Category Archives: Humour

Having a Laugh

Our burst of laughter, is long and loud

Heads are turning, in the nearby crowd

We wipe away tears

Forgetting our fears

Times are tough, but we won’t be cowed

Turning Heads

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Filed under coronavirus, covid-19, Dublin, Humour, Ireland, poetry

Oh, to a Night In Jail

With Chapman’s Homer done, I got ready to sail

Athens was fun, of much cheap wine I did avail

In the bar a scuffle

What crazy kerfuffle

I’d run out of mon(ey), so spent a Night in Jail


Dedicated to John Keats, poet (31 Oct 1795 – 23 Feb 1821)


Filed under Art, History, Humour, poetry

Oscar Wilde – A Man of Importance

He was the Happy Prince, from Westland Row

A writer of words, that continue to glow

From Earnest to Gray

To another great play

No better person, to put on a fine show

A man of Importance, and wonderful wit

The Ideal partner, with whom to sit

Of art a Fan

What a clever man

His piece on the Husband, a joyous skit

From the peak of success, to a soulless Gaol

His spirits burned bright, they did not fail

With absinthe of hate

He beat the dire fate

In De Profundis he penned, a heartfelt tale

After years in Reading, to beaux France exiled

Where on his last work, he painfully toiled

Dying beyond my means’

One clearly gleans

A star to the end, the one-and-only Oscar Wilde

This is my poetic, birthday tribute to Oscar Wilde who was born at 21 Westland Row, Dublin on 16th October 1854.

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Filed under Art, Dublin, History, Humour, Ireland, London, trinity college

Let It Roll

This is a short poem about going to the local Bowling Alley, a place that I had not been in a long time – and it was fun!


It had been a while, and good for the soul

Loosened up gently, like my friend Noel

The pins were ready

Now keep it steady

It’s time for fun, so let’s just bowl


First ball was bad, went down a hole

The score’s not nice, as I see it scroll

Do the right thing

Make that swing

A glorious strike, and the frame I stole


Score swung around, if the truth be told

I was mostly behind, but refused to fold

His ball in the gutter

My heart went aflutter

On the way back, I’m in from the cold


Scrapping tooth and nail, to reach our goal

Friend now nervy, pressure taking its toll

His knees did shake

Bad time for mistake

My final delivery, the dream of a roll



Don Cameron 2020

Let it roll!

Let it roll!


Filed under Dublin, Humour, Ireland, poetry, Sport

Wordy Men – Dublin’s Nobel Laureates

Dublin has long been recognised as a literary influencer and it is nice to see that three city natives – WB Yeats (1923), GB Shaw (1925) and Samuel Beckett (1969) have received the Nobel Prize for Literature. Seamus Heaney, a Derry native who lived in Sandymount, Dublin for many years, joined the exclusive club in 1995.


He was a poetic man, from Sandymount

Tales of Irish mystics, he did recount

Aengus and The Tower

Words of such power

That tumbled easily, from the fount


Playwright, activist with Academy prize

So many plays, did he cleverly devise

Press Cuttings were right

To his utter delight

In great observation, his genius lies


If you want less words, as some often do

Sam has plays, that will just suit you

Perhaps Come and Go

Or, yer man Godot

However small, there’s always much to chew


District and Circle the way to go

Next stop coming, is Golden Bough

Needing Room to Rhyme

Good time after time

A man beloved, he just steals the show

Don Cameron 2020

Write On....and on

Write On….and on…

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Filed under Art, Dublin, History, Humour, Ireland

Almost Home


Point of departure

Point of departure

As I neared Holyhead the weather improved. Soft, white clouds that had been travelling with me for the previous couple of hours silently disappeared, leaving a brilliant, blue sky. The sunlight reflected off the chrome of oncoming traffic making me squint and smile at the same time. It was a glorious day and a great start to my summer holidays.

