If the word “Ireland” in the title of this book grabbed
your attention and you picked it up hoping to find the
divine wit and brilliant handling of the written word
synonymous with the likes of James Joyce and Brendan
Behan, you will not !nd that here, regardless of the fact that
“I am a drinker with writing problems” – thank you
for that bit of beauty, Mr. Behan.
If you are hoping to find that hilarious Irish sense of
humor so many have come to appreciate the world over, may I
recommend you put this book back and pick up a copy of
“The Mammy” by Brendan O’Carroll. You’ll thank me for
Now that being said, the following pages contain a work
of fiction that is unfortunately far from being fiction. Of
course, the names have been changed to protect the identity
of the innocent, the guilty, and mainly the name of the individual
who shit himself on the plane.
May I suggest you pour yourself a drink? That part of the
book does hold true to the Irish stereotype. A whiskey would
be preferred but a beer or wine should suffice nicely. Those
of you who frequent live music venues would have no doubt
encountered a band boasting “the more you drink the better
we sound.” The same would hold true for you, the reader,
while taking in the coming chapters. There is nothing quite
like a cocktail or two to bring out the natural ambiance of
laughs, tears, and the general manner of storytelling.
Now that you have a drink in your hand and are prepared
to dive into this little piece of writing of mine, I would like to
propose a toast. “To those whose sense of humor made us not
only laugh, but provided definition to our wonderful life,
before passing on far too soon.” Slainte!