Comedian - Actor - Podcaster

Vodafone Comedy Carnival: The Best Of Irish

Vodafone Comedy Carnival: The Best Of Irish
Gig review by Steve Bennett in Galway

Twelve of the funniest feckers currently working in the Irish comedy circuit, that’s the simple sell of The Best Of Irish showcase at Galway’s Vodafone Comedy Carnival. Or at least the funniest comics prepared to share a Sunday-afternoon bill with 11 other names in a fast-moving conveyor belt that inevitably mixes the rough with the smooth.

And there’s a 13th act, compere Steve Cummins: pretty perfunctory in his banter, reeling off all the MCing clichés and hitting a few dead ends in his interactions until finally finding a thread worth pursuing with Joe the farmer. The bits of his own material we glimpsed didn’t show much inspiration, plenty on porn and wanking but with no fresh take. You know the sort of thing… how back in the day dirty pictures were found abandoned in hedges rather than online.

Many of the acts were a little discombobulated by the Spiegeltent set-up, its central stage forcing them to pace in circles as they performed in the round. Opening act Colum McDonnell had a good gag likening it to a cattle market, with him the prize heifer. His set proper was a delightfully observed slice of domestic minutiae, revolving entirely around biscuits and Weetabix: thoroughly engaging if oh-so short.

Andrew Ryan’s been around for a while on both sides of the Irish Sea, and has a relatable everyman charm… though some of the scenarios he portrays such as the young generation with the Instagrammable smashed-avocado-on-sourdough breakfasts is a little too generic to stick in the brain. Beneath the bonhomie, there’s a more intriguing undercurrent about whether any of us deserve to be happy, touching on issues of depression, but there was not enough time to draw that out.

Keith Fox took a typical stance, both in mixing all-too-familiar observations (trendy establishments serving drinks in jam-jars anyone?) with a more acerbic, downbeat attitude. His sarcastic dismissal of the concepts of ‘beach bodies’ in Ireland and smug marathon runners clearly come from a genuine desire to cut through the bullshit, and though parts of even a short set could be more focussed, his negativity is appealing.

Anna Clifford would benefit from more clarity in her set, too. Her approach to the morning-after ‘walk of shame’, defiantly refusing to believe there should be any shame involved shows a healthy self-assurance, and material about Irish repression made explicit in traditional dancing is well acted-out. But there are a couple of formulaic jokes, and sometimes her chatter around the subjects is jumbled, muddying the waters.

Tom O’Mahony has a strong persona, of the dyed-in-the-wool Tipperary county fella, slightly impressed by some of the cosmopolitan ways of modern Ireland, but keen to make jokes when he thinks anything’s getting too full of itself. Combining that no-nonsense frame of mind with some engaging storytelling chops makes him a comic who can easily hold, and entertain, a room (or even Spiegeltent).

Totally Wired are an old-fashioned, rather cheesy, duo… although there’s fun in the way they wholeheartedly embrace the corniness of their act, billing themselves as ‘Ireland’s oldest and least successful boy band’. Quick with the backchat, they impersonate Donald Trump with no real bite, and tease a satirical song about Muslims that turns out to be singing Koran-ran-ran to Da-Do-Ron-Ron. There’s no edge here. Their party piece is ‘bwark’ing along to an Ed Sheehan number, an idea they’ve lifted from Camila the Chicken from The Muppet Show. Yet their sense of fun is infectious, and there a couple of good lines that come as a surprise amid the naffness.

Jim Elliott’s lived in Ireland for 12 years but is originally from Washington, DC – and his patter is so fast-paced and slick it almost feels like a parody of the old-school, guy-in-front-of-a-brick-wall style of US stand-up. But his affectionate mockery on the peculiar way the Irish used the English language is funny, and endears him to a crowd. He’s very punchy and is hosting a roast battle elsewhere this festival. That makes perfect sense.

Breda Larkin is an over-packed bundle of all sorts of ideas and styles, rather too busy in the way she leaps about without really settling, starting from the moment she walks on stage with a crude face mask on. It feels like a lack of confidence that this fast-talking comic is trying too hard – but she needn’t be so nervy. For in the moments when she calms down into painting a picture of life in her backwater hometown, she displays some delightful turns of phrase, witty imagery and astute observations from living in a bungalow to the way her parents named her twin sister. It’s good stuff, she should have more faith in it

As anyone who watched Ireland’s Got Talent earlier this year will know, Sean Hegarty’s a one-line merchant, some of which are very good indeed (in fact, one is the best in Ireland, according to a competition). And even those that aren’t are so brief as to not be a worry. With a few singalongs and song snippets played from his phone, he’s very much in the Tim Vine school of selling the silliness hard and cheesy. Sometimes the comparison’s a bit too close, but you can’t deny the craft in his writing.

