Celtic Tiger / Drunk Irish

This is a true story.

In 2011 I was with my girlfriend at the time and it was St. Patrick's Day. We were living in Galway and running late to the parade in the town centre. On the way in we came across a man on the road. He introduced himself as Martin, if my memory serves. The man asked me if I would be able to buy him alcohol. The man in question didn't have arms.

Naturally I said I would of course. He asked me to take the money out of his pocket and told me what he wanted. Having bought the drink I returned to him. "I'll take that here," he said, indicating that he would carry the bag in his stump. The stump was at his shoulder. I insisted we would walk him home with the drink.

We made polite conversation as we walked him home. Once we arrived at his house we helped him inside and settled him in his kitchen. The man was in his 50s, thin and grey hair cut short. On the table in the kitchen he had a row of cigarettes with the filter hanging over the lip of the table. He could pick them up in his mouth and used a lit candle to light them. We sat for a time speaking with him and he volunteered the story of how he lost his arms.

He said the circus came to Galway years earlier and he had been hired as an extra pair of hands. He was in the lions' cage when they attacked him and ripped his arms from his body.

We couldn't believe this story! It wasn't something we expected to hear in Galway that someone was savaged by lions and left dismembered. I always  remembered the man, although I only ever saw him again in the distance in the town.
It wasn't until years later that I heard the true story of what happened to him.

I was working in Galway in early 2016 and the story came up in conversation. The person I was speaking with had grown up near Martin and told me that wasn't exactly what happened.
Martin used to train dogs. He was at the circus but as a customer, not an employee. He had been drinking heavily that day. During the course of the night, Martin decided to go down to the lion cage.
In his inebriated state he elected to attempt to steal the meat from the lions' bowl to feed his dogs later. He reached in with one arm and was attacked by the lion. It tore the arm from his body.

In a state of shock from the loss of a limb, Martin attempted to retrieve his arm from the lion. He put his other arm inside the cage, struggling to rescue his extremity. Unfortunately the lion proceeded to dismember the additional arm within it's reach.

An extraordinary circumstance that you would never expect happening in Ireland. A drunk man tried to steal a lion's dinner for his dogs, lost his arm and lost the second trying to save the first.

In Galway you never know what can happen, or who you can meet.

Balor O'Brien

Pantser

The pen drags slowly across the page. A firm hand guilds it, forming carefully selected phrases. The hand has long thin fingers but a muscled, large palm. The hand belongs to a figure hunched over the page. Eyes downcast, the skin is blackened beneath them. Eyes never leaving the page, ignorant to his surroundings, the figure is immersed in the task ahead.

    The man is in his 30s, hair speckled with grey through the dark mane. His wide shoulders are hunched out of habit. His nose is large, crooked from twice being broken. His clothes are a large baggy, woolen, black fleece and orange chords for pants.

The man is perched on a stool. Ignoring the pain in his lower back he continues his writing.

He is an admitted pantser. The word pantser refers to one who writes without having planned the story. The writer has embarked on the same journey as the reader, with a torch illuminating the path in front of him. He has no map or guild to where the path will lead, or even what he will encounter along the way.

   Unlike most "pantsers" he does no planning at all. Most would opt to have broad outlines done for the direction of the story and fill in further detail as they progress. This man seated has always found the best solution in sitting without distraction before the page. He must be in silence, no phone, laptop or other instrument of procrastination.

Even the action of physically writing onto a page has a soothing affect on the soul. It helps to separate the writer from the material, to review, adjust and appraise his material. Typing has uses but for artistic endeavors he always found more gratification in having his work in his own hand before setting it in print. Once it was typed it always felt as though it was permanent. Nothing could retract it. There is a feeling that nothing can be secured on the internet. This feeling hangs over him, it weighs on him.

Life as a pantser has worked well for him. He has written many stories in different genres, different styles to success in most cases. He gets inspiration from seeing people's particular situations or from his own experiences. He found running with short ideas could produce the most effective and engaging work. Building on strong foundations with flexibility to find some new and exciting he could create.