Driving down to the sea the reception on the car radio was sporadic, and picking up RTE was a real hit and miss affair. Not having listened in since Christmas I was eagerly looking forward to it, when Larry Gogan’s dulcet tones suddenly filled the car. As I drove slowly around a steep bend he said ‘And now Mary, what is a gelding?’ There was a momentary pause as the Just a Minute Quiz contestant gathered herself, and answered. ‘It’s a horse with no pe..’ she answered, as the radio reception disappeared into a haze of loud, electronic crackling. I had to grin, and thought ‘Yes, almost home’.

Holyhead, never the most attractive of towns, was looking fine, bathed as it was in the strong sunshine. Flowerpots overflowed with blooming plants and freshly painted railings stood out against grey walls. Lines of paintings hung from the railings where artists and enquiring tourists chatted and haggled over prices.
The ‘art fair’ was a pretty addition to the town’s image and, although there were not as much on show as could be seen on a Sunday morning at Merrion Square, it was busy and drawing keen attention.
The town was alive, with tourists dressed in brightly coloured clothes, strolling easily.
There was a fair amount of sunburnt skin on view, indicating the glorious weather that had been hanging around North Wales for the last few days. There had been no such sunshine in smoky, old London which had, as usual, managed to act like a sweat box making travel on the underground unpleasant, while the sun fought hopelessly to escape from behind a thick covering of greyness. No sunburn there, just frayed nerves and short tempers.
I drove slowly towards the docks, passing the Cead Mile Failte pub on my left, outside of which a small crowd of happy revellers were enjoying a ‘last drink’ before boarding the ferry. One man was playing a guitar, another was tooting on a tin whistle, while the others around the table sang, and cheered when I honked my horn. ‘Nice one,’ I heard somebody shout in a familiar accent, as I slowed and waved over.

Ferry Time

Ferry Time

A couple of hundred yards further on I joined the end of a long, crawling queue that was working its way towards the magnificent ferry that awaited. ‘Here we go,’ I thought and rolled the window down.
Living in North London I hadn’t been to the coast in months, and when I closed my eyes I soon imagined walking on the quiet expanse of the strand at Brittas Bay where the fresh air could purge even the most blocked and needy spirit.
A friend at home had rented a small house there for a month and he had invited me to stay over for a few days. I was looking forward to spending some time there as it would be a perfect way of relaxing and unwinding from the stress of living in crowded London. Also, taking a walk on the East Pier in Dun Laoghaire was always therapeutic and an absolute must for all returnees. I would do that with Mum and Aunt Liz, that would be fun and, of course, there were always calorie-laden ice creams to consume.


East Pier, Dun Laoghaire

East Pier, Dun Laoghaire

This was going to be my first visit home on holidays since my dad had passed away, and I felt that it was going to painful. He had been one of three fatalities when, out of the blue, a drunk driver crashed his skidding car into a bus shelter. It happened so quickly that there was no chance for any of the victims, who were all killed immediately. It was a tiny crumb of comfort that he had not suffered, but beyond that it meant little to any family members. Anyway, my mother, although hurt beyond words managed, as I knew she would, and when her sister, Liz, moved back to Dublin to be with my mother and I could hear the improvement in her voice when we spoke on the telephone.
This was great news, and now I was looking to seeing both her and Aunt Liz, whose farm in Roscommon I had often visited on school holidays. Playing there was always a novelty and my young imagination was let loose as I chased Indians, rounded up stray cattle and built campfires where I sat at the end of a tough day with John and Peter, two local boys who had joined my crew as we drove herds of cattle to the great, dusty market in Abilene. They were wonderful days and thinking about them brought a smile.
I was lost in daydreaming about another roundup when the sharp blast of the following car’s horn made me sit up and hurriedly join the now slow moving line of cars.

