11 March 2013
641
R. Linda:
All right, so here it be the annual Saint Patrick's Day crazy-fest, starting a few days early.
I was sitting in me loft last night when the phone rang, and it was Anna Simpson from work. She's a copy editor and she hangs around me cubicle to listen to me accent. We've grown friendly over the year and she's comfortable discussing all manner of things with me, which is usually too much information for yours truly to digest. So it was no surprise when she said to me, "Gabriel, I hope you don't mind me bothering you at home, BUT . . . "
I knew the "BUT" was going to be something I wouldn't like, BUT I let her go on, brave soul I be.
"I have this thing . . . " says she, "oh I know it will sound crazy . . . "
"What thing?" I bit like a trout on a hook. I just can't help meself sometimes, especially when I know fully well I'm not going to like the answer.
"Well . . . I have a gigantic weakness in the knees for an Irishman. You guys talk with that accent and you just melt me."
Uh oh.
"I have a need to find me an Irishman so I'm going to Ireland to find one."
What was I to say to THAT? I muttered in a low voice, "Okay . . ."
"Gabe, I need you to tell me where the best place in Ireland is for me to get me one."
She made it sound like she was going fishing. Like I knew a great spot to do that. I was flummoxed.
"Er . . . let me tink." I said getting very Irish in the accent meself. I can't help it when I get nervous, the old talk comes flooding back.
"Gabe, it is getting to me. Irishmen -- on my mind all day, all night long. I can't help myself, it's like an obsession."
I'll say.
"I get the chills just thinking of hooking one, they are sooo sexy and I could listen to them talk for hours!"
Oh boy, I was right about the fishing for an Irishman.
"So you gotta help me, Gabe."
No, I don't, I said in me mind.
"Now hold on dere Anna," I said, "I don't knoe if ye should goo dere . . . to Ireland I mean. Are ya looking fur a Catlick boyo or a Proddy one? Because dere be a difference ye see. A Catlick one will want at least 7 babies if not moor and dey sumtimes are allergic ta werk, so you'll have to invent a job ya kin doo from yer house because a da kiddies an all. An den dere be church fur you and da kiddies every Sunday while yer man stays home and sleeps. And . . . and . . . while he be a joke a minute wit da quips and all, and might fall inta a song or two at the oddest of tymes, he could be a wee bit light in da head from da drink and when ye git him goin' oh da temper."
She cut me off, "Tell me about the other kind."
"Oh begorrah," I said changing gears, "A Proddy laddie be havin' ya turnin' out booklets on how ta be a good Brit and out in da street throwin' rocks at yer Catlick neighbours, and . . . and . . . dey be passionate about everyting British, queen, cuntrie, dat sorter ting. Dey love ta fight dey do, and dey shows no emotion, very closed minded dey be dere Anna, but fur de lack of emotions dey don't show, dey be great wit power tools . . . dey have no sense of humour, no dey don't and dey love a good pint just like da other guy dey doo indeed, but dey have a bad temper dey do especially if yer find yerself one wit red hair."
"Huh? Red hair? Power tools?"
"Em . . . yes, da red-haired Proddy's da worst of da lot dey be. Specially if dey have freckles." I added as an Irish afterthought.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" She said scaring me, but I was in deep already so I said go for it.
"Why isn't your accent when you are at work more prevalent than it is like right now?"
"OH FOR SURE!" I shouted relieved. "Dat be because at work I try me best to mask me accent because most people tink Irishmen are fools and drunkards. But now I be findin' women tink da old accent be sexy. Who knew? I might just talk dis way forever now."
"Well, I love it!" She was overly enthused and I was silently cursing meself for getting into this conversation in the first place and wondering why it was when I get nervous I get really, really Irish on meself. I almost wished I was French because THAT accent is so hard to understand. Look at Ludo, he talks smack with Malarkey on The Taste, and no one, no NO ONE knows what the hell he's saying.
"SO GABRIEL," she was talking loud in her excitement, "tell me just where to go in Ireland to find me a man."
"Are you serious? I mean really about up and leavin' fur da old sod?"
