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
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