Enya Martin, already something of a success online, never really seemed to gel. Cheap jokes about coming from a council estate where people get pregnant for benefits seemed to fit a rather generic of what should be funny, rather than coming from an authentic place. As she doesn’t seem to be reflecting the genuine humour in her background, it’s hard to buy into her comedy.

Edwin Sammon showed host Cummings how to tell sex stories, with great act-outs and a flair for showmanship. He unwittingly repeated the cattle auction gag we heard in the first half, but otherwise delivered a strong, tight and playful set, full of tongue-in-cheek mockery that hit the mark.

Before he took to the stage, Kevin McGahern, pictured, was hyped up with plenty of references to his telly credentials. Although when he took to the stage he seemed distracted and underprepared. That’s part of his shtick, though, and once he settled in, he displayed some sharp political wit about the just-done presidential election – super-topical as well as funny. And his analogy for Britain’s self-inflicted Brexit wounds was on the nose, bringing a sort of gallows humour – and more than a touch of schadenfreude – to the upheaval that will have a knock-on effect on Ireland, too.

Review date: 29 Oct 2018
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You take your mother out in that yoke?!

2 wheel-braces, TWO fuckin wheel-braces this utter bollox had broken from leapin up and down on em! Granted they were pure shite wheel-braces, but fuckin hell like?!
I’d seen a car broken down on the way up the road (on the way back from the cinema. We saw The Revenant. Pure class film by the way. Zero craic, but fuckin intense (is that the right word? I dunno. Anyway!), but the good conscience of herself had convinced me to turn around and go back to see what was up. At a glance it looked like it was an auld wan stranded on the side of the M4. Right enough, it was an auld wan, headscarf n all, standing by her Alfa Romeo Guilietta Quadrifoglio Verde (the one with the turbo, a fancy enough yoke now, for an auld wan, but still definitely a ladies car). The flashers were goin and it’d looked like she’d fucked the refelctive triangle yoke in a rage, cos it was serving no purpose lying face down on the hard shoulder.

Admittedly I was going to help but fairly pissed off as I was badly in need of diesel and I’d wagered on having just enough to get me home that night and enough to get me to the Texeco in the morning. I hadn’t factored on having to traipse back up the road to deal with this shite.

Low and behold as I pulled up the handbrake to get out and help this elderly damsel in distress, I cop this bollix of a lad in his early 40’s fuckin around with a front (still attached) passenger side wheel. She was full of the “ah aren’t yis great for stoppin” and “we’ve been here for 45 minutes and no one would stop to help”. “And sure isn’t that why you cart this hoor around with ya, in case of emergency like” says I, sniggerin and gesturing towards yer man. No one laughs. Herself spotting the awkwardness proceeds to pacify the old dear with weather related shite. I turn myself to this lump of a fella, who turns out to be her son. He’s lookin at the punctured wheel the same way a cow would look at a field of thistles. “Howya, Derek” says he offering to shake my hand. “Why the fuck isn’t off yet Derek? Oh, Tom” says I. This question prompts him to to show me how hard he’s been tryin with his wheel-nut-opening efforts. He looks like he’s not shy of the grub-trough either and he’s sweatin like a gypsy with a mortgage. I have to fight the urge to turn around to herself and point at this carry on while saying one of my classic lines, like “haven’t a hand to wipe his arse, this lad”. “See, it’s no fookin use. I’ve been tryin it for nearly an hour and now I think I’ve broken my second one” says Derek. 2 wheel-braces, TWO fuckin wheel-braces this utter bollox had broken from leapin up and down on em! Granted they were pure shite wheel-braces, but fuckin hell like?!

