The Best Little Country to Write In

I have no idea why I’m putting it up, but I am regardless. This is (a lazy, ineffective, unoffensive, fangless, tried, tested and tired form of) a poem about Ireland that blurted out one day. It might give someone a laugh.

The Best Little Country to Write In

I am Digging

I am the healing scar of what went before

I am the dawning of the day

I am a terrible beauty born

I am the voice of the wind and the pouring rain

I am the Emergency

I am the National Lottery

I am the music of Glenroe


I am A Rainy Night in Soho

I am the mala before school

I am the sneaky pint

I am the closing time pint

I am the inherent problem with alcohol

I am behind the magic door

I am the Hill of Tara

I am Brehon Law

I am Bunreacht na hÉireann

I am grotesque, unbelievable, bizarre and unprecedented

I am the Beauty Queen of Leenane

I am the Lady in Red

I am Sally O’Brien and the way she might look at you

I am Munster’s European fairytale heartbreak

I am the power and the glory

I am Munster’s European fairytale joy

I am yours, now and forever

I am Reeling in the Years

I am Waiting for Godot

I am a lot done, more to do

I am the washing on the line of an evening in July

I am the Christmas RTÉ Guide

I am the constant council roadworks

I am Where The Streets Have No Name

I am Nothing But The Same Old Story

I am the rain

I am the rain

I am the rain

I am sure I’ll be alright on my own

I am the country wake

I am the silence at the stations

I am the lack of conversation

I am Only a Woman’s Heart

I am faith, begorrah, where to start

I am where the priests hide

I am the children playing outside

I am The Field

I am the pain

I am the past, a distant country

I am one day in May

I am the father and the son

I am Mary Robinson

I am road frontage

I am Sam Maguire

I am the curse

I am Mayo

I am, to whom it concerns, The Late Late Show

I am the flood

I am the better failed try

I am the Famine Road

I am the horseman passing by


“…It is the night of a dear, rare auld blog…”


The 18th of December and not a present in the house bought.

Christmas is on the brink of tearing every single muscle of our Western being and there is naught we can do about it. No amount of mass abstinence from X Factor singles or mass purchasing of Rage Against the Machine songs can change the obscene calorie intake we’ll ingest over the period, no grimacing and bah-humbugging (or humbuggering?) can distract or even take away from the over the top shows of happiness, feigned or otherwise, from parents and their children alike, and there is no hope in halting the annexation of television channels by the Harry Potter film franchise. It may not even be over by Christmas. Tread safely dear fellows.



This veils itself as help, but it only shows you are part of the problem.


Last Christmas, I was in Galway, walking up and down the streets pretending my heart out to be like your man from the Dunnes Stores ad. You know, yer man, the red jumper, the man bag, the lazy beard. He’s smiling at everyone, they’re all happy, there’s the child who loves Christmas trees, the young ones who are going mad about going in the snow, the lad afraid to shift your wan, y’know it? Anyways, I pretended to be him for ages and I felt great. I also gave Freddo bars to certain lucky folk.



This was before the depressing price hike. Ye bastards, Cadbury.


This Christmas season though, I have been inundated with so many little nonsensical things that take up enough of my time that I indeed have no time whatsoever to pretend to be your man. Also, last year’s ad airing this year too? Come on, Dunnes. Sort out yourselves. Shell out for the new campaign. Come on. I can do it for ye too. I love ads. I know all about them. Remember that Snickers ad with your man thinking he’s Batman? Classic.

There was a hape of flooding there in my familial home in A-Town and the amount of sandbags carried and placed is beyond an abacus. RTÉ camped out in the back garden to report on the levels and even Bryan Dobson came down to tell people this was quite serious. Luckily, Doomsday did not come. 2009 was repeated and the local government acted, embarrassed into coping with the levels. And those words are chosen very carefully. Embarrassed into coping with it. Will plans finally be put into action? Will more than “a few shovels be put into the ground”, as Dobbo said on the Six One, be done now? I would not hold my breath, but I might have to if I’m under water. Heyhoooo! Anyways. I’m at a show in a hotel in Galway for children and that is an experience to say the least. And there’s a pantomime in Athlone to be rehearsing for – Oh NO THERE’S NOT! – Yes, there blooming well is. And that’s that. Sin sin.



This was in the Irish Times; how could they be wrong even if it was Twink who said it?


