppy kiss off his Auntie Rita. The lot.”

and

“Blanc’s been caught by the quick ball over the top. He was expecting The Troggs and they’ve gone and hit him with a right Frank Zappa.”

or my personal favourite

“You’ve got to blame the defence there. The left-back came home early for his tea and got jam in his eye.”

April 2004.
We raised the flag of Hollow Strangers on Mount Howya! 

Walking from Nimmo’s - Seeya! Seeya!- through the Spanish Arch and onto Buckfast Plaza - Howya! - over the road to Quay Street - Howya! - Howya!- up to Cross Street - Howzit goin’? - Howya! - Howya!

If I was being watched by a tourist, they’d think I was the best-known person in the country.

But then again, if they watched any Galwegian, they’d see the same thing.

Galway is the Capital City of Howya Culture. There’s 10,000 faces out there that you recognise, and seemingly more that recognise you, and when it suits, when you’re in the mood, or have da hin-inclinayyyshun, you smile and raise an eyebrow, or even go mad and wave a hand to embellish your gesture.

At this time of year, before the tourist madness starts, it’s still possible to spot Howyas in the crowd. Sadly, most of us have lost just too many brain cells to remember who on earth all those Howyas are.

Maybe you chatted her up one night. Possibly you were the friend of a friend six months ago. Perchance he crashed your party, and you made a mental note to avoid him like the pendulous drop of snot hanging from a cavorting child’s nose. 

Some Howyas you wish you knew better. Some you wish you’d never met, but every single one of them is part of this city.

Depending on your mood, your 10,000 Howyas can either be a wonderful phenomenon or a source of horror. If you’re on the up, they create within you a warm spreading glow of community and belonging; feelings of identity as part of the whole; a sense of place, time and history mixed up into a heady brew of humanity.

When you’re feeling down, they seem pointless, hollow and the worst possible representation of how false and fickle Galway life can be.

Sure, you say hello, but you don’t give a damn about any of them. The darkness within you asks ‘What’s the point?’

You don’t know their names, or where they live. You don’t care and they don’t care and yet you pretend to be a part of each other’s lives on some shallow and insincere plane.

More often, it’s neither one extreme nor the other. Most of the time, your 10,000 Howyas are a benign and relatively pleasant part of everyday life.

Sometimes, however, you stray from the path, and all of a sudden, you’re forced to break all the unwritten ways of the Howya.

As I stroll along Mainguard Street, I walk past a tall lad in a grey greatcoat, long grey hair sweeping over his shoulder.

We ‘Howya!’ and walk on, but for some reason, I double take, and look back over my shoulder as he passes me. He is a good five paces away, yet just as I have done, he too has looked back.

We stare into each others eyes.

Had we been old friends, this would be a moment of joyful reunion. We might jump in the air, and run toward each other, clapping manly hands on each others’ backs in that macho hug thing, both talking at the same time as we excitedly pour forth question after question.

But we do nothing of the kind, because we are mere Howyas. Trouble is, we have now strayed across a boundary. We have stopped walking, faced each other, engaged in something more.

A simple single salutation will no longer suffice. One of us has to have the balls, the cojones, to ‘fess up pronto, to admit we thought the other was someone else entirely, but we’re both social cowards.

Now we are condemned to cross into an unknown and slightly terrifying netherworld; a place that lurks way beneath the heights of real friendship, and yet outside the safety of the Howya.

I’m by Pound City, himself by Myles Lee. Slowly we shuffle toward the middle of the street, standing by the cycle racks, each shifting from one foot to another.

This is dangerous territory. One false move and there’s terminal embarrassment to be endured. Too invasive an approach, and the emotional wounding might be severe.

I have not a clue who he is, where he’s from, or what his name is. I do not know if he has led a happy or miserable life; whether he is a teetotaller or a happy drinker. I do not know if he’s straight or gay, whether he has kids; maybe a wife?

For a few moments I am silenced by fear. What if I ask about the kids but should know only too well that tragically he lost one years back?

In his deep blue eyes I see a similar nervousness, but by now we are two men physically facing each other, and so we must walk the high tightrope of Howya.

Without ever looking down, we must engage in conversation.

Stare neither to the left nor to the right. Just ask and acknowledge. Search not for details, specifics or facts.

Let’s test our Galway City skills, push our Howya abilities to the limit.

“So how’s life?”

“Moity!”