But this latest story was troubling him. He had written it months ago. It had been received well and there was talk of a mini-series being commissioned. Despite all this he continually went back to the story to add to it. The published work had ended at 367 pages in length. But he wasn't sure if the story was finished. In private he had continued working on it. Every day he wrote the end, but every day he found it incomplete. An endless cycle of writing endings which served only to extend the material, without offering a satisfactory conclusion.

This difficulty plagues the man's mind. He can get no rest or respite while it eats away at his mind. Nothing can give him peace. It haunts him. There can be no closure. When will the tale end?

Had it ended already and he had unknowingly entered a new story? Or was it far from complete? Does it require his attention to complete?

Lifting his hands to run through his thinning hair, the figure expelled a sigh of frustration. Not knowing if he has finished he holds the pen above the page, poised over the words "The End".

He cannot decide. Is there a full stop?

Insurance companies are killing us!

"Ah shur that would be doing something the right way. Have you ever seen them do anything the right way."

A beautiful expression I heard in the end of July 2016. It struck a chord with me. Do we realise the power that lies in this statement? It is an admission of our acceptance of failure.
One phrase to capture the essence of failure. The failure of our institutions. Structures built to serve society.

 Let us put it simply. There is a right and wrong way to do things. Okay fair enough, life can be more complicated than that. But isn't it also true that when people do wrong they are so busy saying how its complicated that the problem remains on the floor while we play the blame game. So can we please focus on just asking ourselves: "Have I done the right thing?"

This isn't going to be a long post. It is about you! Why are we allowing and accepting failure? It isn't just a regular occurrence. We have built a system of pre-accepted failure. We can only celebrate the brave when they have died. But all of this can serve for later posts. Today the focus is the expression of our wrongs in the area of insurance.

The recent example I have of this is motor insurance. Now I'm sure everyone has a grievance in this.
Last week I heard some men in a bar discussing how it has increased outrageously in the past year. Let us be realistic, this is critical. They spoke of a woman on the radio stating she had been quoted five thousand for her car insurance. I didn't believe a word. I thought she must have a new, expensive vehicle to warrant such a ridiculous sum.

Later the same week wasn't I eating my words as I scrambled to sort my own insurance. The first company I called went through all my circumstances Blah blah. What was I quoted? 5,051.67!!
To give context my car is 8 years old, not modified, I have no convictions, no claims, and it is a Ford Focus, petrol.

Needless to say I was lost for words on the phone. A deep panic set upon me. I was terrified that I would be crushed for insurance, which, by the way is already set at absurd heights.
Now they say "Oh we have costs and pay outs to all these false claims."
:et me say something for them! We know there are these cases, you have factored this already into your business. Every single driver on the roads pays every year a HUGE amount of money for something that (thankfully) a minority needs. They want us to focus our anger on the scammers (and we should). But why is it that when they x3 insurance and make EVERYONE pay more we are expected to sit, doe-eyed and passive as they laugh, extorting us.

Think of you own a car, if you need it for work, need it for your kids, need it to visit family then I have something to tell you. They own you! When you mumble about it into a glass, pay the quote and leave it at that, you are letting them walk all over you. You are setting a precedent which they are already getting ready to exploit. Next year they will do you for more. They will do your family and friends for more.

Before you go would you do one thing for me? Share this post, like it, +1 it or something else to show you object to extortionate insurance.

Balor O'Brien (angry customer)

Unconditional...

This piece was written in June 2016. Hopefully it captures something you have felt
Enjoy

Mine is yours, forever

Possessions, emotions, thoughts. Unconditional.

Life without, life after? Never.

Heart, mind, love are yours, unconditional.

Stumbling blind through grape induced fog.

Colliding with unforeseen obstacles, senseless

What's the solution? Does it lie in a snog?

A demo of fear and panic. Immature, I confess.

Occasional, glimmers of insight, understanding

They build a boy, a man - where nothing stood before.

Something new, brief, it will never be again. Standing

Before the partner, he loves to his very core.

Fine words count little these days

Mine I give freely. Unwilling and unable

To hide my breadcrumbs, for selfish use in this maze.