The new ferry seemed a mile high and was truly impressive. I’d heard about it from friends who had been on it recently, but I was taken aback when I was up close. The thought occurred that Noah would have got some serious amount of animals on board if he’d had the chance, and boy where would we be now. Interesting….and already I liked the idea of travelling on this new star of the sea. The ferry swallowed the seemingly endless amount of cars and trucks like a giant, gorging whale as I parked and made my way upstairs and joined the growing crowd of travellers.
The smell of fresh paint and newness was strong and the main area was as hectic and noisy as Moore Street on Christmas Eve. The place was bright and airy, the floors spotless, unlike those on many of the old ferries when I first travelled across the Irish Sea.
Children screamed at each other and their parents, as they dashed about like headless chickens, dodging baggage and jumping on seats. At least they had seats to sit on I thought, as I tried to find a place that was relatively quiet.
I travelled the length of the ferry and marvelled at the amount of people aboard, and the shops and restaurants that were doing business. I passed a cinema that was showing the latest summer blockbuster, and I thought that maybe I’ll come back later and watch it. Must get a seat, I told myself again, and spotted one against a far wall. I flopped down heavily, put my head back and sighed in relief. ‘Almost there,’ I said quietly and closed my eyes.
I drifted off to the rhythm of the ferry and seemed to have dozed for ages before a familiar voice made me open my eyes.
‘Howya, Chris,’ said a grinning Paul Kavanagh, a friend who I used to play football with in Dublin. I had almost slipped off the seat and was only stopped from hitting the floor by my knee wedging itself against my neighbour’s haversack. I straightened up and shook hands while he crouched down and started to chatter at a mile a minute as only Paul could. ‘Knackered, eh?’
‘You’re not joking,’ I replied, rubbing my eyes before running my fingers through my hair in the faint hope of waking up. I yawned, loudly. ‘No offence, Paul, I just needed 40 winks. You know yourself’.
‘More like 140,’ he laughed, as did the others sitting around me.
‘Jeez, I thought he was dead,’ sniggered a big bloke as he elbowed his friend. ‘Hey, your man’s actually alive,’ he added, sending his friend in to a fit of giggles.
‘Yeah, and at least he’s stopped bloody snoring,’ chirped somebody else as Paul suggested a pint.
‘It’s a miracle,’ the big bloke added, as he cracked open a can and passed it to his friend.

Sail on....

Sail on….

The bar was packed and difficult to stand at as the ferry moved up and down in the uneven sea. We also moved from side to side while people staggered about with great difficulty. The only person making easy progress was a guy who was obviously drunk and unconcerned with the staccato movement of the ferry. He moved freely while those around him clung onto banisters and tables in a desperate effort to remain upright.
They say that every cloud has a silver lining, and here in the middle of the Irish Sea, I was witnessing one, as homo drunkus moved with ease in a straight line from his seat to the toilets. It was a stunning insight, and made me think of astronauts careening about on the space station – and they were sober!
‘Welcome home…nearly,’ said Paul, handing me a pint. ‘And here’s to both of us having a good time.’
‘Absolutely…and it’s really good to see you, Kav. Slainte,’ I said, and we hooked our elbows onto the bar and hung on. Drinking on a rolling ferry was not for the faint hearted, and we had to try and anticipate each rise and fall of the ferry and before taking a sip. It led to some funny moments, but it did the trick as it took our minds off the rest of journey that passed quickly.
We discussed holidays and Dublin’s chances in the All-Ireland championship before swapping phone numbers. Without realising it we found out about mutual friends back in London, and we arranged to meet up for a few less buoyant beers in the Princess Louise pub in Holborn, a pub we both knew and which was close to where we worked. Things were looking good, and we were now only 30 minutes from home.

I went out on deck and the stiff breeze was invigorating. The loud cawing of dozens of seagulls overhead made me look up as they swooped and played in the clear air. They looked and sounded like they were having fun, maybe even welcoming me home, and I hoped that some of their excitement would be coming my way.
As we approached the coast the waves lessened, and the spray was refreshing after the stuffy atmosphere of the bar.
A few lungfuls of fresh air made me feel light-headed, but it was a million times better than being just another poor, sweaty commuter on the hot and fetid underground.
I made my way to the front of the ferry, gripped the railings and enjoyed its rise and fall. ‘Dublin, you’re looking good,’ I said into the breeze, where only the seagulls heard my words. The twin towers at the Poolbeg Power Station, with their red and white painted hoops, were getting bigger and clearer with every forward movement of the ferry. To the left, a fleet of small yachts off Dun Laoghaire harbour, their sails flickering in the sunshine, were enjoying a perfect day for racing. Beyond the city I could see the Dublin Mountains, their outline a jagged edge against the blue canvas of the western sky.
I stayed where I was for a few minutes, smiling as the salty air tugged at my shirt and tickled my nose. Now, only the sound of a flapping flag intruded, and I closed my eyes in blissful anticipation and said once more ‘Yes, almost home.’

