Patrick Dunne and his wife Phil were our best friends for over ten of the years Donna and I lived in Britain. We were god-parents to their four wonderful children - Theresa, Brendan, Margaret and Patrick. They now live in Dublin, in the suburb of Graystones, where we had a chance to visit them in 1993. By then, of course, the children had grown to young adults.
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On the Overuse of Adjectives
T’was only about a year ago that we were sitting in the back corner of the Black Sheep, over in Graystones. Graystones – a quiet middle-class suburb of south Dublin. The Black Sheep – our local pub. “Me ‘n me best mate, Paddy Dunne, was sippin’ on our t’ird pint o’ Guinness, I t’ink.” (Okay. For the benefit of all, I shall try to restrict my use of Irish vernacular to the brief moments of local conversation.) Many pubs in Ireland do not have a naturally colourful atmosphere like those in England, and the Black Sheep was just such a pub – a hole-in-the-wall tavern in the middle-class suburbs. However, it was still an Irish pub, therefore dedicated to the serious task of quaffing copious quantities of draft Guinness, or Old Bushmills, or both. To further set the scene, a picture of Brendan Behan was hanging on the wall over the tiny, glowing fireplace that made everything smell of peat. Paddy Dunne and I were enjoying our Saturday afternoon in the Black Sheep and, as described above, we were on our third pint of Guinness; about half way through lunch by my reckoning. We were feeling mellow and deep into our typical philosophical analysis of what was wrong with England. We never discussed religion or Irish politics. Those were usually very painful topics, physically painful. Across the table from us sat Paddy’s beautiful teenage daughter, Theresa. As is typical of most young girls today, Theresa’s blouse was fairly |
low-cut, presenting a somewhat bountiful display of what could only be described as, “A perfectly complexioned peach coloured cleavage.” Theresa wasn’t paying any attention to the two of us and our ‘world righting’ conversation. She was smiling and staring up into the dark blue eyes of her boyfriend, Brendan, sitting next to her. Brendan, also smiling, was murmuring some inaudible words into the ear of the raven-haired Theresa. For every word Brendan spoke, Theresa’s smile broadened and her eyes sparkled a little more.
Now, I account myself as someone who has had long experience of life and human nature. Paddy, on the other hand, was a little less astute. I noticed the somewhat soppy grin on Brendan’s face, and the occasions when he licked his lips. From these observations, I deduced that, with his current murmurings and whisperings, Brendan was offering encouragements to the beautiful Theresa; invitations to his up-coming ‘peach' festival, scheduled for later that evening, if I wasn’t mistaken.
I was brought back to the present with a jolt when Paddy exclaimed, “Ahhh! Isn’t she beautiful?” I jumped! Did he sense what just went through my mind? No! He was stroking his jar of Guinness and commenting what a beautiful drink it was.
He began again, “Ahhh, John!”
I liked the way Paddy pronounced the word ‘John’. It was stretched out a little – like ‘Johhhnnn’. Still one syllable, but sounding like it contained eight or nine letters. Gave me the brief sensation that I might be more important than I really was.
Again. “Ahhh, Johhhnnn! Dere’s really nuttin’ like Guinness. It’s beautiful.”
“Aye, Paddy. It stands alone among beers, ales and stouts,” I replied. And we were off once more, deep into a philosophical discussion – this time, on the beauty of Guinness.
At one point in our discussion, Paddy stopped. “Y’know Johhhnnn. I can t’ink of fifteen or twenty ideal adjectives dat, when put togedder, perfectly describe what I feel about Guinness. I should write dem down and send dem to the Guinness Corporation for dem to use in der advertisin’.”
Says I, “Good idea, Paddy, but you have to think about it a little, first. Adjectives are great ways to modify your subject. Adjectives bring a little descriptive colour, particularly if they are alliterative. But you sometimes have to guard against their overuse, don’t you think?”
“Wot? Alliterative? Oh, you mean like, ‘Take a good gulp of grand ‘n glorious Guinness while genuflecting before God.’ Sommit like dat?”
I laughed, “That’s perfect, Paddy. A bit blasphemous but that’s an ideal example of what overuse means. You can go too far with adjectives. They’re tricky things that can change the mood of what you’re saying. Before you know it, you’re off in a direction you weren’t intending. You have to be careful and think about your choice of words.”
“Are you tellin’ me I’m wrong? I t’ink, da more da merrier. S’wot I t’ink.”
Our conversation continued, well into our fourth pint. I have to tell you that, the more he was failing to see my point of view, the more agitated I was becoming. He was really getting on my wick.
“You’ll never get me to change me mind,” said Paddy.