If I exist it is as a fable.

Useless, clueless, he cannot change the past

Or repair what the moron damaged. Trust. 

Without his paramore, his love, first and last.

His, he is hers, forever, in this she can trust.

Mine is yours forever

One word omitted in each language, each tongue. Never

Everything I am, I own, yours unconditional.

Waiting, for my love. I am your unconditional.

Balor O'Brien

An Bron

This poem I wrote on a flight back from Paris to Shannon in November 2015. It is for a girl I knew who died when she was 20 years old. She was a unique spirit with a love for video games. I think about her often, what happened her. I wanted to write something to reflect how she has impacted my life and others. Please let me know how it reads. And if you think of it, do something for cystic fibrosis. An Bron Sorrow tore deep, a bottomless pit Tragedy struck, a lifetime early A hero, too soon sent through the rip Memories left, of someone other-worldly. Saving souls, inspiring new creation This super has our eternal appreciation A brave legend, faced insurmountable odds. Fire blazed in those eyes, steely determination Qualities revered and applauded by the Gods. Her absense nothing but abhorrent abhoration A heroine began early, helping those in need Kind, warm-hearted, healing emotional bleeds Duty honoured, no complaint serving time Before life could begin. Spirited, impatient, seized life early Her removal early, a most terrible crime Showing the world how to be worthy Of this, a fragile moment, where we stand, stacked in our billions Even our greatest heroes balanced, precariously above oblivion. The beast hated her essence, her good It struck, a cruel and brutal blow A budding rose, cut down where she stood The demon buried her, deep in the snow Seething, determined that nothing will grow, salted the earth Fuming, oozing displeasure, it can't remove her actions, can't reverse her birth Taking her, removed presence, premature and cruel A people, a family, left empty, clutching one another Devastating horror, we remember her as a child in school But, brushing aside tears, heaving shoulders reduce to a silent shudder Understanding, accepting her transition where she patiently awaits A place of tranquility, magic, the shore, the other side of the lake. Now she lives With those we remember Those non-living recall Those who left at once Happy. She sees what she has done, Her spirit has flown Changing the lives of those she loved Balor O'Brien

Hold Your Own Trump

In South-West Ireland there was an old farmer. His name was Mickey. One day he discovered that someone was stealing his potatoes. Initially he paid no heed but it became a recurring theme. Every morning he found more had been stolen. Waking early or staying late did nothing to deter the criminal. Standing guard was not an option. Not every night. His land was spread in patches all across the parish. He didn't want to deter further theft by standing out every night. He was concerned with laying his hands on the culprit.

One night, donning a large black cloak he crept up to his field and lay down between the drills of potatoes he had laid down. He lay in dead silence for over two hours, feeling the cold creep inside his skin and settle in his bones. Just when he was beginning to consider aborting his plan, he heard a sound of rustling in the distance. Listening intently he could make out the distinct sound of someone making their way through his fields up towards the crops. A figure came into view, a middle-aged man dressed all in black, wearing a flat cap to hide his face.

Readying himself to unearth the crops, the thief removed his coat and cap. The moonlight shone brightly off the magnificent orb which had laid hidden beneath the headwear. An enormous head, reflected in the moon, illuminated the features which sat on the face below the luminous bowl.

As the man bent to commence his "work", the old farmer sprang up from the earth. Brandishing a spade, he announced himself to the intruder:
"You didn't lose your hair through honesty, did ya?"
Without waiting for a reply the farmer promptly struck the trespasser with the head of the spade, driving it firmly into his face. The bald man was knocked back, landing neatly between two drills.

The old man stood proudly over his handiwork. A job well done.
"Nobody lays their hands on my spuds," he declared to himself.

Exalted from the thrill of taking down the would-be thief, the old man considered what he would do with the criminal. Stepping closer, he realised that the collapsed man was known to him. It had been years since they had seen each other, but the bald man was Donal Glin.

It had been 20 years ago when Donal disappeared one night. It broke his mother's heart. Despite her earnest search there were never any leads as to what befell him. Many had assumed he killed himself. He was always quiet as a young man. But now he lay before Mickey, a middle-aged man with a bald dome where once sat thick dark curls of hair.

