Tag Archives: funny

A seat

The bench, old and worn, was cold to the touch through the wool of my trousers

Hi

I could see a line of grime etched into the lines beneath her face as she looked up from her can and threw the shortest of dirty looks expertly mingled with a sound mixture of disinterested distain

Sometimes no doesn’t have to be put Into words or perhaps a look is the strongest no

Still and all it’s not a bad day all things considered

The look again this time I noticed a bunch of her hair stuck together with blood or sweat or vomit or whatever sticks hair together when a member of the human fraternity doesn’t get to avail of the washing facilities of a day or even a month

You can go fuck of if you think you getting something out of me I’m no hooker

I’m no punter either

Good cos I’m particular about who I be having the fun with

Me too

Yeah right

Yeah right exactly

Don’t be getting fucking smart you fucker

I just saying I not into hookers

You should be

Ah here

Well the state of you with the head on you and that Gammy eye and you look like your mother picked out the clothes. Is that wool?

Feck sake you’re worst than a commentator on one of them shows

What shows

You know the xfactor bollixology

Here listen don’t be using that kind of language in front of a Lady

Fair enough

And a slow breeze trailed across our path while we both looked on at the city passing by. a quietness in the kaleidoscope of hustle

You know no one talks as they walk

I looked up and listened and watched

Your man over there is talking on his phone

I thought I told you not to be a wise fucker

You only mentioned being a smart one

Whatever. He is on a phone that don’t count

Why not

It just doesn’t

Why

Cos it’s like the mad cunts who talk to themselves it’s not real talking it’s just pretend chitter chatter

I see what you mean

About the phone

No about them not talking they just are all rushing

Yeah

Yeah

Have you a light

Have you a fag

Yeah

Right then

And I saw her eyes were brown when she held the flame

She would have been a beautiful daughter to some Da a long time ago

She held the smoke deep inside, feeling it’s warmth before slowly releasing it back into the world

I better make a move

She nodded and looked back down

I touched her shoulder gently when i stood, the briefest of contacts; she didn’t react, maybe she hadn’t noticed

I walked on with out a word been uttered to a soul, a member once more of the rushing throngs

(C) frankie mcgivney

Just a random story of top of my head I hope it reads okay. The words I love to write

The Hospital

“Just a private joke about my neighbours, don’t mind me” replied Patsy. The poor auld fecker he said to himself as the look of bewilderment on the surgeon’s face revealed the mystery. It was his eyes, one was going one way and the other was going the other, that must be a shocking hard thing to live with, he mused, there wouldn’t be many women would stand within a mile of the likes of that kind of disability, well not in a loving kind of way anyway.

“Okay well it is in fact our job to mind you. Don’t worry you are in the best hospital in Ireland. Your operation is scheduled for first thing in the morning, after it is finished you will be brought back to the neuro ward. You will have to stay a number of days for observation”

“That’s great” Patsy was in fact delighted to finally been treated for his crushed vertebrae, he had lost all power in his left hand and the right one was starting to malfunction as well.

“We will leave you with the nurse and I will see you in the morning, good night Patrick”. The surgeon said to him looking at him with the one eye and nodding to his merry crew to get out, with the other. Sweet dreams and don’t let the bed bugs bite Patsy finished in his head.

“Thanks Doctor, good night to you too.” He said realising he was also looking in two directions at the same time. Jaysus he said to himself aren’t I a shocking gob-shite, I forgot I have the same ailment myself. I better not tell anyone I forgot about it. But it’s easy to forget something when it’s the one thing which you can never see yourself. It’s the same as a woman having a big arse, they can only see a quarter of it at any one time themselves and don’t realise it’s only the tip of the iceberg. A level of sadness descended on him, as the truth, of what he had been thinking about the surgeon’s life, hit him as applying to himself too. His life had been pretty lonely but he had managed to block the speech impediment and the eyes out of his mind in the interests of sanity. It was only at times like this, he realised why women who had returned his smile usually then turned their eyes away.

“Are you okay?” A male voice interrupted his silence, instantly sending the mad thoughts back behind his sanity barrier, into the deep place where they lay forgotten, until the next time.

