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nabinnebuiNovember of 1911.
If it's spoken in all italics, it's all Irish.
Four rowdy young men singing tunes only meant to be uttered when drunk. Their voices carried high over the sea, clashing with the waves, which lessened as they neared the island, embarrassed to hear the perverse lyrics.
Sailors on shore leave, following the urging of their ringleader, a blond lieutenant whose father had gone on for decades about this place. Said there were blushing young girls—twins, even, with long, red hair. One of them married a friend of his father, the other one, no one knew much about. In fact, no one knew much about the island anymore, except that it had women just like them—a sort of creature that was too difficult to come by. Francis Ryan, for that was the blond lieutenant’s name, had seen all sorts of women in all parts of the world. He’d been on the sea for a good forty years now and loved every minute of it—loved every woman of it. From here to the Caribbean and deep into the Orient. He lived for the ocean and shuffled through the Royal Navy just so he could stay in her temperamental embrace.
“Oi, so what’s this, what’s this, then—so this bloke comes up to me in a pub, yeah? He says, you got a quid or what? I says, I says—what you think, mate? I’m fucking drinking me pint and—what?”
“That’s the dumbest fucking story I ever ‘eard in me life.”
“I ain’t fucking finished with it—”
“Boys, now, this boat ain’t big enough for that bullshite.”
“Who’re you callin’ boy, eh?”
( 'I can’t help if it he can’t tell a story worth tellin’.' )
If it's spoken in all italics, it's all Irish.
Four rowdy young men singing tunes only meant to be uttered when drunk. Their voices carried high over the sea, clashing with the waves, which lessened as they neared the island, embarrassed to hear the perverse lyrics.
Sailors on shore leave, following the urging of their ringleader, a blond lieutenant whose father had gone on for decades about this place. Said there were blushing young girls—twins, even, with long, red hair. One of them married a friend of his father, the other one, no one knew much about. In fact, no one knew much about the island anymore, except that it had women just like them—a sort of creature that was too difficult to come by. Francis Ryan, for that was the blond lieutenant’s name, had seen all sorts of women in all parts of the world. He’d been on the sea for a good forty years now and loved every minute of it—loved every woman of it. From here to the Caribbean and deep into the Orient. He lived for the ocean and shuffled through the Royal Navy just so he could stay in her temperamental embrace.
“Oi, so what’s this, what’s this, then—so this bloke comes up to me in a pub, yeah? He says, you got a quid or what? I says, I says—what you think, mate? I’m fucking drinking me pint and—what?”
“That’s the dumbest fucking story I ever ‘eard in me life.”
“I ain’t fucking finished with it—”
“Boys, now, this boat ain’t big enough for that bullshite.”
“Who’re you callin’ boy, eh?”
( 'I can’t help if it he can’t tell a story worth tellin’.' )