Herself is goin great guns keeping the auld wan on point. She’s pulled out the engagement story, which sends the golden-girl into overdrive. Right! “No more bollixin around Derek, what is your major malfunction?” says I. (Baltic it is) “Look” says he, as he jumps up and down on the wheel brace. Crack!! Yup, he’s definitely broken it. And it’s then I cop it. “What in the name of the sweet crispy JESUS Derek?” says I. I’d been watchin this tit for 10 minutes and it’s like my mind had blocked what he was actually doing. “Whah? Am I not doin it righ?” says Derek. My mind had blocked it because it didn’t believe that an adult, with the basic ability to remember to tie their own shoelaces in the morning could, for 45 minutes of trying, not distinguish or at least contemplate the idea of “LEFTY LOOSEY RIGHTY FUCKING TIGHTY”

“Ah for fucks Derek. How did you go through 5 wheel nuts, breaking 2 braces and not at least once think, “fuckit I’ll chance one aiti-clockwise will I”?” says I. “I dunno. This isn’t my bag. I’m in politics ya see”. I knew I recognised that chubby face. Did I mention twas perishin cold? I’m ready to bite the fuckin wheel off the car at this stage. Although herself shoots me a “keep your shit together Tom there’s an old lady present. And besides where would we dump his body anyway” look.

I sort the thing with my own wheel brace, leaving him to work the jack (the bollix needed some penance, plus it was pretty funny watching him nearly have a calf winding the thing and down. It’s still freezin). Of course the things pop open like butter when turned LEFTY The sight of the dustbin-lid space saver wheel he pulled out of the boot vexed me, but the show was more or less over at that stage. It did give me a chance to patrionisingly point out how to tighten the nuts this time round “you’ve had plenty of fuckin practice at it Derek”. All this seemed to fly over his head. Not once ounce of shame did I detect. I suppose thats the politician in him.

Job done, we said our goodbyes on the side of a freezin M4. Through gritted gnashers I shake hands with Derek (his hand felt like a bag of wet sausages). We both sit into the car with a collective “JAYSUS!”. “Just drive Tom” says she. Derek and the auld wan pull away in their Alfa Romeo (not even a shot hazard lights to so thanks, the bollix). In with the key to the ignition and FUCK, my heart drops out through my jocks. It won’t start! I’ve run out of diesel! Our little good- Samaritan trip used up my ration for the morning. I can feel some sort of vein behind my eye beginning to bulge. Then for some reason we both begin to laugh, that furious/sad laugh. Derek you dirty bollix, of course you got one over on me, you’re a politician.

The injustice of it all. This must be what Leo’s character felt in the Revenant, no craic but seriously fuckin intense.