He hadn’t noticed them all filing out of the make-do tent, until Patsy and the nurse were left alone. He had never felt such disappointment in all of his life. He stared at the evening shadow and listened to the not quite deep enough voice of the male nurse. It was bad enough having to put life on hold to go into the hospital, but to not at least get a female nurse to root at you, well now it was just on the wrong side of injustice. He wasn’t fussy, any cut of a female would do, it wasn’t like he would be sharing the bed with her and he wasn’t some cut of a pervert but any man could do with the comforting nature of a woman, when you were about to have some foreign lad pull your neck apart and start beating into your bones with a hammer and a chisel. All he wanted to do was listen to her voice, feel the heat of her close to him and languish in the sweet musk of her perfume. Then maybe of a chance, perhaps a man might be fortunate enough to even get a glance, at the hint of a boob pressed beneath the linen of her white uniform. But sweet mercy he had instead ended up stuck been interrogated and probed at by a nurse with a flat chest and more hairs than a fecking orang-utan. Perhaps the unusual son of that auld Biddy, with the loud voice, would be interested in his big red head and bog Irish accent but Patsy Reilly was far from impressed.

“My name is John, I am your nurse who will be taking care of you tonight” the man who should have been a woman, said with a smile that needed a shave.

“Nice to meet you John” Patsy replied as the Irish desire to be polite overpowered his disappointment. You had to make do with whatever meal the devil served you up of a day, no matter who unpalatable or disappointing it happened to be.

(C) Francie McGivney 04.06.15

The Hospital Part 1

The Hospital

“Do men read books?” her tongue lightly layered her faint moustache with saliva at the prospect of having someone new to talk about.

“My youngest lad has the head forever stuck in between the pages of a book”. Bridie in her new flannel gown replied gently straightening the fabric over her knees and admiring the swirling pattern of the fresh material, which felt refreshing and smooth against her wrinkling skin.

“Is he the unusual one?” The moustache was getting wetter as their voices travelled throughout the room, their flat accents coming alive as the conversation changed from the mundane to gossip.

“He isn’t unusual, he is just a bit different”. Bridie’s eyes went to the floor, avoiding the feel of the intense eye contact from her best friend Gretha. There lay the problem with growing up in the same town with someone from infancy to old age, they ended up knowing more about you than you knew yourself. She promised herself she would stand up to her for once, if the auld codger mentioned anything about the disappointment of Old Tommy and his rejection of Young Tommy. It wasn’t the young lad’s fault that he couldn’t meet the responsibility of been the namesake son.

“Did he ever find a girl for himself?” Gretha pushed the knife of bitterness in a bit deeper, she couldn’t help it. She had been raised by a cruel bitch of a woman and more of it had rubbed off on her, than had been buried in the auld woman’s grave.

“No Gretha, he hasn’t got a woman for himself. It isn’t women that takes his fancy and its well you know it, wasn’t it yourself who told the whole town about him when I told you in the strictest confidence, he had come out to us” Bridie wouldn’t be letting the auld bitch get away with taking the mick out of her son.

“Ah now Bridie that wasn’t me, I didn’t mention it to anyone.” Gretha insisted

“You were the only one who knew apart from me and Tommy senior. Don’t be denying something now when I know it’s true.”

“Everyone knew, sure you only had to look at the young fella to know he was queer in his ways. Anyway would you look your man, he still hasn’t made a move. He will need to put on his pyjamas soon, he can’t be sitting there reading a book in a pair of jeans all night. He will have to get into the bed at some stage.” The topic was changed, the chance lost and Bridie was left with that familiar bitter taste in her mouth once more.

“You sound mad interested in seeing him undress. Have you taken a bit of a shine to him? He isn’t a bad looking chap for a big lad” Bridie teased.

“I most certainly am not, I never have watched a man undress in my whole life.” Gretha blessed her-self, relishing in the feel of the lovely new material pressing against her skin, where the Son and the Holy Ghost had just lay their mark.

“What about poor Jimmy? You must have seen him in his nothingness at some stage over the forty years of marriage.”

“I never took much notice.”

“No wonder he was always wondering around with the head bent low like a man lost in a field.”

“That was just him saying his prayers.” Gretha mumbled, not enjoying the way this was going, she was used to having the upper hand. It was none of that Bridie O’Shea’s business about her and her Jimmy. She would want to mind her manners or she would put her in her place. That husband of hers was like a wondering bull with the local women before the consumption took all the energy from his drive.

“More’s the pity you hadn’t a stallion of a man to fill your minds, then you pair might mind your own business a bit more. You should be grateful for the thrill, if you happened to come upon something half decent buck naked in front of you. It would give you both something to think about rather than the lives of others”. Two sets of ageing but still sharp eyes pierced into the back of the nurse, who passed by the ladies, without looking or waiting for a venomous reply to her comment.

“The cheek of that one and she one of those half casts. She probably came out of some decent white woman been put upon by one of them darkies” Gretha said even louder, this time aware everyone within shooting distance could hear her. Yet her skin didn’t flush or her body shake, she was too used to anger and hatred for her body to rise to even the most extreme of her emotions.