That did it. I turned to him and said, “Paddy! I’ll give you an example how too many adjectives can sour things and change the mood. See young Brendan sitting over there? Take a close look. Right now I would say this about Brendan. ‘He’s a discerning dermaphile, dreaming of delectable dining delights. Discriminating, yet determined, he desires and demands to sample different fruits, particularly the peaches of yon fair damsel.’ How’s dat?”
Silence! Paddy’s eyes screwed nearly shut. A very questioning look came over his face as nearly five minutes went by. I had time to suck back an enormous gulp of Guinness.
Eventually Paddy replied, “Wot’s dat you say? Dem words wasn’t all just adjectives. I understood o’ course, but I dinna quite catch the drift. Wot’s a ‘dermaphile’?”
I got angry. I shouted, “Are ye daft, Paddy? I’m talkin’ ‘bout your daughter’s breasts, Man!”
The whole pub went silent. Paddy blinked a few times.
The mood at our table begin to change fairly rapidly. It happened as Paddy’s face and smile slowly collapsed, changing from rosy pink to beet red.
At that time, I was confident the table we were sitting at was sturdy and robust, but over the next few minutes, in the hands of Paddy Dunne, it came apart like it was made of Popsicle sticks. I don’t remember much of what happened next.
----
A few days later I was released from St. Vincent’s. They had successfully staunched the bleeding just above my left eye and managed to pop my eyeball back into its socket. I was told that, given a little time, the bruising and swelling would reduce. They couldn’t say when my blurry vision or the pain and dizziness would end.
I went in search of Paddy. He was still my best mate and I knew where he’d be. It was lunch time.
Was I surprised to find the Black Sheep shut up, tight? A large sign was on the front saying, “Closed for renovations.” I never knew they were planning renovations. A head came out the door – Riley, the publican. He scowled at me, told me Paddy wasn’t there, nodded to the left and muttered, “Next door. We’re closed.”
For nothing else to do, I wandered into the station-house next door. I don’t normally visit such places voluntarily and I was a little nervous, I must say. It doesn’t do a person a lot of good to make oneself too conspicuous to the Garda. After all, there are things a man has to do in life that would best be kept away from the eyes and ears of those fine officers. On the rare occasion when I find it necessary to speak to a member of the Garda, I use my typical friendly approach and restrain my nearly uncontrollable urge to give them a taste of my knuckles.
Fortunately, with my swollen forehead, the bruising, and that patch over my left eye, I was confident of my disguise. No-one would recognize me.
I kept my tightly clenched fists ready at my side and, in my best and softest voice, I spoke gently to the Sergeant.
“Bloody hell!” I demanded. “Wot you’s done wit’ me best mate, Paddy?” There was more but, as far as I remember, I only swore five or six times and never used the f… word, not even once.
The Sergeant very gently reached over, put what I would call a choke-hold on my necktie and whispered, “Don’t ye know? Weren’t ye dere?” I could hardly breathe but I judged it not the proper time to offer him my knuckle sandwich.
Nervously I replied in my best Irish, “To be sure, I was dere but I was unfortunately indisposed at the time. I couldn’t really see out of me left eye and the table leg that someone laid across me forehead left me somewhat dizzy.”
The Sergeant smiled but didn’t let go of my necktie. He assured me that Paddy was in tip top condition. He told me they simply talked softly to him as they always do with those who make minor mistakes in judgement. Paddy quickly saw their reasonable arguments and calmly agreed to depart in their care. The Sergeant explained that, after a couple of days, Paddy woke from his gentle sleep and asked to see a magistrate. And with the magistrate’s approval, Paddy had now agreed to take up residence at Wheatfield Correctional Facility for a year or so until he saw the error of his ways. The Sergeant’s beautiful, soft smile was frightening to see when it was that close to my face. I’ll remember that one shiny gold incisor for the rest of my life.
I opened my mouth to protest about their probable mistreatment of the soft-spoken Paddy. The Sergeant slowly tightened his grip on my necktie, gave it a little twist, gently smiled back at me, leaned even closer into my face so I could smell his oniony breath, and said, “You’s can visit ‘im if you wish, Johhhnnn.”
He used my name. That shook me. I thought he didn’t recognize me, maybe thought I might be Paddy’s solicitor. He was quietly jingling a brand new pair of surgical steel handcuffs at the time; and he was shaking with tension.
I coughed.
“What a kind offer that is, Sergeant, but I’m truly sorry I must decline, owing to a subsequent engagement with me Reverend Father. Paddy was clearly at fault for all the terrible troubles he caused. He should never have started that ruckus. He deserves to be punished.”