"I absolutely adore Irishman. YES, I have a vacation in two weeks, so I thought to book my trip but I need your help on where there is the most amount of single magnificent Irish guys."
I had a headache. Yes, I did and it was growing bigger as we went on with this foolishness.
"You do knoe dere Anna, dat not all Irish "guys" are as you say, "magnificent."" I was shaking me head, not that Anna knew that, but for the life of me!
"I don't know what it is about Irishman that makes me go red in the face and feeling so . . . HOT," she went on ignoring me last remark. "The accent, the culture, the wit, the charm . . . why yes, it is all of that! I guess you can say I have a "thing" for Irishmen." She went on blindly.
"I tink you kin safely assume dat, yes you can," I said more to meself than to her.
"I'm crazy for the Irish," she gushed on as me eyes opened wider and wider at every accolade she threw out.
What to do? She kept badgering me WHERE, WHERE TO GO, WHERE TO GO IN IRELAND.
Oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi!
"Ye should book a trip to Dublin fur a Catlick boyo," I said and muttered, "I hope you like cigarettes. Being the whole population of Dublin be under forty, single, and they all smoke and drink, party, party, party."
"I'm Presbyterian will that interfere?" Herself asks me.
"Em . . . den ye need to go nort," I said getting flustered.
"Nort? What is nort?"
"NORTH. Sorry." I correct with me American pronunciation.
"Belfast you are saying?" She asked all interested and I could hear the scratching of a pen, so she was getting this down she was.
"Oi, no Belfast be too old fer ya. Everyone over 40 lives in Belfast. Uhhh . . . . let me tink, you could go ta Derry. Yeah ya could doo dat. It be nort, I mean NORTHwest of Belfast." I wanted to say bring your bomb-proof vest and a change of underwear but I refrained.
"Ok Gabe, thanks so much!" She gushed.
When we hung up, I sat there in a daze asking meself what just happened. God love her sweet naive arse, but she was in for a shock. I thought to ring her back and tell her NOT TO DO IT, but well . . . she might just meet the Irish bloke of her dreams, or . . . an IRA gunman . . . or not.
Now I feel guilty I do. I know I should be taken out and shot for sending her to Derry. And yes, you be right I could have said LONDONderry just because when Derry be called Londonderry there be a baaad association with the name and for sure there should be, but she has no clue Derry from Londonderry. She'll find out soon enough it be the same place. Sigh.
Maybe I should have told her to stay in the Falls section of Belfast and announce at every opportunity she was of the Protestant faith, OR, I could have told her to go to Portadown in July instead because there be a big parade and lots of festivities, loads of Proddy boyos be on hand. Or, maybe I should just keep me trap shut and hope for the best. No really, I do like her, I be jokin' wit yer wee self. I didn't tell her to go to Derry, I told her to go to Scotland because the accent be the same (okay I lied) and I told her there be a better class of Irishman there (yee-ah).
OH I KNOW I LIED. But I bet you she won't know the difference. She thought when I said Glasgow it was in Ireland, so there you go. It's all her doing. She could surprise us all and come home with Willie Wallace instead of Darby O'Gill. Now wouldn't that be sumting'?
Gabe
Copyright © 2013 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
All right, so here it be the annual Saint Patrick's Day crazy-fest, starting a few days early.
I was sitting in me loft last night when the phone rang, and it was Anna Simpson from work. She's a copy editor and she hangs around me cubicle to listen to me accent. We've grown friendly over the year and she's comfortable discussing all manner of things with me, which is usually too much information for yours truly to digest. So it was no surprise when she said to me, "Gabriel, I hope you don't mind me bothering you at home, BUT . . . "
I knew the "BUT" was going to be something I wouldn't like, BUT I let her go on, brave soul I be.
"I have this thing . . . " says she, "oh I know it will sound crazy . . . "
"What thing?" I bit like a trout on a hook. I just can't help meself sometimes, especially when I know fully well I'm not going to like the answer.
"Well . . . I have a gigantic weakness in the knees for an Irishman. You guys talk with that accent and you just melt me."
Uh oh.