“You can’t be saying things like that Gretha, it’s not politically correct. She is from Kerry however they managed to find one of her type among that pile of sheep herders.”

“What the Jaysus does politics have to do with anything, such a load of auld cods wallop. She is what she is and no one is telling me I can’t say something out loud. Look your man has pulled the curtains around himself. Would you listen to the noises he is making, he must be going at himself, have a peek inside the curtain’s Bridie and see what’s going on”

“I most certainly will not, I am a descent widowed woman.” Bridie replied staring at the curtain and running her tongue between her moistened lips.

“Whist up, here comes the posse.” Gretha said giving Bridie the nod to go back to her own bed.

________________________________________________

“Mr Reilly” the doctor, with a confident look about him and a suit with a price tag capable of feeding for a year the village he came from, said, as the gaggle of surgeons pushed in through the curtains causing the temperature of the newly formed cloth room to rise rapidly.

“Yes that’s me” Patsy replied squeezing his book on to the chest of drawers alongside the bottle of 7up, the roll of wine gums , the packet of digestives and his Walkman.

“We apologise for having to put you in the female ward but we are waiting for a bed in neuro surgery and this was the only one available.”

“That’s okay I have been getting acquainted with the habitat of the local population”

“I’m sorry?” Mr Hashit asked, Patsy couldn’t help look at him trying to figure out what it was that was so queer looking. The odour of the peppermint on his breath couldn’t hide the smell of curry and his suit looked way too expensive for work in a hospital, but it was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

(c) Francie McGivney 03.06.15

Tipping along a recession poem/Story

 Tipping along

There I was scratching and itching with the fleas eating me from the lack of washing

and the line stretching and rolling half way around the town. Every man, woman and

dog of us waiting for the weekly hand out, beside hairy bikers who had one Honda 50

between them and alcoholics with the smell of cheap wine emanating from their blood

and all manner and shape of pirate with no boat and less hope. The smell of sweat in the room

was stifling and intoxicating, you could get drunk on it upon a Tuesday but still the

craic was mighty and if you got a wink from one of the girls sure wasn’t it as good as any

money. I was there lost, without a whole lot to be doing and even less to be saying with

greasy hair and horny eyes and no hope leaving school without a clue or a lover.

The auld one got sick of seeing me at home, alone and empty handed so the call was made

and it was decided one fine summers day that I would serve my time not as a corner boy

like I had expected but as an apprentice to a carpenter driving nails into walls, hanging

planks and sawing wood as straight as a crooked river bank. The wages were brutal,

the gaffer had a tongue made of Spanish leather but I was on a high.

I ended up driving a Ford Fiesta I inherited from an uncle who was still breathing but

only just. The provisional licence and the tax were late and the insurance out of date

I drove it like some cut of a lunatic along the main boulevard with the windows down

and the elbow stuck out for all to see and the Black Moroccan smelling like nettles from

some lads garden and polluting the town while Marley sang about how I felt.

Saturday night always came and I squeezed into the 501’s, sprayed the Lynx and hitched

my tent with the others boyo’s who were somewhere between half gobshites and full ones.

Drinking and talking bull at the local disco with the music blaring and the lights down low

to hide the truth. My eyes went crooked, the words began to slur and the knees got shaky and

a bewildered generation of lonely lusty misfits cradled pints instead of breasts. Girls of all

shapes and sizes meandered past in tight jeans and woolly jumpers which offered a hint of what

lay beneath, as they avoided our drunken stares. They were desiring something we didn’t have

and never would. Deep inside, behind the façade, the pain of loneliness was burning my soul as

we talked of rides and slappers and the clap while I dreamt of holding hands and walks on sandy

beaches and looking into her eyes and she loving me for what lay inside.

Then while I wasn’t looking the madness descended and grabbed a hold of me in its terrible grasp

Them with the fancy suits decided it would be a shocking grand idea, of a day, to go off and build

buckets of houses in every ass end part of a desolate country, in boggy fields and up mountains

where only a sheep would be mad enough to reside and they all located half way between the middle

of nowhere and the start of the end of the road.

The sweat still poured off my back but the laughter was lost. Banks stuffed money in my pocket

while I wasn’t looking, just in case I had an inclination to buy a couple of houses or a BMW too big

for my ways. Girls with blonde hair and blue eyes, who wore half nothing of a day and less of a night

stopped avoiding my drunken stares and started desiring the one thing I didn’t have before. I stood

like a bull in a field listening to all manner of lies and I not caring. Next thing I knew I was standing

at an altar with a monkey suit on, watching her walk up the aisle with a huge bill in my pocket and

bewilderment in my mind. She vowed to love me as long as she could spend what money I could earn.