“Same here I have to say! Just moved back from the country.”

“Oh, were you out there long?”

“Three years.”

“Oh really!”

“And how about yourself?”

“Can’t complain, life's pretty good. How’s the house?”

“House is fine, same as ever, d'j'yaknow.”

“Oh yes, same as ever. And what about the ...errrm... social life?”

“Not bad. Can’t complain. I get out once or twice a week, not as much as I used to.”

“No no me too, can’t take it like I used to, not at all. So how’s your work?”

“Well, coming along, spend too much time not making enough money.”

“Yeh yeh tell me about it, seems never-ending, really doesn’t it? What about the ol’ love life, eh eh?”

“Well, not much happening there, and yourself?”

“Well, still with herself, so that’s not going to change.”

“Good good, can’t be bad. City’s gone bananas hasn't it?”

“Jaize you’re right there, can hardly hear myself think these days.”

“Ah well, great to seeya!”

“Yeh! All the best now, now so, now, so ... now! Good to see you too buddy!”

Pheeee-yeeeew! We pulled it off. Both of us walked away none the wiser, but with integrity and emotions intact.

Ironically, we now truly have a bond.

We made it!

Together, we raised the flag of Hollow Strangers on the summit of Mount Howya!


©Charlie Adley
12.05.2026

I'm so not super excited that I said 'Super excited!'

 

Great artwork from Allan Cavanagh of Caricatures Ireland.ie

I can remember neither what I was talking about, nor to whom I was talking.

Maybe the horror of the moment blew a few neuronic fuses.

What I know for sure is that I said

“…super excited…”

to somebody about something.
I'm unsurprised yet sorrowful.

I know all that ‘language is a liquid’ stuff and I’ve had fun observing how my spoken idiom and vernacular have wobbled and whimpered as I moved around the world.

After three months of working in a garage in Melbourne, doing B-Hits with my Work Mates during Smoko, a city taxi driver said

“Chroist, ye dant sowned loik a Pom.”

Let me tell you, as a Pom speaking here: taxi drivers don’t like losing the chance to deliver a good slagging, so I must’ve talked pure Aussie after only 12 weeks.

Here in Ireland my accent wanders from full Mitchell Brother to Plastic Paddy, but errs mostly towards the Home Counties, as we privileged few from the Home Counties like to call the Home Counties.

I know I’ve been culturally colonised by the USA. I drink coke and wear jeans, eat burgers and watch movies. I love American writers and remember when people started saying “No Way!” in our suburban London lives in the early 80s. Might’ve been the 70s.

Who knows?
Who cares?

Do I sound American yet?

Point being, we all loudly cried “No Way!” with smiles on our faces, to get a laugh, because to us, back then, it sounded aggressive, impolite and over-assertive.

Yet now it sounds so weak that’s hard to believe.

The hyperbole that started way back with freedom, contraception and The Beatles, that’s all ended up as meaningless vacuous iconic super excited sick super great crap.

And it’s not going away, but it will morph into something else.

And I said “Super excited” and a part of me hates that I’m so weak.

And the other part of me knows that has nothing to do with it.

I’m just assimilating.

Grunt by grunt, inflection by verbal twitch, blow-ins like me start to osmose the Irish way of speaking English.
 
Despite Howya! sounding so similar to the English ‘How are you?’, the Irish person saying it requires no response, or one of three answers.

Back in England it would be perfectly acceptable to reply
 
“Bloody terrible actually. The dog bit me, I got burgled and then the bloody car broke down.”
 
But here in my adopted country, the only acceptable responses must be either

Grand! 

Mighty! 

or

Not a bother on me!
spoken as one word.
 
It’s tough on depressives, especially during periods when your voice doesn’t sound as convincing as it might.

At those times so as not to draw attention to your pathetic human neediness, it’s best to string all three responses together, and utter them at speed (for the more advanced class):

Mighty grand not a bother on me!
 
Then there’s the shopkeepers’ masterpiece of enigma. Now! fired across the counter.

Now what?
Now who?
Should I do something?

Takes you by surprise at first, alongside the So! and that much-beloved double whammy 

So now! and Now so!
 
Next out of your mouth comes the positively effervescent Thanks A Million!

Such hyperbolic gratitude for buying a single postage stamp in England would sadly be seen as taking the piss, but here it offers a delightful alternative to the bland English Ta very much!

