begorrah, begorrah, 'tis a glorious mornin' so it is, to be sure

fukin 'hell i almost forgot me irish up

Meh Oooglah O'Clock,
that's irishy

do we get to beat snakes with sticks, or just pretend group shambling is a parade?

Póg mo thóin

may a thousand irish inebriates urinate on your lawn

That's my rug, you bog-trotter.

You grow grass in your living room? Now that's my kind o' green living. Kiss me!

Crowds Panic as Flooding Threatens Ireland.

≡ Click to see image ≡

oh dear.
It's that time of year again.

Across the globe, people related to the world's greatest exporter of barworkers (excluding possibly the Australians) will be telling themselves two different things.

Boy. Isn't Ireland a great place.
Boy. I sure am glad I don't live there any more.

Meanwhile, I'm spending most of this evening with a couple of Monaghan lads. (One moved to the UK; One planning on moving to New York) Hopefully, there will be no Guiness and very little of that genre of fun called the "Craich"

The neighbourhood I live in, that's not unlikely.

Meanwhile, I'll be singing great English folk songs like Dirty Old Town.

It's a fact. Yeah. You see, I have, Irish blood pumpin' through my heart. Hey, no, if you don't believe me, you can look it up. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, you see, uh, some crackers came to America. And the crackers were Irish.

So you see, way back then, crackers were like, Vikings from Scandinavia. They all had blonde hair and blue eyes, but, well, then the Irish moved in there, and well, they changed the whole country. They did so much fuckin' with Viking cracker women, huh? That they changed the whole bloodline forever. That's why blonde hair and blue eyes became red hair and freckled skin. You know, it's absolutely amazing to me to think that to this day, hundreds of years later, that, uh, that crackers still carry that Irish gene. Now this...

My ancestors are Irish. Uh-huh.

Hey. Yeah. And, and my great-great-great-great grandmother fucked an Irishman, ho, ho, yeah, and she had a half-Irish kid... now, if that's a fact, tell me, am I lying?

'Cause me, I'm part potato.

You know it's bad when your family crest features a bloody, severed hand. (Unnecessary roughness, aye.) 'Ere's mud in your eye.

Oh, and Erin go braless.

Hugh, Brilliant.
Today is amateur hour for sure. I intend to spend it almost entirely sober and not wearing green. Up the republic.

PMM
yer a Reilly?

Guess who else is.

Another descendant of Myles the Slasher? Kiss me, cousin!