"I have a need to find me an Irishman so I'm going to Ireland to find one."
What was I to say to THAT? I muttered in a low voice, "Okay . . ."
"Gabe, I need you to tell me where the best place in Ireland is for me to get me one."
She made it sound like she was going fishing. Like I knew a great spot to do that. I was flummoxed.
"Er . . . let me tink." I said getting very Irish in the accent meself. I can't help it when I get nervous, the old talk comes flooding back.
"Gabe, it is getting to me. Irishmen -- on my mind all day, all night long. I can't help myself, it's like an obsession."
I'll say.
"I get the chills just thinking of hooking one, they are sooo sexy and I could listen to them talk for hours!"
Oh boy, I was right about the fishing for an Irishman.
"So you gotta help me, Gabe."
No, I don't, I said in me mind.
"Now hold on dere Anna," I said, "I don't knoe if ye should goo dere . . . to Ireland I mean. Are ya looking fur a Catlick boyo or a Proddy one? Because dere be a difference ye see. A Catlick one will want at least 7 babies if not moor and dey sumtimes are allergic ta werk, so you'll have to invent a job ya kin doo from yer house because a da kiddies an all. An den dere be church fur you and da kiddies every Sunday while yer man stays home and sleeps. And . . . and . . . while he be a joke a minute wit da quips and all, and might fall inta a song or two at the oddest of tymes, he could be a wee bit light in da head from da drink and when ye git him goin' oh da temper."
She cut me off, "Tell me about the other kind."
"Oh begorrah," I said changing gears, "A Proddy laddie be havin' ya turnin' out booklets on how ta be a good Brit and out in da street throwin' rocks at yer Catlick neighbours, and . . . and . . . dey be passionate about everyting British, queen, cuntrie, dat sorter ting. Dey love ta fight dey do, and dey shows no emotion, very closed minded dey be dere Anna, but fur de lack of emotions dey don't show, dey be great wit power tools . . . dey have no sense of humour, no dey don't and dey love a good pint just like da other guy dey doo indeed, but dey have a bad temper dey do especially if yer find yerself one wit red hair."
"Huh? Red hair? Power tools?"
"Em . . . yes, da red-haired Proddy's da worst of da lot dey be. Specially if dey have freckles." I added as an Irish afterthought.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" She said scaring me, but I was in deep already so I said go for it.
"Why isn't your accent when you are at work more prevalent than it is like right now?"
"OH FOR SURE!" I shouted relieved. "Dat be because at work I try me best to mask me accent because most people tink Irishmen are fools and drunkards. But now I be findin' women tink da old accent be sexy. Who knew? I might just talk dis way forever now."
"Well, I love it!" She was overly enthused and I was silently cursing meself for getting into this conversation in the first place and wondering why it was when I get nervous I get really, really Irish on meself. I almost wished I was French because THAT accent is so hard to understand. Look at Ludo, he talks smack with Malarkey on The Taste, and no one, no NO ONE knows what the hell he's saying.
"SO GABRIEL," she was talking loud in her excitement, "tell me just where to go in Ireland to find me a man."
"Are you serious? I mean really about up and leavin' fur da old sod?"
"I absolutely adore Irishman. YES, I have a vacation in two weeks, so I thought to book my trip but I need your help on where there is the most amount of single magnificent Irish guys."
I had a headache. Yes, I did and it was growing bigger as we went on with this foolishness.
"You do knoe dere Anna, dat not all Irish "guys" are as you say, "magnificent."" I was shaking me head, not that Anna knew that, but for the life of me!
"I don't know what it is about Irishman that makes me go red in the face and feeling so . . . HOT," she went on ignoring me last remark. "The accent, the culture, the wit, the charm . . . why yes, it is all of that! I guess you can say I have a "thing" for Irishmen." She went on blindly.
"I tink you kin safely assume dat, yes you can," I said more to meself than to her.
"I'm crazy for the Irish," she gushed on as me eyes opened wider and wider at every accolade she threw out.
What to do? She kept badgering me WHERE, WHERE TO GO, WHERE TO GO IN IRELAND.
Oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi, oi!
"Ye should book a trip to Dublin fur a Catlick boyo," I said and muttered, "I hope you like cigarettes. Being the whole population of Dublin be under forty, single, and they all smoke and drink, party, party, party."
"I'm Presbyterian will that interfere?" Herself asks me.
"Em . . . den ye need to go nort," I said getting flustered.
"Nort? What is nort?"
"NORTH. Sorry." I correct with me American pronunciation.
"Belfast you are saying?" She asked all interested and I could hear the scratching of a pen, so she was getting this down she was.
"Oi, no Belfast be too old fer ya. Everyone over 40 lives in Belfast. Uhhh . . . . let me tink, you could go ta Derry. Yeah ya could doo dat. It be nort, I mean NORTHwest of Belfast." I wanted to say bring your bomb-proof vest and a change of underwear but I refrained.
"Ok Gabe, thanks so much!" She gushed.
When we hung up, I sat there in a daze asking meself what just happened. God love her sweet naive arse, but she was in for a shock. I thought to ring her back and tell her NOT TO DO IT, but well . . . she might just meet the Irish bloke of her dreams, or . . . an IRA gunman . . . or not.
Now I feel guilty I do. I know I should be taken out and shot for sending her to Derry. And yes, you be right I could have said LONDONderry just because when Derry be called Londonderry there be a baaad association with the name and for sure there should be, but she has no clue Derry from Londonderry. She'll find out soon enough it be the same place. Sigh.
Maybe I should have told her to stay in the Falls section of Belfast and announce at every opportunity she was of the Protestant faith, OR, I could have told her to go to Portadown in July instead because there be a big parade and lots of festivities, loads of Proddy boyos be on hand. Or, maybe I should just keep me trap shut and hope for the best. No really, I do like her, I be jokin' wit yer wee self. I didn't tell her to go to Derry, I told her to go to Scotland because the accent be the same (okay I lied) and I told her there be a better class of Irishman there (yee-ah).
OH I KNOW I LIED. But I bet you she won't know the difference. She thought when I said Glasgow it was in Ireland, so there you go. It's all her doing. She could surprise us all and come home with Willie Wallace instead of Darby O'Gill. Now wouldn't that be sumting'?
Gabe
Copyright © 2013 All rights reserved
9 comments:
Power tools? Only old people in Belfast? That whole paragraph on "proddy" lads has a whole lot wrong with it from this "proddy" lad's point of view. LOL What happened to loyal, patient, job motivated? That aside, I was amused in spite of the swipe. Why didn't you suggest she go to Lisdoonvarna for the matchmaking festival? I'm sure she'd find a "snag". If only YOU were single, eh Gabe? LMAO By the way, like the new "look" Sherlock.
Aw sorry. I didn't mean YOU particularly, LMAO. Oh wait a mo, where do you get patient from? No Irishmen is PATIENT. Loyal be questionable in some cases, and job motivated . . . new one! You know I should have told her about Lisdoonvarna but I wasn't thinking, I was in too much a daze. No if only I was single. Gees. You know I might tell her about YOU. You're single right? I see you changed your icon -- that isn't funny.
You're both coconuts as they say in the Tortugas. I don't know why you didn't send her to me Cappy. I can pretend an Irish accent mate. Been around Capt Lucky enough I have a damn bollocky fine handle on speakin' like an Irishmen and a gobshite. Er maybe not the last, but when it comes to the ladies mate, I can handle this. And I think you both need to change your pictures to what you look like in pirate hats. I am disappointed in you Cappy, that was one fine pic of you in full captain gear. P-)
Oi, a Canadian feigning an Irish accent.
Does this count as matchmaking, as in the business you are no longer in?
LMAO
Oh I be getting dissed with this story. LOL
you're terrible, you never sent her to scotland did you? lol yeah i thought you were out of the matchmaking business too, roflmao. i was like power tools? i think my husband missed that mark and patience? no irishman is patient but tempers? lots of that.
oh yeah wait we aren't doing that change icon thing again are we?
Only if you want to. Oi.
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