Tag Archives: irish

The Feck it Introduction

There I was half way between nowhere and somewhere unimportant with the little one by my side (Irish for my daughter) and I decided it was time to write something to help the universe, my calling was to divulge some important information to the masses of gobshites around me, the kind of auld malarkey all those mad looking fuckers with the wiry hair and the mad stares in their eyes do write of a day.

Or even something those happy people write, you know the Americans with the happy smiles and how to be at peace with the world kind of look in their Prozac induced stares.

So there I was in a state of ponderous thought and she was given out like the bejaysus to me because she wanted to exit Easons (the book shop) to go to Pennys (the all the clothes you can wear for a fiver shop) and all I could do was look at two books on the shelf which were advocating the “Don’t give a flying Fuck lifestyle”.

Then it happened, an epiphany so it was. It was like Jesus himself came down and talked to me (I will talk later about dealing with voices in your head so all the psychopaths relax, I’m not forgetting you, you shower of loopers.)

The lad who wouldn’t get down of the cross even though we needed the wood, he whispered real gentle into my ear that the world needs a proper load of made up facts to be written down about how to live the whole planet earth life the Irish way. The Feck it way or even the You will be Grand way. So here is the start of it. Only 100000 mores words to be written so should be finished next week, not a bother on it.

Right so anyway on the way out there was a book of recipes to get you healthy and stuff so I decided to include some recipes as well, mightn’t be the healthy variety but sure who gives a feck for that shagging rabbit food anyway.

(c) Frank McGivney 30.08.16

 

 

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they got him on milk and alcohol

A wee paragraph I like from a bit of an auld novel I really like

 

 

The yearning inside for the poison she fed me has shrouded my whole existence in a fog of decrepit uncertainly. I want to look in their eyes and reach in their pockets and take from them what I need, I know they have some, all these scumbags use it, little bags of pure muck far from the pedigree it once was when it grew in some mountain side field of a third world shit hole of a country. I have the money, I don’t have the balls. I have seen it done in films, the brown bubbling on the metal spoon, the sizzle of the demon being sucked into the plastic, the decaying teeth pulling the band tightly around a limb to coax a vein to the surface, the dribble of blood marking the incursion, the metal point penetrating, the skin lifting gently, the depression of the scene and of the plunger, the dragons blood mixing into the addicts stream, the eyes flutter, the face relaxes and they are gone, far from this world to ride on the back of whatever demons they fear and love the most.

() Francie McGivney

Looking Back (a rewrite)

Looking Back

Words drove nails inside

Eyes smiled a frown from your truth

A reminder of country days in field of grey

A curl in need of straying around

The soft lines of your perfect neck

It would have been good of you to tell

To exhale the only breath of beauty

My smile might have worked

My tales could have leapt

The truth you revealed as you walked away

nearly lost to the crowd

As it swayed in its own majestic way

(c) Francie McGivney

looking back

your words kind of bored me in a simple kind of way
that look you had in your eye it turned me sour
the perfume made me remember days stuck in a cattle shed
to be honest I felt a desire to wring the stray curl around your neck
but you know you should have told me
you could have let me know
I might have smiled a bit more
I might have even told you a tale
but I had to find out as you walked away
and I nearly missed it

as it swayed in the most majestic way

(c) Francie McGivney

Novel Extract Chapter 19

Chapter 19 Hospital days.

Then the night came when the ward was silent, apart from the background hum of various life monitoring or body function sustaining machines, the nurses in their station had their heads submerged in the reams of paperwork which accumulated during their daily shifts, the fellow residents either slept freely or in their coma’s and I silently put my foot on the ground beside the adjustable bed and the other one followed and combined they tentatively discovered they had regained the strength to support the rest of me. I stood up straight, and my eyes wandered around the ward and took in the view from this new higher perspective where the ancient cracks were subtly hidden behind the building’s sterile yellow paint, the oxygen bearing tubes stood out from their rotating connections, the sacred heart looked down upon the broken and battered, the injured and sick, the virtuous and the sinner. I breathed deeply, slowly testing the first step, feeling it give but not fully, then the next gave as well but didn’t disappoint. I looked back to the distance of a foot I had travelled and knew the road lay ahead of me once more. I took one sloping step after another until I found myself circumventing the separating curtain between my isolation and that of the man with the loud snores and pungent flatulence, who I had only saw in my imagination on account of his determination to grasp the final strand of his privacy via a blue and white striped retractable screen. I was aiming for the toilet, a noble destination for my first excursion unaided. The blood drifted from my brain as I rounded the bed of my hidden companion who looked at me with concern and a worrying curiosity as I leant against his mobile food table for support, trying to reconcile the withered specimen in front of me with the rotund grease-ball image I had imbedded in my visual cortex.