The wonderful Why Wouldn’t I? now tumbles out of my mouth alongside all variations of Yer Wan, Yer Man and the splendid No Finer Man.
 
Sometimes my assimilation can take me by surprise. Never thought I’d become a Day That’s In It person, but now that’s there, and on at least one occasion I’ve been deeply shocked to hear myself go

Lookit!
in public.

I had to take a moment.
What next? 

I Do Be?

Now in the latter stages of my assimilation, I play arpeggios of my adopted lingo.

String together C’mere to me!, add a little Now! and a smidge of So! and all of a sudden I’m inviting Dalooney to

C’mere to me now, so! and it all feels right and good.

The first time I felt fully assimilated was actually a non-verbal experience.

From the moment I arrived in Galway, I noticed how people here sometimes offered agreement by sucking a sharp intake of breath onto the roof of their mouths, loud enough to be heard, yet too soft to be spelled.

Far from that dreaded disapproving flared nostril sniff, this hissy breath is used to offer some kind of guiltily-agreed censure, such as when your friend offers:

“Oh he’s an awful man, so he is!”you respond with the inward hiss.

Gathering words and picking up accents are understandable but this sharp inward breath is a physical phenomenon, so I was shocked to find myself unthinkingly doing the intake response.

My time in Ireland has changed my breathing patterns. That’s a different level of assimilation altogether, so it is now.

Behave, Adley.

Be respectful.

And while we’re at it, while this Grumpy Old Colyoomist is on a roll, I can’t be doing with any TV or movies that describe themselves as any of the below.

Madcap. Romp. Cringe. Caper.

What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?

Nothing, but it felt so fine dumping it out of me and dropping it here.

Caper, indeed.


 

 

©Charlie Adley
09.05.2026

Bertie, blaming and bar craic in Ballina - it's 2002!

       Thanks to caricatures-ireland.com

(More from the DV archive never before seen online - these clips are from 2002.)

October 2002.
Switch off your Irish blame reflex - sometimes life just go wrong! 

In their ability to find blame, the Irish are united: in all 32 counties, you blame as one.

When colonised, the Irish naturally blamed the English for all ills.
Ireland still does, and probably forever will blame the English for anything and everything that doesn’t have a visible blame label on it from somewhere else.

In the Irish Dark Ages between Independence and joining the EEC, when it seemed like everyone else had what the Irish wanted. Ireland became the land of begrudgery.

Then, after 1973, Ireland behaved like a petulant teenager, pleading

“Leave me alone!” to the world, all the while enjoying substantial handouts from EuroMum on the side.

Now EuroMum has cut the allowance, and worse, those Bureaucratic Belgo-Bastards say they want Irish contributions. 

Broke? Blame the EU.
Blame a loss of sovereignty.
Blame electronic voting.

So the boom didn’t last forever? Oh really? You poor sweet nation, that’s such a shame, because look, everybody else’s booms last forever.

Get real.

Rich becomes poor like life becomes death.
It’s nobody’s fault, it just happens.

Lost your job? Hey look, there’s a Romanian.
Bloody Romanian. Lost me my job.

I was in Ballina the other day, cold and hungry, in search of a small portion of chips. In my pocket sat the grand sum of €1.50. That must be good for a small chips in North Mayo, I said to myself.
But no, small chips were €1.85. I asked yer wan what was the story with the price?

“Oh I know, terrible isn’t it! Everything’s gone mad since the Euro came in!”

Want to put up your prices?
Blame the Euro.

Pissed of with inflation?
Blame the Government.

It was England and the Empire.
Then it became Europe and the Euro.
Now, it’s Mick McCarthy.

Never mind the fact that Mick took you out of a World Cup qualifying group including Portugal and Holland.

Blame Mick.
Love Keano.
Irish good.
English bad.

As if to prove it, there’s Dunphy on RTE’s ‘The Premiership’, claiming the English press are racist against Keane.

Give me a break. It wasn’t England that screwed up your World Cup. 

It was your very own beloved captain, forsaking his team mates in their hour of need.

Roy Keane: diva and blamer supreme.
Eamon Dunphy: blame on the end of a glass.

Make like the Nazarene: check out your faults before you point your national blaming fingers elsewhere.

Sometimes life just dumps pooh on your parquet, and there’s simply no point in blaming anyone.

October 2002.
At least I wasn’t wearing a hat. 

