Short Fiction of Flann O'Brien (Irish Literature) Read Online Free

hotel—in Blaclee—is that right? ” 2
    “Hmm,” I said. “That’s not so bad. I believe there is at least one person who speaks English in every hotel in the city. I have a little phrasebook I picked up on the ship. You’re welcome to it.” I gave it to him:
    PHRASEBOOK
    Suitable, appropriate and expedient for the use of the foreigner, includes:
    • Gaelic songs and airs
    • Gaelic phrases
    • Ulster Gaelic phrases
    With reference to the everyday lives of the people in every district, diocese and parish of Ireland.
    Price: Gandailín / threepence / half- réal . 3
    The little Englishman opened the book. I recognised from his gloomy expression and his twisted mouth that Gaelic was not coming to him easily. Not that surprising, I supposed. I looked around to see who else was in the carriage with us. There was a bulging, haughty-looking man in the corner opposite me, boasting to two women of the wondrous things he had done in London, and next to me there was a pair of young men playing cards and gossiping about some marriage that did not work out. Sitting in front of me was my English student, who was now shaking and laughing with relief.
    S PEAKING G AELIC
    The train moved quickly along on its journey and after a little while, the Englishman looked up and said:
    “I am in need of, I want, I require, food, food, food!” 4
    “Aha!” said I. My God, who ever heard a proclamation like that before!
    “How are you? How are things? How’s tricks?”
    “Well, well, and well,” I replied, in spite of myself.
    “I awoke, I woke up, I arose at seven o’clock, my boy, my lad, my buck!”
    “Well, well, well,” I said.
    “Where is the public house, the pub, the nearest and closest and least-far-away church. I am a Protestant, Catholic, Jewish Scottish Orangeman! . . . How’s that? ”
    “Well now,” I said, speaking in English, “that’s not too bad at all. Don’t try too hard to vocalise the ‘ch’ sound: at the moment, you’ll only burst your larynx. You’ve got a good bit of Gaelic already, and you’re well able for it. Keep at it, and may it work out for you.”
    T HE T REACHERY OF THE E NGLISH
    “ Thanks ,” he said. He opened the book again and started studying. I took out my pipe, lit it, and turned my attention to the estimation and examination of the foreigner.
    “Englishman”! That one word put thousands of thoughts spilling into my mind; I thought of the insult and injury that had been done to the Gaels by Diarmaid Mac Murchadha, 5 and from then after—the English lords murdering Gaels and stealing their land. The broken Treaty of Limerick, the laws against the Faith—the death of Gaelic and its hard, agonising rebirth, and to top it all off, the shameful deed that was done when 2,000 respectable Corkmen were killed in Dublin on Halloween, 1997, by the machinations of the British Government.
    A sudden fit of anger and hatred hit me; I turned to John Bull, and spoke to him:
    T EACHING THE P ROFANITIES
    “I’m just after remembering,” I said in English, “that there’s a British Hotel in the city, and nothing is spoken there but your own English. When we reach the city, take your bag to the first taxi you see, and say to the driver—well, say these words. . . .”
    I have no desire, fair reader, to publish the words I taught to him: but I don’t mind telling you that no earthly ear has ever heard a stream of talk so full of malevolence, of ancient, awful, filthy and sour maledictions, of dark, vexed, intemperate curses, and tremendous oaths so vile they could make a corpse walk again. Never before was such a despicable monologue composed.
    The two of us worked so hard, me instructing and him memorising, that he had a respectable grasp of the speech long before we reached our destination.
    All that’s left now is to pin the tail on my story. When the train stopped, I waved John Bull a hurried goodbye, took off out of his sight, hid behind a wall and focused my two eyes on him. Yer