Dublin's famous Twin Towers

Dublin’s famous Twin Towers

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Filed under Art, Dublin, Humour, London

Little Old Wine Drinker

I checked my watch and saw that it just after five o’clock. Time to go, I thought, and scooped up my jacket from the back of the chair. The rest of the guys in the office were doing the same, except David, who was tapping keys and staring at his computer screen. ‘Are you coming, or what?’ I said ‘because I’m off. Now.’
David looked up. ‘Sorry, Chris, be with you in a mo.’ He made a silly face. ‘I just got lost somewhere in cyberspace and forgot the time. Ok?’
‘Come on Spock, or we’ll be late.’

Shelbourne Hotel

Shelbourne Hotel

We walked through the rush-hour pedestrian traffic along Baggot Street and Merrion Row to the Shelbourne Hotel on St. Stephen’s Green. The pavements were colourful and busy in the warm air, the sun still high and bright on this late June evening. Summer had most certainly arrived, and the happy looks on peoples’ faces said wonders for ‘taking the sun’. It was one of those ‘good to be alive’ days and the city seemed to hum to an easy rhythm.
‘Well, what’s it going to be like Chris?’ David asked, a sheen of sweat glinting above his top lip.
I stopped, and he did the same. ‘I told you already, it’s a wine tasting night and it will be fun. What more can I say?’
David was uncertain and he fiddled with the top button of his shirt. ‘Will there be many at this thing?’ he asked a little nervously. He put his finger down the top of his shirt and pulled it a little looser.
I could see that he was uncomfortable but what was I to say. ‘Yes, there’ll be plenty of wine lovers here and, more importantly, there will be lots of good wine to taste. And, sometimes they have lovely cheese. You like cheese don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then you’re going to love it.’
‘Sure…..except that.’
‘Except what?’
He looked me straight in the eye, licked his lips before saying ‘I never drank much wine before and …’
I smiled. ‘Don’t worry, nobody’s going to poison you, if that’s what you are thinking. It’ll be ok.’ I leaned closer. ‘And there are always plenty of nice girls at these things.’ I winked, it was the best I could do, and he seemed to relax – a little anyway.

The lobby of the hotel bustled with life. Everywhere people moved about, greeting one another and their laughter reflected the glorious weather outside. If it was atmosphere you were after then we were in the right place, and a good evening lay ahead. It was, after all, the culmination of the wine tasting course that I had been attending for the previous six months, and I was really looking forward to the event. Barbara, one of my classmates, told me that the Last Night was not to be missed, and she had been to three of them. Sadly, my fiancé who was meant to attend, too, had twisted her ankle playing tennis a few days before, and that is how David was here.
I spotted the sign ‘Wine Tasting’ and we headed down a corridor and came to a large room where tables were set out with glasses and baskets of bread. I signed in for myself and David and we pinned our badges to our lapels and mingled with the noisy crowd. Considering that no wine had yet been consumed the rumble of conversation was palpable. Anticipation is a great thing, I thought, and we moved to the table where Barbara and Liz, the fourth ‘member of our team’ were chatting. I introduced David as a work colleague who was ‘new’ to the wine game. They both smiled and said that he would have a great night. ‘Your first time?’ asked Liz wickedly.
David flushed immediately. ‘Yes, my first time,’ was his awkward reply before he took off his jacket and let a low whistle.
‘Liz, you’re terrible,’ I said.
‘First time for everything, eh,’ she quipped and fixed the front of her low-cut dress.
David flushed even more and I thought that he was going to have a heart attack. ‘You ok?’
‘Fine, just fine,’ he said, lying through his dry lips. ‘I’ll be fine, just watch me.’ He nodded, and I nodded back.