“Are you alright there buddy?” the old timer’s accent revealed a long forgotten hint of the old country behind his strong New York tones. It was always the Irish condition to retain deep inside of one’s soul the country’s accent for the benefit of fellow citizens of the land of leprechauns, irrespective of the length of time since its rhythms had dominated the person’s linguistic charms. It was a powerful sort of secret code capable of resurfacing the deepest held fears and feelings of inadequacy from years of religious based sexual and moral repression, in the most successful and confident of emigrants. Its malignant purpose was to restore the natural order of the Irish way, where no one was ever allowed to indulge in the audacity of stepping above their predefined station in life. A station based on parental roots, primary school inadequacies and level of skill with a hurley or football held in the hands of red faced youths who were expected to retain the national drive for homogenise behaviour and to avoid stepping beyond the safety of the proverbial rails.

“Yeah not a bother, just a bit of a head rush” I said looking down at his prone body sensing the danger in the way his eyes fixed upon me and in the look he had about him of a man who retained an interest in the goings on of the land in which he was born and raised, despite having lived longer away from its green fields than in them.

(c) Francie McGivney

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

a paragraph I wrote and i just liked the sound of it

The only time he actually did bring us to talk to a man about a dog, he brought Nan along with him. We ended up in the cow dung splattered yard of some cottage up the hills half way between the middle of nowhere and the end of the road. There was the pure sickening smell of dogs mixing with the bovine excrement, filling the air with an intoxicating mixture. We all bundled out of the car on to a driveway where the once solid concrete was chipped and lying as dust on the ground waiting for a wind or a splash of rain to take away. The cottage was in a state of disrepair beyond anything imaginable by a person from outside of the rural way of thinking where a caravan with a rusted roof and no running water was a grand spot to live. However it lay in the league of a palace compared to the out buildings which had the appearance of a site which had been hit by a stray bomb from world war two, most likely from a German plane which had been flown across the whole of England by a pilot with bad eyesight and a dodgy aim, who upon seeing the state of the cottage decided he would do the world a favour by cleaning up a tiny bit of the world by way of dropping a bomb on it. Thick Ivy shimmered with the rhythmic motion of a huge wave of green leafs which had settled over the walls of the farm and had forgotten to ebb back out to sea. Nature came to teach me a lesson of what truly lay in the surrounding shadows when the brother shoved me into the embrace of a thicket of its stems. I came out covered in spiders, the whole wall was a breeding ground for a malignant looking population of eight legged hairy creatures of nightmarish countenance. My fear of tearing down the Ivy which in my mind appeared to act as the mortar  holding the walls up was lost in the realisation I wouldn’t in fact be killed by the falling rubble but instead there was a distinct possibility of me been eating alive. The family who were meant to love me laughed in a most unsympathetic way as I jumped around the yard beating of spiders who seemed determined to cling to their newly discovered residence.

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

Looking for loving (not finished just a bit of fun )

it was that time of the year

the hunger was sated

and the lust was building

i came down from the mountain side

looking for some loving

i took my time and cleaned up well

i washed the dirt of life’s lonely hell

the water stank and killed some fish

a bear watched and laughed

he went looking for some loving too

The tavern’s lights were down low

hiding the pain beyond the glow

women of all shapes and size lined up

waiting for picking or kicking

the men stood scratching

all of us looking for loving

The beauty of youth interested my loins

the beauty of age drove my desire

I was looking for a woman with

scars on her face and thoughts in her mind

i was looking for #loving with words

to be continued

Frank McGivney 12.02.15

#valentines day