Upon closer examination of Donal, he noticed a large scar running from behind Donal's left ear down inside his shirt. His hands were enormous, weathered and puckered. Clear evidence of heavy use. a lifetime of manual labour. What could he have spent the last 20 years doing?

Before Mickey had time to decide a logical answer to his own question, those great arms sprung from the ground and clasped Mickey's front.
"They can't know I'm back!" Donal pressed his face close to Mickey's, pulling him closer. Every muscle in his body was knotted and Mickey was helpless against the younger man's strength.
"I can't let you tell them," whispered Donal. He pressed his fingers to Mickey's throat and began to squeeze. The hands completely covered Mickey's neck, whose vision began to fade.

The hill was deserted, without a soul to hear his soundless scream. In the calm night, had anyone looked up on the hill they would have spotted a large, bald man rising to his feet and hoisting a smaller older man into the air by his throat. The dangling man's legs kicked helplessly against the attack. He engaged his left hand in a feeble effort to push himself free while in his right hand he squeezed the spade.

With the last of his strength, Mickey clasped the spade in both hands and drove it up into Donal's chin. Immediately, he felt the tree-trunk arms release him. Mickey fell, gasping for breath and barely able to stay on his feet.
The blow had knocked Donal to his knees, sending the breath from his body. Mickey reacted quickly, bringing his tool around, readying for another strike.

Donal stared up at him, the fight gone from his eyes. "I... I'm sorry. You have to help me!"
His body had slumped, surrendering to the older man.

Mickey stood for a long minute considering his would-be killer and contemplating how far the situation had escalated. He had never imagined himself in this kind of situation. His father had fought in the civil war, not that it was ever spoken about. It was his father who had seen a lifetime of violence. His son had been destined for an uneventful life of farming. Now at the end of it he found himself in a harrowing dilemna over what to do.

Finally he made a decision. "Ï'll help you," he promised.
In one great swing he drove the spade down upon Donal's head. Checking around, he saw he was completely alone. Walking down the hill he retrieved his wheelbarrow. With some difficulty, due to the size of the body, he loaded it into the barrow. He covered the body with the blanket he had laid on in the drill only minutes before.

Casting his gaze a final time to detect any witnesses, he then took the barrow and its contents down the hill.


Balor O'Brien

Miltown Mornings

This is a true story. It was shared with me last night over a couple of drinks. For me it is crucial to preserve stories shared person to person. In the past I have had a laissez-faire (fairly lazy) attitude to this but now I'm hoping to spread a few tales. Hopefully you enjoy this one...

It took place sometime in the early 1990s. There were two couples from Dublin doing some travelling in the west of Ireland. They decided to explore the west coast of Clare during their journey and stopped at a hotel in Miltown Malbay. Now, hotel is probably a generous term for it. But it was somewhere for them to crash for the night and enjoy a few scoops.

The hotel was run by two spinsters and their mother could frequently be heard firing instructions at them from the back room. They introduced themselves to the proprietors as Mike, Sophie, Frank and Kathy. On the first night the two couples were drinking down in the village after a day exploring Lahinch, Quilty and Sanish Point. Once they were back in the hotel they met another couple staying in the hotel who were accompanied by their 15 year old daughter.
    Nicholas Robinson, who was then First Gentleman of Ireland (husband of the President of Ireland), was visiting and staying in the hotel. He had four detectives as an escort who rotated shifts in pairs. The couples spent the first night sharing jars with the detectives in the hotel.

The following day the four set out and explored further south along the Clare coast. There was copious amounts of drinking before landing back in the hotel for a second night. Looking to continue drinking they first obliged the proprietors who insisted on cooking them all late night meals. Following this, they resumed their drinking with the group from the previous night. Kathy and Sophie went to bed early that night, leaving the boys to continue the session into the early hours.
Eventually the two retired for the night. Mike was having difficulty on the stairs but with assistance from Frank he made it upstairs and down the corridor towards his room. Frank fell into bed next to his wife and passed out.