No Windows In The Tractor

I suppose if yer readin this you’ll most likely know that I’m a stand-up comedian. The ability to roar at strangers comes fairly naturally (it’s why journeys through cities take me forever. No not because I’m bogged with fans, because I’ve a caveman urge to shout at stupid fuckers out the car window).
It’s a class job in a lotta ways but like every job there’s a good percentage of it pure fuckin hardship (even Justin Bieber has a few ‘gway and fuck yerself’ days). It’s not the drivin or flyin or bussin or…ah fuckit travel in general. It’s not the mad bastards you sometimes have to work with who’d give a dose of ire to a jar of vaseline. It’s not even hecklers (I don’t get many oddly enough), I enjoy em. It’s the flat-out disastrous, hiroshima mixed with ebola, “hey let’s stick comedy on in this place, despite us not having a fuckin notion what we’re at” gigs that’d break the spirit of pig ignorant hard bastard sociopath.
Now don’t get me wrong, I take pride in doing shite rooms sometimes. I once struggled on in an hour long show in Edinburgh where a drunk woman broke down crying 5mins in because she’d been boozin all day in remembrance of her “stabbed-to-death father’s” anniversary. Try keepin a lid on that shit for 55mins. But weirdly we got through it without a single (further) loss of life. No, it’s the “ah for fucks sake, whatsgoinonlads gigs”.
So to get quickly to the point and stop flutin around. I got booked to this gig a while back somewhere in East Cork, I think. Not much was explained to me only apparently I was the man for the job (always a shady sign that some smart bollix has dumped this on ya) and a rough location (sometimes this shit is at a paramilitary level).
So off I trek deep into the guts of the wilderness that is East Cork. Passin through one one-horse town after another. I don’t mind the back roads normally, it’s like findin your roots (Christ I’m some bollix for even writing that). But this fuckin drive seemed to go on for ever. It was the kinda drive that’d have a man lookin nervous at the diesel needle. There was no point checkin the phone to make a call, there hadn’t been a signal for a least 20 parishes. But low and behold, out of the darkness as I rounded a corner, up ahead was…. a little less darkness! Like I said, there was a lot of one Horse towns on the journey but this place looked like it had shot the horse, eaten it and hadn’t even seen a horse since Ireland was ruled by the other shower of bollixes. Signs were not good lads. They were down to just one street light, or maybe they were actually just UP to one street light, I couldn’t tell. But at a glance, if I’d spotted Clint Eastwood standin at the other end of the street, wearin a poncho and hat while pointin a 6 shooter at me, he wouldn’t have looked outta place.
The ‘venue’ popped up on my right, a bleak lookin place that unlike most Irish pub exteriors that go for the ‘thousand welcomes’ look, this place goin for gway and fuck off look (they nailed it).
Parked up, I tip on in to place and there isn’t a fuckin sinner in the joint, except this chubby bloke behind the counter who looked he’d had an allergic reaction to a bee-sting or somethin. “Here to do d’comedaay are yuh” says he. “That’s me” says I. The fucker is sharp, this metropolis hadn’t seen a visitor since the vikings and even they didn’t fancy rapin anyone. They just ate their horse.
He doesn’t bother introducin himself or shakin my hand he just fucks off out the front for a smoke. So now I’m left here in this hay barn of a pub/venue in the eerie town (I’m still not sure of the name so let’s call it Silent Hill) wonderin what in the sweet n crispy Jesus is goin on. I shuffle myself to back area behind the stage to contemplate my choices in life (as ya do) when what sounds like a fuckin Deliverance convention burst through the door. There’s people, lots of em. Well the word ‘people’ would suggest that were all capable of upright walking but fuck me lads, one look at this lot and it’s clear that the phrase siter-brother relationship isn’t an uncommon one. I’d swear I can hear someone with 6 fingers playin a banjo.
Now this wouldn’t normally throw me, I’m not too far removed from the hillbilly set myself (Christ sure I’m only keepin the sleeves on my shirts since I moved up the country). But there’s somethin about the whole scenario that seems ‘left of centre’ if ya get me.
But fuckit we’re here now, as the fella says.
And out I go onto stage to lambast these hillbillies. Oddly enough my opening line didn’t go down too well, “how are ye East-Corkonians?” says I. “Ya bollix” says some fucker at the back. I ploughed on regardless but the tone was set. Now often you’ll hear a comedian give out or make excuses that the audience was a bit off, or they didn’t get me because they’re thick and the majority of time these are just that, excuses. But when I describe to you next what I witnessed in the front row, you’ll get a vibe that weirdness of the gig might not be entirely down to me. 250-300 wild lookin savages standin there (yup, they were made stand as the venue owner in his own words said “fuckem lad, I’m not gettin in extra chairs”) and my eye is immediately drawn to 2 blokes (we’ll call em, Ted and Tim), standin in the front row. Both the lads are sporting shotguns hangin over their arms (broken open because they’re gentlemen), wellies and a bag of what turns out to be a dozen dead rabbits bleeding all over the floor. Now far be it from me to take the moral high ground when it comes to huntin, I love me a bit of huntin but CHRIST ON A BIKE AND MARY ON THE HANDLEBARS lads, there’s a time and a place for this carry-on. I couldn’t have been more surprised if Denis Rodman had just been named our local parish Priest. What made the situation even weirder was that not one single fucker I’m the place saw this as bein out if the ordinary. So what do ya do? You fuckin well ask em whats the story, that’s whatcha do. “Story with the guns lads?” says I. “Out huntin t’seevenin” says Tim. “Couldn’t have left the aul guns out in the Jeep or car nah?!” says I. “Didn’t come in a jeep or car, came in a tractor” says Ted. (Fuckin hell lads this is intense). “Well could ye not have left em in the tractor?” says I. “No windaa’s in the tractor” says Ted. “They’d be robbed” says Tim. The 2 fuckers were talkin in tandem, givin me that Children of the Corn dead-eye look while the gang if urchins around looked on like the lads were responsible and thoughtful gun owners. “And the rabbits lads, did the rabbits have to come in too?” says I. And that was that with Tim and says l. They just dead-eyed me in silence, the same way a shark would look at a poor unfortunate seal that was trying to tell it jokes.
And that pretty much set the tone for the remaining 55mins. Well, 54mins actually because right as I was closing the show some bollix decided now would be a perfect time for a fight. 20 maybe 30 (some of these bastards could pass for 2 people (and that was just the women involved)) rough necks clatterin the heads off each other pretty much told me that that was how the show was endin. I ducked out the back because this had all the makins of somethin even Snake Pliskin wouldn’t hang around for. Turns out there WAS no back door, but I wasn’t lettin that stop me. Out the fuckin “windaa” I went. I didn’t give a shit about the pay, I was gettin out of this place. Leggin it to the car I spot the boys tractor, they weren’t lyin, there wasn’t any “windaa’s” there wasn’t even a fuckin cab on the thing.