But Christmas, aye, it will come and be nodded to all in the endeavour to get to New Year’s Eve so I can attempt to initiate my favourite activity; secretly and passively coercing a large group of people to sing O Holy Night. My God, it is one of the best things I’ve done. It’s occurred twice without doubt, possibly three times and this year once I have a sufficient level of cheek consumed I will begin the endeavour and be a little version of Iago going around whispering “Faaaalllll on your kneeeees…” into people’s ears. It’s the simple things, really. Also, it’s not any declaration to Christianity; I’d be more of 100% atheist but “O Religious Night” doesn’t have the same fecking ring to it, does it? Go off with your mid-winter festival.

Success happened recently too. I was placed third in the poetry section of 2015 Over the Edge New Writer of the Year Competition, particularly for a poem called ‘Thanks For the Internet’.  I was happy out, being long-listed was fairly class with good folks, being shortlisted was even better and then to be placed third, well, that was just fairly deadly. But, as they say, nearly never bulled a cow. Well, fewer people than I thought say that but, yes, the main thing is that time has passed, something good happened and that there is much more time to pass and many more better things to happen.



This lad knows about time passing and something happening.


Will I type anything in the future before next year? Christ knows. Probably so. But just in case I don’t…


David Burke? Former Connaught Slam Poetry Champ? Third placed in the All-Ireland Slam Poetry Slam?


Fuck you.


That is all.


I’m So Sorry, It’s Not You, It’s Me, Definitely, I’m the Problem

My upkeep of this blog is in a word bad. In another word, pathetic. In another word, lackadaisical. In a further word, brutal. It could be paralleled to that of the entire situation surrounding the pool’s night-supervisor in the fictional documentary The Pool featured in an episode of the mid-90s fake-news show, The Day Today. In his forty years of employment there, the guard played by Steve Coogan explains that only one instance of him slipping up has occurred; one night a group of forty people broke in and played around in the pool and, as he was engaged in a particularly tricky word puzzle, a person was killed. There was an incident with a pigeon, but yes. Something happened, nothing much really happens, but it is existence nonetheless. But I am back, back with a blog entry.

I am that pool’s night-supervisor. This blog is that pool.

I had plans baby, oh baby, I had plans. I was going to throw the my novice two cents into the blogosphere on WWE NXT, the progress made there for female performers, the benefit that brings to the business as a whole, for the general audience it has, but I didn’t do it. Now, Hulk Hogan also went and became a supposed racist which made me feel less compelled to plead the case of a company and business that looks a whole ass ton worse when examined through bitter lemon-rimmed glasses.

I was going to talk about moving away from Galway and how the upheaval affected me, how I missed the city, the people, the buskers, the vibe, the groove, the basic fucking independence to go to a shop at an odd hour for a Moro and a packet of Waffles because you’d still be f*cking hanging from what you were at the night before, basically, all about what I missed, but I didn’t do it.

I was going to write about being a c*nt, but I didn’t do it.

I just wrote other things.

I have been writing, fairly solidly for the best part of four months. Poetry, fiction and theatrical pieces. I wrote a novella. I wrote a one act. I’m in the process of writing a YA novel, and in the most excited and probably independently prolific thing I’ve ever thinged a thing ever, I’m writing/researching a non-fiction book too. About politics. It feature jokes, too.

I have HAPES of poetry, which is the scientific term for it alright, absolute hapes. Whether it is of a publishable quality is another thing, but I have completed/drafted/WIPs/ coming out from under the couch and making an absolute mess. And us with the lovely wood floor.

Now, the well is fairly dry and it has been hard to knock out a stanza or paragraph and don’t even get me f*cking started on stage directions. The situation of me not being living independently, that is to stay I live in my home town with my … elders… well, it can drive you up the f*cking walls, tear down any support there exists up there and jump on the rubble that is your own brains because f*ck it, nothing is ever going to change ever because you’re as employable as a very bad security guard. So yeah, wrote a bit there for a while.

And, hey, I nearly forgot. My poetry got shortlisted for the Over The Edge New Writer of the Year Competition. One of 12 alongside some deadly people, Jessamine O’Connor, Stephen De Burca among others. That’s something positive anyways. You can check the shortlist over on the website right now too. Might see you there Thursday for the announcement.

Until then, I’ll keep writing and drafting all that other stuff, and I’ll come up with something interesting to write so ye can read it here.

I’m still all up on that Twitter @PaulMcCarrick making kick ass jokes and whatnot, and don’t forget @Knobcast for all your needless audio/comedy needs. I love you wall.