The following morning, roused by his wife, Frank was asked by Kathy had he heard the commotion in the night shortly after he went to the room. He had been oblivious to what had apparently been a considerable rucous. The couple went downstairs to grab some breakfast, saluting the couple and their daughter as they sat. Sophie joined them but refused to reveal why Mike was absent. She advised in hushed tones for them to ask himself in person. Curiosity peaked, Frank went up to his friend.
Upon entering the room, Frank was given the keys to the car and money to pay the bill by Mike. Despite pressing him, Mike refused to budge or reveal what transpired. He wanted the car pulled up to the door to run to without delay.

Before paying the bill Frank went for a walk. Upon returning he ran into one of the sisters (Breda), Taking the opportunity he quizzed her on the night before. She obliged him.
During the night Mike had woken to go to the bathroom. There were no ensuites so he ventured down the hall bollock-naked to the toilet. Having relieved himself he made the return journey to his bedroom. What he didn't realise was he had inadvertently entered the room of the 15 year old girl. Oblivious he threw the blankets back to lie down. He presence was greeted by a shrill scream. Within seconds the detectives on duty burst into the room followed by the owners of the hotel to be greeted with the site of the Mike in all his glory.

Mike apologised profusely for the error and the next morning was determined to leave unnoticed. Breda told Frank to inform Mike that they completely understood and they would welcome him back any time. Upon hearing this, Mike seemed even more humiliated. Following the plan, the car was brought to the door and Mike made a run for it, but as he reached the door he ran headlong into the girl and her parents. Stuttering apologies, he retreated to the car anxious for a speedy departure.

Mike entreated everyone to silence on the night's events, but of course, every story needs to be told...


Balor O'Brien

Buried Deep

A loved one, a child, missing and missed
Memories of her father's half-forgotten kiss
Faded with a past buried in dirt
Muffled cries replacing his laughter, his mirth
Guided forward, unknowing, she walks away
3 years old, asking why daddy didn't stay
Told lies, that ahead she'll see him again at last
Lies to send her away, leaving daddy, her buried past.

Balor O'Brien

Insomniac

Can't sleep, eyes feeling heavy
No light, no sound, lying here motionless
Mind racing, on one notion he is steady
Without his baby, his child He feels less.
Screaming, a storm of emotion crashes in his mind
Meanwhile, he sits there complacent, hardly feeling alive.
See its not about your feeling, those you bury deep inside
People here they don't care to see you cry.

Every night people will fall asleep
'Cept me, listening to I'm a creep
In the dark, I see I'm all alone
My ears tuned to hear Like A Stone
Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not
They muted the volume, ignoring the rot.

Big blue sky hides A pitless black
Hanging over me, disguised by the sun
How many sleepless nights? I've lost track
Spinning the same cycle, I'm beetlebum
Broken down, I've got no on, nobody.
Who could be up, this hour of the night?
To think, to learn, to dream, has been my folly
The fear is building, my chest grows tight.

Every night people will fall asleep
'Cept me, sitting by a bathroom sink
In the dark I see I'm all alone
No message or call ever reaches my phone
Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not
Decided already, my burial plot.

His head, fixated on his flesh and blood
Her eyes, her smile, used to think it was him
his features torn by a tsunami, a flood
Kept from her, can it be, can she see?
This forlorn, sad excuse for a dad
Blinded, he imagines what her life is, will be
"What Not To Be," he is the ad.
Ankles broken, he "stands on his knees"

Every night people will fall asleep
Into dreams and fantasy others leap
But here is his chronic, a living nightmare
Must have a sign on which reads BEWARE
Existing, invading other people's worlds'
This shadow has earned occasional pearls.
A rental body, in rented space
Its been two months since he had a date
With his child, the one he is calling for
Knocking loudly, no one answers the door
Lying on his back, in his dark hole
They fill it, but moving real slow
Only 24, they won't kill him quick
That's not they're game, that's not they're trick
Every day without her he feels buried, alive...?
No one knows. Listen close, you can hear his last sigh.

Balor O'Brien