Into the car, first gear and I’m off. Fuck that place I was thinkin. Why the hell was I stone-walled from beginnin to end? Was it my material? Were they just a bunch of savages who don’t get out much? Christ I’m not that ‘cultural’. Maybe it was the…….. Oh…. for… fucks sake! I know! My openin line, ‘East-Corkonians’!!!!!
See it was right at that point, about a mile outside the town I slowly drive by a sign that reads,
“You Are Now Leaving Waterford. Welcome to Cork”.
Them poor fuckin rabbits must’ve been wanderin over the county line.

Sure That Wouldn’t Feed A Duck – Wedding Fair nightmare

No, yer grand. I don’t want to feel!

Weddins can be dauntin enough aul things I suppose. That is, if you’d never organised a few hundred pigs for collection for the factory or left to your own devices to cut a half acre of trees with a chainsaw at 15. So for me, when herself said “I will sure” back in October, I figured I could throw a blanket over the weddin yoke with my skills.

Now, here comes the advicey bit for any would-be grooms out there. The bits you think you know, you probably do know but the bits you don’t, you HAVE NO FUCKIN IDEA! So accept that there’ll be a good 45% that you never heard of.

Don’t worry, this isn’t some sort of self-help shite like “weddins for dummies”. I couldn’t give a rattlin shite what, how or who you get married to/where/when. This is a brief insight into a horror show I’d to fuckin-well go through last Sunday that might just give a few hoors a heads up as to what’s comin down the track.

Weddin fairs! This is a thing that climbed into my life the same way a stray Jack Russell might climb in the window of your car and bite you on the nose and fuck off before you get a chance to react, leaving you with a non fatal but a prick of a nasty cut on your face that you’ve to explain for the next fortnight. A fuckin dose! Now to be fair to herself she doesn’t bother me with stuff she knows I’m not suited for. The same smart way you wouldn’t ask a homeless fella to give you a tranquil face massage (it’ll be messy and no one will enjoy themselves). But with the weddin needin both our input on a few things, it seemed like a weddin fair might wrap up a lot of contractors you’d need (yup, herself essentially packaged the idea that it was like a trip to the ploughin championship, with sequins [t’fuck are sequins?]).

Off we trucked to this hotel ( I won’t name it but it rhymes with Shitty Vest). First thing of course the parkin is a dose. “Oy downt tink ye can perk dare” says this bollix in a hi-viz. “Well you tell me where I can park, and that’s exactly where I’ll put this yoke” says I. “Wouldja norra got de buss?” says he. “Ah for fucks sake. Look, this IS a space and if some fucker wants me to move, come and get me” says I. “Sownd” says he. And he wanders off. It was only then I’d noticed his hi-viz said “FUCK WATER CHARGES” on the back. A bit odd, but fuckit we’re here now.
Now if I was trying to flog my wares while bein an absolute cheeky bollix I’d try and charge ya at the door too. Holy shit they have balls on em. These 2 hatchet-faced witches at the door with their hand out lookin for an entrance fee. I was already turnin on my heels when herself produced our pre-paid tickets. Christ Pet?! So in we tip into this huge fuckin room which is full of stands or stalls or whatever they’re called, all with their own terrifying lookin woman (or bloke) rammin flyers into people’s faces. In a fuckin shot we were bein lambasted with questions by this wan with a nose that’d poke a dog from underneath a bed. “Have you found a venue? Where are you getting the rings made? What’s your Priest’s housekeeper’s middle name?”. Jesus it was unrelentin. “Canapé?” says this lad with a head on him that you’d never tire of clatterin as he shoved a tray of shite that you wouldn’t feed a duck with, into my face. We hadn’t made it 15 feet from the door at this stage when 2 more vultures jumped at us and started to sing (badly) some shite from some shit movie I can’t remember. “Have you found a band yet” says one of the vultures. I’ve a serious pain in my chest at this stage. “Eh, we have ya” says I. And quick as a shit they hop off to terrorise some other poor bastard. We make our way further on into the belly of this beast, tryin desperately not to catch anyone’s eye (I’m guessin prison rules apply here). There’s a plethora of semi-deceased lookin blokes in a similar position to me, hating their lives and wishin they were in Guantanamo Bay.
We keep movin towards a section that seems quiet enough, (never let your guard down) when out of nowhere this fuckin sidewinder bollox pops up in front of us in a move David Copperfield would be proud of. Ah now what does this fucker want? He looks like he took the Zoolander too seriously and he’s wearin more makeup than most of the women in the place (each to their own n all but Jaysus). He’s standin stock still in front of us with his arm outstretched and his other hands finger over his lips as much as to say “wisht a minute till I have a look at ye”. Of course the 2 of us are standin lookin at this hoor like the way 2 bewildered cows would look into a field of rushes.