The noisy conversation was broken by the sound of someone tinkling a glass. A hush descended on the room and the course director, Hugh Clarke, welcomed everyone and told us that we would be tasting some fine wines tonight. He gave a few hints of what was to come but not enough for us to guess exactly what that might be. ‘He’s such a tease,’ said Liz and I saw David’s face redden.
‘So if you are all ready, we’ll start,’ said Hugh as bottles of wine wrapped in dark paper were brought to each table. I picked up the bottle and poured wine into the girls’ glasses and then into both mine and David’s. I held my glass out in front of me and swirled the wine about. ‘Nice colour,’ I said and the girls mumbled agreement.
Liz held her glass up to her nose and sniffed deeply. She released a throaty moan of sheer pleasure that had David reddening even more. ‘Smells like ripe berries and…..succulent peaches,’ she cooed and breathed in another nose full of the wonderful aroma.
Barbara took a sip and noisily washed the liquid around her mouth. She leaned slightly back and then swallowed the golden liquid and smacked her lips loudly. ‘That was great,’ she said ‘and a fine way to start the show.’
I also swilled a mouthful of wine and agreed that it was wonderful. ‘Sauvignon Blanc,’ I said ‘and it’s one of the best I’ve ever tasted.’
Both girls nodded agreement while David downed the whole glass in one go, and reached for more. ‘Yeah, that was great,’ he said ‘want some more?’
The girls declined and I told him that he should really take his time and try to enjoy the flavour. He drank the second glass in the same fashion as the first while I ate some bread and looked about the room. A few people waved over and one guy, Dermot, gave me the thumbs up sign. Was he grinning at the excellent wine he’d just taken or did he envy my good fortune in spending time with Barbara and Liz? I held up my glass and pointed to it. Dermot shook his head in response and burst out laughing, spilling wine on one of his table mates.

Grape Expectation

Grape Expectation

Hugh Clarke told us to try bottle number two and I again did the honours. The deep red colour was like the purple in Caesar’s toga and the aroma had all the imperial qualities too. I held my glass up to the light and watched the colour change as I swirled it about, giving the wine a chance to breathe. Barbara did the same and dipped her nose into her glass. ‘Hmmm,’ she said ‘I’m getting something spicy, like…..plums, maybe’
I sniffed also and agreed. ‘Yes, definitely plummy alright. And with a hint of……vanilla.’ I took another sip.
Liz loudly washed the wine about in her mouth before spitting it into the spittoon beside her. She licked her lips deliciously. ‘Merlot?’ she said, raising an eyebrow.
Barbara replied. ‘Yes, and wasn’t it so velvety?’
I spat out and said that it certainly was a fine wine and that Hugh was spoiling us. ‘I told you that it would be good,’ said Barbara breaking another piece of bread.
Beside me David was pouring and drinking his second glass of the purple pleasure. For a guy who, although not the most talkative man of I’ve ever met, he was almost struck dumb and adding hardly anything to the evening. ‘You ok?’ I asked quietly and his reddening eyes showed more than mild embarrassment. He loosened his tie some more and lowered another mouthful of wine. ‘You’re meant to sip it,’ I said.
‘Yeash,’ he replied, the first hint of a slur slipping into his voice.
The next hour passed pleasantly as Hugh Clarke provided us with some of the finest wines any of us ever tasted. Barbara was really delighted with a Pinot Noir from Burgundy while Liz and I were thrilled with a magnificent Shiraz from the Barossa Valley in Australia. The flavour of rich chocolate and fruits was sensational, and my star turn of the night. When Liz said in a very sultry voice that it tasted just so on her tongue David vomited his mouthful of wine over my shirt such was his surprise at her choice of words. He excused himself immediately and went off to the bathroom, his embarrassment more acute than ever.
‘Is he always like this?’ asked Barbara.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t really know, but he’s usually got something to say for himself at work.’
‘Maybe I’ve upset him or something, offered Liz. ‘I mean he’s hardly said a word to either of us all night, has he?’ Her comment was still hanging in the air when David walked unsteadily back to the table.