Arriving in Galway from my home in North Mayo, I say “Howya!” to the Guru at his market stall, and stray into the middle of Shop Street, my jaw dropping at the sight of the Saturday afternoon crowds.

Evidently, my transformation from cynical streetwise urban guerrilla to wide-eyed clueless culchie is more complete than I realised.

When I lived in Galway City, I never went out at the weekend: that was when the country folk came in, with mud on their boots and eager smiles on their ruddy faces, bursting to drink pints of ‘Special’ and enjoy the mad craic.

And now I am one of them.

           Gone but not forgotten: Paddy Jordans in Ballina 

December 2002.
Ballina: No better place to wait for a bus! 

Opposite the bus station is a pub, red carpet brass rails, with a coal fire and a cluster of auld fellas.

I have an hour to kill, so I order a Jamie, approach the Observer crossword, and sigh with contentment.

The lads down the far end of the bar have had a fine day, are well oiled and good humoured, ripping the proverbial out of each other with the cruel sharpness of men who have drunk together for years.

The young barmaid hums happily, well able to handle her regulars.

“I love you Aoife!” exclaims bald rakey-thin oldie, as she hands him his ‘pointa spesh.' 

“I’m glad somebody does!” she returns, leaving himself with a gaping toothless smile, mumbling “Ahh, but I do! I do, I really do do do...” as his mouth sinks towards his beer.

Chunky beetroot-faced flat-hat boy turns to his mates.

“Here’s one! Here’s one, I tellya! Tink of a number. Go on!”

“Oh, hmm, yesh, I have one.”

“Double it!”

“Ohhhh, jusht a second now. Hmm. Okay.”

“Now, times it boy ... boy ... boy shix!”

“Ohhh jeezze Mikey, what’re ye feckin’ at?”

“Just do it man. For feck’s sake, it’s not dat hard izzit? And now ... now add ten ... divoide by two, and take away the .. cof cof cof wheeze oh feckin’ jeezus mary and jo jo jo ... cof cof ... take away shix, and you have da nomber ye firsht tort of!”

“No ... no, I don’t. I have terteen, and I shtarted wid sheven!”

“No you don’t!”

“Yes oy do, ye old bollox!”

“Well, ye got it wrong den, dincha? Can ye not add and shubtract? I feckin’ said double it and add 22!”

“Ye never shed nuttin’ like dat, not a bit of it, oh no not a bit of it!”

“Ah well, try it again!”

“I will not. ‘Tis borin’ and you got it wrong anywayze. Here, I have one for you now. Listen to dis one. Hey, Aoife, c’mere and lissen to dis one! Now, if it takes me a week to walk a fortnight, how long will I walk in a day?”

“Eh? What da cof cof wheeze cof what da fock was that?”

“Oh, maybe I got him wrong, now ... lemme tink ... or is it a fortnight to walk a week?”

“I love you Aoife!”

“Like I said, thanks, I’m glad someone does!”

“I do I love you Aoife.”

“Thanks, and by the way, I’m Deirdre!”

Much roaring laughter from all, followed by some reassuring backslapping, and finally, from somewhere deep in the huddle:

“Ahh, a bit of auld craic, dats wha’ ye want! A drop of liquid in yer glass, and a bit of auld craic!”

Time for me to head off. I wish them well, and leave them to their lives. Outside the weather has cleared, stars peaking out of the night sky.

If there is a finer country in which to wait for a bus, I’m in no need of it!

May 2002.
Free ice cream anyone? 

Of course Bertie will win, and lead his Fianna Fail into another long government, escaping the voter’s natural urge to go with the swing of the pendulum.

His main opponent, Fine Gael’s Michael Noonan, graduated with honours from the University of Bland Slaphead Opposition Leaders, in the class that gave us William Hague and Ian Duncan Smith.

Noonan’s dull droning monotone radio voice actually became life-threatening the other day, forcing me to wind down my car window, so that I didn’t fall asleep at the wheel.

Away from Treaty politics, Mary Harney’s boat race peers down at me from a million posters on the N17. On each is posed the question of what her PD’s might do with 8 seats in the Daíl.

God knows, and god help us if we have to find out.

Meanwhile Ruari Quinn and his Labour Party are offering more Bank Holidays and free ice cream for Senior Citizens and schoolchildren on the third Thursday of each month.

People don’t vote for holidays. They vote for ideology or money.