“You look like a man-eh that-eh likes a gooood suit-eh. I am Sebastian” (needless to say this lad isn’t from Roscommon with that accent, I’m guessin Spain or some place where carryin on like a total gee-bag isn’t frowned upon). “Oh he does” says herself chirpin in just to add to this dose (she’s havin great craic while my eyeball is doin that twitchy thing again). Yer man squeals like 10 year old girl, clappin his hands together, draggin me over to a rack of suits that you wouldn’t put under a sick calf as beddin. “Thees is just-eh a smidgen of our rrrrange. Look at this one” he says as he holds up this fuckin suit with some sort of sparkley shit in it. “Eesn’t it devine-eh?!”. “It looks like someone got into a fight with an arts n crafts shop, and lost. What’s with the shiny shit in it?” says I. Water off a ducks back to this lad.

On he ploughs pullin out one worse suit after another. Herself is in stitches cos she can see beads of temper-sweat runnin down the side of my head. “You-eh have gooood taste-eh, I know this. What about-eh my suit-eh? You like-eh?”. It’s fuckin pink! No explanation needed here. “Feel it, go on-eh. Touch the fabric-eh” says he, rubbin the arm of his suit, while lookin at me suggestively (is that the right word?). “Eh no yer grand, I don’t want to have a feel” says I. I’ve aged about 10 years in this place. There’s a stand off between us for what feels like 20 minutes but in reality I’d say 5 seconds, till boom his eyes shoot to this poor unfortunate bastard behind me. “You look-eh like a man…..” And we’re free, fuckit this place is too much. That’s when I spot the emergency exit. Herself in fairness has had enough of this shite too.

Fresh air at last! We pop out the side of the building and I’m feeling like a lad who just sat 2 leavin certs and had to fight a herd of honey badgers. Herself is still in knots laughin and that’s when I spot our old friend in the hi-viz. “All OK with the car?” says I. “Oy dunno, shur oy don’t even work heeurr. I’m just heeurr to pick up me brudder” says he. Ah fuckit who cares, I’m thinkin. I’m just delighted to be out of that carnage.
We get to the car and there it is, the dreaded sticker. That sticker on your window that’ll make even the calmest driver run through an orphanage swingin a chainsaw in rage. A fuckin clamp! Jesus could this day get any worse?! I stomp back towards to the hotel. I’ll sort these fuckers I’m thinkin when I run into Mr hi-viz again, “jaysis yous don’t look happy pal” says he. “I’m fuckin well not” says I. “Ya oy saw de clamp I did” says he. “Ah here’s de brudder now. Seamus, over heeurr”. And who is it but the Sebastian bollox. “Ah howya lads” says he. He’s changed his tune. The fuckers rollin a fag and talkin like a bloke who was raised on coddle. “Story anyway? You look loyke someone’s pissed in yer cornflakes” says Sebastian or Seamus. “I’ve a fuckin clamp on my car, that’s what’s up. And here what was that shit in there with the accent?” says I. He takes a long drag out of the rollie and while smiling, the hoor turns to me, “Ah sure, it’s like parkin in the right place Tommo, you gotta keep an eye out for de right ones” and walks off with the hi-viz brother.
It’s 6 days since he said that to me and I still haven’t a fuckin clue what he meant. All I do know is that I’m still €80 lighter, 12 years older and I will never again see the inside of a weddin fair.
Anyone know a good weddin planner? I might just hire Sebastian/Seamus.