The Irish and the English

Rhyme and Reason

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The Irish, given the choice between rhyme and reason would plump for rhyme, we have rhyme in music, song and words, the English would plump for reason. Rhyme without reason is a form of madness, and reason, cold hearted reason on its own can lead to the worst excesses Europe has seen. Both, when they plumb their depths, are vile and deadly. At their height, they represent greatness.

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When are they at their greatest? When they contain, what may be called, in common parlance, a bit of the other. (The English produced Shakespeare, the Irish split the atom). Rhyme and reason should be one, they and we should be friends and more than friends.

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The story of our lives we write may be comedy, love story or tragedy, depending on whether we come together or apart. Remember the Beatles’ song, Come Together? Is that an injunction, a celebration an acceptance or a request? Whatever, it is beautiful music.

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Shall I eat my words or will you? We are what we read, in so many or so few words, whatever that means.

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Let these words be spoken, meaninglessness is meaningless, meaning is all, and meaning is when rhyme and reason are one.

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The Irish, at their worst, are drunks, sometimes literally, but I speak metaphorically, drunk on words, if not alcohol. The English at their worst are zombies, the living dead, dead to feeling, all thought and calculation and no emotion. They are all heart (physical), the Irish are all soul (spiritual). This is these people at their worst.

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What happens when a drunkard meets a zombie? They attempt to slaughter each other.

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At their worst, the Irish are all style and no content, the English are the other way around. Meaning comes from a mixture of style and content. Either without the other is meaningless.

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What should happen when an Irishman meets an Englishman? The Irishman should say “Have a drink on me” and the Englishman should say “Spare a thought for thought”. Sharing a drink together with no thought for tomorrow they are as happy as Larry, enjoying each others company.

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The dreamer dreams. The thoughtful man puts dreams into effect. May dreams come true.

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David (four asterisks)

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A Few Jokes

About Time, Too

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A Swedish girl, with poor English, wanting to know the time, went up to a man on a railway platform and asked “What-is-time?”. “That is a profound question”, the man replied.

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The Bishop of Tullamore was dying, and he asked Brian Cowen and Brian Lenihan to come to his bedside. They came, and he asked them to stand one on each side of his bed and take one of his hands each. They asked why, and he said “I want to die like Our Lord, between two lying bastards”.

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(Brian Cowen is Prime Minister and Brian Lenihan, his partner in crime, is Minister for Finance).

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Here is a joke I heard outside a pub. This is as I heard it, don’t shoot the messenger.

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Two itinerants died and appeared at the gates of Heaven. They rang the bell, and St. Peter came to the gate. “Can we come in?” they asked. “I’ll have to ask the boss man,” St. Peter said. He went away, and came up to God. “There are two knackers at the gate”, he said, “and they want to come in. What will I do? We can’t let them in, they would be robbing things and causing rows”. “Spin them a yarn and get rid of them,” God said. St. Peter went away, and then he came running back. “They’re gone, they’re gone” he shouted. “What’s the matter, isn’t that what you wanted?” God asked. “They’re gone, they’re gone” St. Peter said. “The gates. They’re gone”.

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I told that joke to an itinerant. I warned him he might not like it. He did not smile. When I told it to another man outside a pub (I smoke, send me a pack of XL), I said “They probably came in a four-wheel-drive”. “A pick-up truck”, he said.

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And now, an aphorism for those of you who didn’t like the above and won’t like many other things I may say:

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Political correctness is mechanical morality.

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And another:

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When is an Irishman not an Irishman? When he is too Irish for words.

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A mother took her son to an educational psychologist to have his intelligence tested. After some tests, the psychologist said to the woman “There’s nothing wrong with your child. He’s just stupid”.

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(The moral of this story is that there’s nothing wrong with being stupid).

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The below is what is known as a slow burner, that is, you don’t get it immediately, you ask yourself “Is that funny, what does it mean, is it a joke, is it meant to be a joke, am I thick if I don’t get it, does it mean anything, does anything mean anything” and so on and so on until you finally get it on your deathbed if not before or after.

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The Devil and a philosopher were walking together when they saw a man bend down, pick up something, and put it in his pocket. “What did that man pick up?” asked the Devil.

Philosopher: It is the truth. That’s going to make things very difficult for you.

Devil: I will help you to organise it.

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As and aid to understanding the above, remember this one by Spike Milligan:

I have no plan, so nothing can go wrong.

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Or consider this. A film actress, on being asked what were her plans, said “When I want to make God laugh, I tell him my plans”.

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Make sense of all that lot, if you can.

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David **** (What the **** do those asterisks mean?)

Class Consciousness

Class Consciousness

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In this piece, the first two lines are by Anon and date back to the nineteen forties or before.

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A Rude Look at the Class System

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The working class can kiss my ass,

I’ve got the foreman’s job at last.

The middle class can kiss my ass,

I’ve found the key of life at last.

The upper class can go to Hell,

A thing they tell us to do so well.

All class, first, second and third

Is up-my-arse absurd.

There is no class except good and bad,

Everything else is fucking mad.

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“I said it was rude, it’s in the title,” I said to One-Of-My-Nieces-Once- Removed, whom I shall call Oomnor.

Oomnor (for it was she) said “I like it” (or did she say love it?) “Because it is true. You could have been negative”.

Me: You have to be positive. That rhyme should be taught in schools.

She: They never would.

Me: I think I’m getting better at writing.

She: You were always good at writing.

Me: You have to not care what anyone thinks. That’s self consciousness. I still haven’t overcome it completely.

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Self consciousness has been described as the death of art. It’s the death of everything, a friend once said.

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David ****

Today in the Dail

by David ****

Political correspondent

Today in the Dail

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The Taoiseach: FUCK it. We're up shit creek without a paddle.

Enda Kenny: I don't want to be mealy mouthed, but does the government know what its doing?

Eamon Gilmore: The trouble with this country is that it is run by bean counters. I want to be chief bean counter.

Caoimhean O'Caolain: I know what to do. Rob banks.

A Backbencher: The bankers have done that already.

The Taoiseach: We're all in the same boat, its called the Titanic. I got us get into this mess, but I haven't a FUCKING clue how to get out of it.

The head of the Green Party: We can all go and live in the woods.

The Minister for Finance: In my budget, I have managed to protect the property developers and the bankers.

The Minister for Blather: The Equality Authority is introducing measures to go some way towards bringing the Civil Servants into equality with the rest of us, and they FUCKING hate it.

Eamon O'Cuiv: Liathroidi, Liathroidi, Liathroidi.

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Explanation

For the “New Irish”. (Make yourselves at home)

Dail (dawl) means parliament. An Taoiseach (on teashock) is Irish for "the prime minister".

History: An Taoiseach used the "F" word in the Dail.

Enda Kenny leads the main opposition party, which gets elected only by default.

Eamon Gilmore heads the Labour party, which "always wrestles with its conscience, and always wins".

Caoimhin O'Caoilain represents Sinn Fein, also called Sinn Fein/I.R.A.

A banker fiddled one hundred and eighty million euros.

The Green party may be "as green as they're cabbage looking".

The Equality Authority placed an advertisement headed "Man Wanted".

Eamon O'Cuiv force feeds the people with the Irish language.

"Liathroidi" (leahroedee) is plural of the English word, "ball".

"Who's Minding the Store?" - the Marx Brothers.

About our Correspondent

(by his brother)

He picks his nose, uses the "F" word and scratches his liathroidi.