GLEN HANSARD  MAR

June 9, 2015

A Modern Irish Love Story

Once upon a time there was a young wan named Nuala. She was a beure of a cailín but she was horrid sound as well, and had recently lost a power of weight. She had a decent auld pair and a savage group of hags, but she felt like her life was missing something. She needed a man, you know yourself.

She decided to download that Tinder thingamajig on her phone and find her potential Proinsias. Twenty minutes in, she was beginning to think the app was banjaxed what with all the munters it was throwing at her. Gammy looking. Quare nose. Gimpy eye. Her hand began to tire of swiping left until she stumbled upon an interesting looking buck. Diarmuid O’ Callaghan. Bit of a feen, she thought. Fine head of hair on him anyway. His tagline included a Father Ted quote so he was clearly fierce comical. And he’s an ex-Irish dancer? Done deal. She was just about to drop him a line but she heard the News was coming on so she bolted downstairs to watch it, as she had already missed the Six One.

That weekend, she decided to go for a few shcoops with the girls. They were in their usual haunt enjoying the tunes when her eyes caught a familiar face. There was Diarmuid! Tis a small world, she thought to herself. She wobbled over and asked him if he was well because he was looking well. He chuckled and said “Arrah shtap, you’re not so bad yourself.” And that’s when the banter started to get mighty.

Jagerbombs were flying and everyone was getting truly ossified, so they were. They were having mad shteam altogether. At one point, the DJ played ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ and Diarmuid knelt to the floor with an air guitar routine. Nuala reciprocated with her repeated attempts to elicit a response to “Oggy oggy oggy.”

All of a sudden some scaldy looking beure came out of nowhere and lobbed the gob on Diarmuid. Nuala was dumbfounded. The girls dragged her away before she could give her a puck in the jaw. “Never mind him”, they soothed, “Sure isn’t he only a bollix?” Cue angry tears and a lengthy conversation with Mr. Taxi Man.

Nuala woke up the next day with some head on her. She felt as sick as a plane to Lourdes. She had a hape of voicemails but they could go and shite as far as she was concerned. She wondered if she had reacted too hastily last night when she heard a woeful pounding from outside. She stumbled downstairs and who was it only Diarmuid standing at her front door.

He said he was sorry for shifting the skanky one and didn’t mean to make a hames of everything.  He also told her she was a classy beure, even with the mouldy head on her.

Nuala melted. In fairness, he was gas craic. “C’mere to me, you gobshite” she exclaimed and they were soon mauling like mad yokes. Diarmuid asked if they would care to make shapes to bed but he was sharply told to go away outta that.

And they all lived happy out after. Not too happy, mind you. Sure look it. Tis far from LaLa Land you were reared.