Bubbly - ab fab!

Bubbly – ab fab!

Hugh Clarke again tapped his glass and the room went quiet. ‘And now for our final bottle of the evening. This will be champagne, and it’s one of my favourites, so I’m sure that you’ll all enjoy it.’ With that the waiters moved about filling glasses and we all enjoyed the bubbly stuff. I had often found champagne gave me heartburn but this stuff that I was drinking was in a league of its own such was the quality. The bubbly was ‘doing the business’ as the din of conversation in the room rose like the bubbles in my glass. Everyone was smiling, apart from David, who had plopped down heavily onto his chair and said loud ‘I’m pissed.’ He then fell off the chair and hit the floor with dull thud.
I put my glass down and with the help of a guy from the table beside us we got David back into his seat. He rocked back and forth before putting his head on the table and passing out. His arms hung down loosely and he looked like a broken puppet.
Liz shook her head. ‘You know the old saying ‘In vino veritas’ – in wine there is truth.’
I nodded. But as I looked at David snoring I realised that Liz was, well, almost right. ‘I think that should be ‘In vino very smashed,’ I said and reached down and shook my drunken friend awake. The girls were still laughing when I put my arm under David’s shoulder and led him away from his first, and last, wine tasting. It was an experience that I didn’t forget and, thankfully, one that David couldn’t remember.

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Filed under Dublin, Humour, Ireland, shelbourne hotel, short stories

‘It’s for You…’

Crisp and clear

Crisp and clear

A chilly, breeze blew across the cobblestones and the wedding group shivered, again. The photographer waved his hands wanting us to get closer and, when all was ready, he looked through the eyepiece and said out loud ‘Cheese.’
We grinned, smiled or whatever as the flash went off, briefly lighting the grey afternoon.
‘Don’t move,’ cried the photographer ‘another one, please.’ When he was finished we broke into small groups and stood about chatting about the ceremony while older weddinggoers, more familiar with such events, headed for the comfort and warmth of a car, and onto the hotel. It was a few weeks before Christmas and the day was crisp and clear, with the sun only a temporary, but welcome, presence.

We climbed into Tony’s car and we drove along the Coast Road, past Clontarf and a windswept and empty Dollymount Strand where the  last vestiges of the setting sun were reflected in the windows of the houses that looked upon Dublin Bay. And just beyond the beach, in the dark waters, the white horses were galloping ever closer.
At the hotel in Howth I stood in front of a big fire and warmed my hands. ‘Don’t hog it,’ cried Kate as she discreetly eased past me and bathed in the warm glow. She couldn’t hide her delight and cooed with pleasure. ‘I would love a hot whiskey, darling,’ she said and kissed me on the cheek.
‘You and the rest of them,’ I said and went to the bar.
I also bought drinks for Tony and Claire and went back and re-joined Kate who had now recovered and was ‘warm all over.’ That was great as I once again stood in front of the blazing coals. It was invigorating and soon I stepped away and let some other freezing souls enjoy the fire of Howth.

Fire of Howth

Fire of Howth

Bill, the groom, was my best friend and we had met on our first day in school. Growing up we played football for the same club; robbed orchards; mostly liked the same music; learned to drive within a few months of one another and later chased girls. It was the best of times, and I now wished him the best of luck in the new phase of his life that was just beginning. He and Caroline met at a barbecue two years ago, and he was now happily wearing a new wedding ring. And a smile wider than Dublin Bay.
I was delighted for the new couple and accepted a drink when Tony came back from the bar. It was early and the noise level was already beginning to rise. What would the night bring, I thought, and deep down an idea began to form? I tried to grab it but it was too quick for me, so I let it go and downed a mouthful of a creamy Guinness. ‘Cheers,’ I said to the other three, and ‘here’s to a great night.’