With no attractive political ideologies kicking about these days, those lucky winners with more money will vote for the status quo.

Bertie will win for just the same reason that Maggie Thatcher and John Major kept on winning: to borrow James Carville’s well-worn political maxim: it’s the economy, stupid.

But what of us, the bottom feeders who live west of the Shannon?

What of us poor folk who have only read and heard of this ‘boom’, yet never seen a penny of it?

We will do what the English did back in those Thatcher years.

We’ll vote for the dream too, in the hope that wealth might spread west, where so far the Celtic Tiger has looked more like a paper moon.

June 2002.
Come on ye boys in Green, stop reminding me of the English!

There’s a part of me that’s happy Ireland is out of the World Cup.

Whassdat?
Sacrilege!
Treachery!
Treason and unbelievable effrontery, from an Englishman of all things!

It would be impossible for the English to see any England defeat as a reason to celebrate. In Ireland, the celebration of brave (perennially losing) heroes is reason to party through the night, set fire to tyres, down gallons of Buckfast, inflate giant plastic hammers and most of all, feel oh so very proud to be Irish.

Well, that’s how it used to be.

Nowadays that Ireland only exists on postcards showing redheaded girls, donkeys and baskets of cut turf.

Above all I am an England fan, but I know that what you get out of a country is directly related to what you put in.

I cheer for the boys in green, the girls in green, and however scandalous it may be, I cheer for both Galway and Mayo GAA teams.

Last Summer, while the late afternoon sun shone bright, the locals in my village paid no heed to the efforts of their national team.

I though was to be found skulking in pubs, watching the Irish team play qualifying group games against Andorra and equally obscure opposition. I didn’t miss one Ireland game in the last couple of years; friendlies, the lot.

Without turning my back on my Englishness and Jewishness, I am totally committed to this country and its people.

Over the past few weeks, I have huffed, puffed, supped and screamed for the Irish lads, happy to watch the team that Mick built evolve from Saint Jack’s block and hoof into a mature modern outfit that likes to go forward.

As the national World Cup hysteria built up, a predictable ABE (Anyone But England) element grew in Ireland’s pubs. That in itself was no big deal. I’d never be happy in Ireland if I couldn’t take shtick.

I love the cut and thrust of Irish repartee. Each time a local gives me a hard time over being English, I in turn take the opportunity to offload back and everybody’s happy.

Recently however there’s been precious little wit in these exchanges.

It’s perfectly reasonable and even desirable that the successful 21st century Irish should see themselves and their country on a level playing field with other countries, but alongside their new affluence and confidence there has come an aggression that reminds me why I left England in 1992.

Being a mensch among men, I braved my local village pub to watch the England v Argentina game. Naturally, I was expecting and easily handled the hard time I got from the villagers.

Indeed, in some kind of weird masochistic way, I went down there so that they could have their go at me, and I was not disappointed.

However nothing could ready me for the reception I received when I turned up to shout for Ireland in the big game against Spain last Sunday.

I’d been looking forward to it; as excited and nervous as a native all week, but as I walked into the packed village pub I was greeted by a local lad pointing his finger at me, yelling

“Fuck off you!”

Over the long wet Mayo winter this lad and I had on many occasions sat watching Old Firm games at this very bar, himself clad in his Hoops jersey.

We had shared pints and a bit of craic, but now he’s infected with ABE, and I’m just not up to it. If he’d said something rude that made me laugh, I’d have been encouraged to enter.

“Fuck off you and go away!” he persists.

Don’t need it.
Fed up with it.
Not up to it; not today.

“Fuck you too!” comes my equally lucid intellectual retort, and I turn dejected and forlorn, heading home to watch the game alone.

If you’re going to slag, do it well. ‘Fuck off and go away’ hardly makes it to the group stage of the Wit Cup.

For the first time in my sojourn in this country I feel truly deeply weary of this Irish attitude. Now that Ireland is doing well, good old-fashioned patriotism could so easily have become internationalism, but no, instead they turn to wretched nationalism.

Such hostility is pathetic, especially given the level of goodwill and support that the English offered the Irish team.

The BBC, in the shape of Gary Lineker, described the Irish participation thus:

“It was a brave and bold effort by Mick McCarthy’s men. The World Cup will miss them, and so will we!”

This was followed by a montage of Irish goals and hysterical fans set to a soundtrack of Have I told you lately that I love you?




©Charlie Adley
01.05.2026.