Francis Meyrick

“The good-looking guy is ME… the dude with the epaulettes? Some frickin’ chopper jockey… “

(Life’s a dance. As writers, we should explore all aspects of the human existence. Not all is gloom and doom. Some aspects of life are touching, some are ironic or wry, and some are downright funny. Here’s a lighter story, which I like to classify under “Meyrick Lite “, in case I start getting a reputation for only writing heavy, gloomy stuff…)

This fellow walks into a pub in County Donegal.
A trifle unsteady. He’s a big fellow, rough looking, and nobody knows him. He’s dressed in a worn tweed jacket, and green wellington boots.
“A pint of Guinness and a double brandy! “, he shouts at the bartender.
The bartender quickly serves the man. With a few large gulps, the Guinness disappears down a prodigious throat. Then the man does a strange thing. He pulls back the top of his breast pocket, where you would normally expect a gentleman to place a discrete hankerchief, and tips the brandy down inside the pocket.
The bartender thinks: “Oh my gosh! I’ve got a nut case here! “

A few minutes later, the man orders the same again.
The bartender debates refusing the order, but he gives in. The exact same thing happens, and the bartender thinks:
“Oh my gosh! He’s off his little trolley! “

A few minutes later, the man orders the same again.
The bartender debates refusing the order, but he gives in. The exact same thing happens, and the bartender thinks:
“Oh my gosh! Next time I’m refusing to serve him… “

The man orders the same again.
The bartender says: “I’m sorry Sir, but I think you’ve had enough! I’m not serving you any more! “

At this, the man flies into a rage, and shakes his fists, shouting at the top of his voice: “Come out and fight me, you no-good flea bitten mongrel! “

…And a little mouse pokes his head up out of the man’s tweed breast pocket, and in the shocked silence everybody can clearly hear the little fellow say:

“….and that (hic!) goes for yer fu-fu-fukn’ CAT as well! “

******************************************

Now, this little piece of folklore was circulating Ireland many leprechaun rainbows ago, and unlikely though it may seem, it became entrenched in local folklore.
It became so well known, that it grew to be synonymous with an attitude of mind that mocked ‘fighting talk’. I have personally observed a certain therapeutic effect obtained, in the midst of a looming bar fight, by a bystander remarking quietly:
“….and that goes for yer fu-fu-fukn’ cat as well! “
Everybody would roll around laughing, and the moment of tension would be diffused. The protagonists were made to look silly.
It was, if you like, a succinct way of saying:
“Ah, quit fighting boys, for the luv of Jayzus, and let’s all have a beer! You’re wasting valuable drinkin’ time… “

The key ingredient here of course, is the assumption of general knowledge and appreciation by all of the intrinsic beauty of a simple joke. I wouldn’t recommend trying it if you thought you were about to be punched out by a drunk. I could just see you, standing in front of this thundering bully, and looking him right in the eye, and remarking:

“….and that goes for yer fu-fu-fukn’ cat as well! “

Because I suspect he would assume you were mocking him, and punch you right in the Quicher. However, this is not to blind you to the wisdom of the person that penned that joke, doubtless an Irish philosopher of great wisdom.
And a drunk and a scoundrel..

In case you doubt the wisdom part, let me tell you another one…
One that shows the humanity, the kindness in some races, sadly lacking in others.
This one was told to me by an English gentleman who exhibited a certain anti-Irish prejudice. You may well have heard it. It was clearly intended to show up the Irishman as the fool. However, I’m not sure if it did,actually…
It’s the one about three gentlemen walking along the beach. An Englishman,a Scotsman, and an Irishman. As they walk along, they accidentally kick over a bottle lying half submerged in the sand. The cork falls out, and….Pooof!…. out floats a genie!

The genie says: “Boys, thank you, am I glad I’m out. I’ve been stuck in there for three hundred years! I’ll grant each one of you a wish! Whatever your heart’s desire…! “
The Englishman, grandly, replied:
“I want to be a rich colonist in the British Empire, with a fine big plantation house, and servants and lots of beautiful women to wait on me, hand and foot! “
“NO problem! “, said the genie, and….Pooof!…the Englishman was gone.
The Scotsman, not to be outdone, said:
“I want to own my own whiskey distillery. I want it to be the finest malt in Scotland! “
“NO problem! “, said the genie, and….Pooof!…the Scotsman was gone.
The Irishman, a humble soul, with no such lordly pretensions, a little overwhelmed by it all, could only stand and stare at the now empty places where his friends had just been standing. The genie, getting a little impatient, said:
“Come on now! I’ve been locked up for three hundred years! I’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and e-mails to read. You need to decide…. “
The Irishman, pondering deeply, shook his head sadly and said:
“I don’t know… I feel lonely… I kind of… wish my friends were still here… “

….Pooof!….

….Pooof!….

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on January 25, 2014, 10:00 pm