The conversation around the dining table was lively, as the eight of us had plenty of fun ribbing one another, something that we had done for years. That night it was particularly entertaining and helped along by mucho vino. They say that it loosens the tongue and Dave was on fine form telling jokes. ‘You dirty old man,’ laughed Kate when Dave told a particularly rude one. The time passed quickly and, with the speeches over, the dancing started. The DJ turned the music up and soon the floor was packed with giddy dancers.
Over the next hour or so I met and talked with friends and Bill’s cousin, Alex, who I had not seen for a long time. He had moved to Los Angeles and was doing very nicely in the music business and living near the beach. He invited me to ‘drop in’ anytime and I carefully put his business card away. And it was just after he joined the dancers that the idea came back, and this time I got a hold of it. I grinned, lost in thought, and then went off to find Kate, Tony and Claire. It was going to be a team effort but I knew that I would be singled out as the ringleader. I didn’t care, and for Bill, who had played pranks on me before, it was ‘pay-back time’.

I gathered the merry pranksters together and I laid out the plan.
‘You’re mad, he’ll never fall for it,’ said Kate, shaking her head.
But Claire loved it. ‘That’s a great idea, Joe, and crazy enough to work,’ she said and looked at Tony who was grinning his face off.
We spent another ten minutes going over the plan until we were happy. ‘Well, Claire, are you ready?’ I asked.
She took a last sip of wine, smacked her lips and nodded. ‘Let’s do it,’ she said and took up her position beside the public telephone at the end of the bar.
I spotted Bill dancing with an aunt, and I nodded for the game to begin.

Claire picked up the phone, dialled the front desk and asked for Bill. ‘I’m calling from California. Can you get him quickly, please, as this is costing me a fortune.’ She kept a straight face and her American accent was acceptable, especially as it was dulled in all the background noise.
Tony and I watched as a staff member came up the stairs and was pointed over to Bill. He leaned close to hear what she was saying and then he was off down the stairs two at a time. We let him get to the bottom before we made our way to the small landing, and waited.
Behind us, Claire now playing the part of Bill’s old, Californian flame, Debbie, waited as the receptionist handed over the phone.
‘Hello,’ he said and Claire answered with a big, friendly ‘Hi, there, Bill, what a surprise, eh?’
I could see him hold the phone close to his ear, concentrating on the words coming ‘all the way from America’. He was relaxed and crossed one foot over the other and talked with ‘Debbie’. Tony tapped me on the back and whispered, ‘He’s going to kill you.’ I nodded as Bill kept talking. I could just hear him say ‘…how did you find out?’ when Claire put the phone down. She was laughing hard and had to wipe the tears from her eyes.
‘Hello, hello, hello…’said Bill as the line went dead. He shook his head, handed the phone back and turned around. Then he stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up. It was like a scene from a movie when he saw us and we couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
‘I’ll kill ya, Joe,’ he cried and scampered up the stairs.
He didn’t, thankfully, and The Night of the Caller has not been forgotten. And as time moves on I am very much aware that somebody out there has my number, and is just waiting to ‘make that call’.

'It's for You...'

‘It’s for You…’

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Filed under Dublin, Humour, Ireland, short stories

Flann’s Your Only Man!

The craic house

The craic house

Well, it’s that time again, thankfully, and fans of the great wordsmith will be gathering once more to celebrate his wit and wisdom in The Palace Bar. It’s the perfect place for such an occasion and this year the day has pushed back to Easter Monday – April 2nd – but that will not in any way dampen the fun. It’s a great day where fans read, recite and sing from his extensive canon of words and a lively time is had by all. I have been to a few such days and I can only say that it’s one of the best and most friendly ways to spend an afternoon, or later as I vaguely remember. You know what I mean. So, if you are in town, why not drop in and enjoy the craic – see you there. Slainte.

I think The Third Policeman should see this....

I think The Third Policeman should see this….


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Filed under Art, Dublin, flann o'brien, Humour

The Dumpster

It’s all ‘flake news’ when it comes to Dump

Everything – from slump to hump 

With index and thumb

His race is run

Believe me, he’s going to jump!!!!

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