Then everything came to a halt the recession descended and the banks wanted the cash

And she wanted the cash and I wanted to know how I got here.

Now the fiesta feels great and so does my old bed in my Ma’s house.

The blonde haired one is gone to hell or to Connaught or somewhere in between

and I sleep better than ever before with an empty wallet

but peace in my soul that the journey to madness is over and gone at last and I can be

who I was meant to be once more.

Frank McGivney 18.02.15

This is a kind of poem/story i wrote  that i don’t really think would ever be accepted by the mainstream but which i really like.

Poem, poetry, writing, recession Ireland, ireland, recession

Recipe for Men number 373 Beans on Toast (Irish recipe so a bit of bad language)

Recipe for men :number 373
Beans on Toast
This recipe starts on shopping day when you have to select the right tin, don’t whatever you do allow your missus to pick the tin, even the big ladies will pick the wrong tin and destroy the meal before its even started. Scan the aisle until you find a good quality brand. None of that cheap shit, it will only give you problems of a digestive nature. For jaysus sake, keep away from the low fat option. Think about it logically the only thing light can be the sauce and that’s meant to be made out of tomatoes so how in god’s name are you supposed to be eating fat free tomatoes. Don’t be minding the sugar bullshit if you are desperate enough to cook any of my recipes then a bit of sugar is the least of your problems.
Ingredients:
Tin of beans
Slice pan preferably white and full of sugar (see above)
Sliced ham (again none of that real cheap shit but no need for the mad dear stuff a few chemicals will only do you good)
A cup of tea
Honey

Sunday evening you have to wait until the wife is giving out about you been good for nothing because you won’t get up off your arse and do her the tea especially since seemingly she cooks every other day of the week. Of course all of this white noise will just go in one side and out the other (a bit like the beans later on). You look up from the sofa and say something along these lines
“Of course darling I will do beans on toast now in a minute”
She will give out even more about you been so useless that you are only fit for cooking that kind of rubbish, but you have implanted the idea in her head. You then pretend to fall asleep and wait until you smell the sweet odour of tomato sauce wafting in the air. At this stage you jump up and run out to the kitchen, trying not to injury the children or step on the cat (again) on the way. You proceed to take a load of bread out of the bag and put them in the toaster. You then tell the wife to sit down and you take over stirring the beans, this of course may give you a chance of some matrimonial benefits later on, of course the smell of you will most like counteract the slim chance you have.
This is where it gets tricky you have to time the toasting while preventing the beans from sticking to the end of the pan. This is a tricky thing for a man as it involves doing more than one thing at the same time but just take deep breaths and try your best. Once the toast is done butter it with real butter (that spread stuff will kill you eventually, it’s made out of cow dung and donkeys liver fat).
Cut the toast into squares or maybe triangles (it’s known that bread tastes better when cut into triangles it’s a scientific fact proven by Irish Mothers) and cover the plate with the resulting tasty shapes.

Continue to heat the beans until a few bubbles appear, make sure you don’t feck it all up by boiling the bejaysus out of them boys. This is vital, don’t take the eyes of the ball. Boiled beans are brutal. When heated pour them over the triangles making sure not to spill too much on the counter top.
If you remember put some toast down for the wife and leave a plate out for her to sort herself out.
Boil the kettle and make a cup of tea and put a spoon of honey to sweeten it. Honey is mad healthy so this one step will convert your tea into a healthy option. Don’t try and make the tea at the same time as the beans and toast because excuse the language now, you will fuck it up. Remember you are a man and we are incapable of doing two things at once not to mind three. If you try then you will most likely burn the house down so just don’t be acting the bollix and just wait for the end to make the tea.
Sit at the table and rip up a few slices of ham and mix into the beans this is an option because men need meat at all meals, it’s to ensure the smooth running of our constitution. Finally mill into the meal ignoring everything until the end, only rising your head to take big sups of tea.
Afterwards it is recommended to put the plate and cup into the dishwasher just in case you are still in with a chance of some love later on. Also sitting close to a door or open window is a good option in the aftermath as the beans and ham hit your digestive system.

Enjoy
Frank McGivney 18.01.15

conversations

are you okay

yeah

are you sure you sound funny

just you know

no

well I wasn’t expecting it

me neither

yeah

I couldn’t help myself

it was nice

same here

are you home

just in the kitchen putting on dinner

when is he home

who knows

i miss you

no you don’t

yes i do

you saw me 10 mins ago you big gobshite

well still i miss you

i got to go, the potatoes are boiling

okay

bye

i love you

feck of

bye

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