The Sergeant gave my necktie another twist. “So ye t’ink it was all Paddy’s fault, do ye? Ye don’t t’ink he was provoked…just a little?”
I could feel my face turning purple. Breathing was becoming difficult. My one good eye was beginning to bulge. Then I thought, “That would give me an innocent look.”
“I can’t t’ink who might have done a t’ing like dat,” says I. “I’ll say a few ‘Hail Marys’ for him, up dere at St. Patrick’s, when I visit me Reverend Father.”
The Sergeant loosened his grip on my necktie. I gave another little, subservient cough, bowed to him, thanked him profusely, and continued to mutter obsequious comments as I slowly backed out of the station-house.
----
It is now nearly a year after that unfortunate incident at the Black Sheep, and I’m happy to announce that I have regained full, un-blurred vision in my left eye. The bruising, swelling and pain has also abated.
Brendan was less fortunate. He remained a resident of St. Vincent’s until just last week. Eventually, with the proper use of plastic and titanium, and with the technical skills demonstrated by his surgeons, a full reconstruction of Brendan’s lower jaw was achieved. After five separate attempts, he began to look almost normal.
Dental construction followed. Brendan needed a new set of teeth. Parts of his original set still turned up occasionally, under tables and in the far corners of the Black Sheep. In retrospect, it can certainly be said that Paddy successfully wiped that soppy grin from poor Brendan’s face.
It is difficult to surmise what might have happened to Paddy’s beautiful daughter, Theresa, on that day. It seems Riley, the publican, was acutely aware of the altercations that brewed at our table, not for the first time, apparently. He quickly summoned a squad of the Garda from next door. On that occasion, it only took six of those gentle officers to quell Paddy’s outlandish behavior and haul him off to the local gaol. Their rapid intervention possibly saved the life of the lovely Theresa.
Theresa visited Brendan at St. Vincent’s as he was recovering but, over time, she began to lose interest. Perhaps it was because Brendan’s jaw was somewhat dislocated for the first few months. He was not a pretty sight. Or perhaps it was because Brendan mentioned he was no longer interested in savouring the taste of peaches. At the time he was being fed through a tube and couldn’t savour the taste of anything. So, who really knows what happened?
----
This morning, a year later, I picked up my best mate, Paddy, from Wheatfield. All his sins forgiven. All his bruises and welts finally gone, even those which somehow showed up after he went to Wheatfield. I couldn’t figure that out. Paddy was always such a gentle soul. Perhaps he had inadvertently fallen.
It was yet another Saturday afternoon and lunch would be waiting at the Black Sheep. You can imagine my surprise when we showed up to find that Riley wouldn’t let us in. He was okay with Paddy, recognizing that he had done his penance before God. It was me they banned.
I took a swing at Riley but it was ill-timed and somehow I found myself sitting in the road outside the front door. I had to move quickly before I was run over by old Granny O’Leary racing hell-bent down the lane in her moped at close to the speed of light, empty Guinness bottles rattling and jingling in the basket behind her. She was on her way to the off-licence and nothing could slow her down.
I picked myself up and peered in the window of the Black Sheep. There was Paddy, grinning and saluting me with a large jar of Guinness, surrounded by a dozen of his new best mates. At the bar stood Riley, with a nervous smile on his face. He was probably mentally calculating the cost of yet another renovation because Theresa was there too, sitting in the back corner with her new boy-friend. His name was Connor. I wondered if he liked the taste of peaches. “Take care, Connor!”
It was still a sunny day so I thought I would slip down to the ‘Red Rooster’, no more than a hundred yards away. I was sure my old friend, Séamus, would be there. He had probably started lunch without me but that was okay. I could catch up.
So I left the Black Sheep and wandered down the lane muttering to myself, practising my four-letter adjectives.
Now, I account myself as someone who has had long experience of life and human nature. Paddy, on the other hand, was a little less astute. I noticed the somewhat soppy grin on Brendan’s face, and the occasions when he licked his lips. From these observations, I deduced that, with his current murmurings and whisperings, Brendan was offering encouragements to the beautiful Theresa; invitations to his up-coming ‘peach' festival, scheduled for later that evening, if I wasn’t mistaken.
I was brought back to the present with a jolt when Paddy exclaimed, “Ahhh! Isn’t she beautiful?” I jumped! Did he sense what just went through my mind? No! He was stroking his jar of Guinness and commenting what a beautiful drink it was.
He began again, “Ahhh, John!”
I liked the way Paddy pronounced the word ‘John’. It was stretched out a little – like ‘Johhhnnn’. Still one syllable, but sounding like it contained eight or nine letters. Gave me the brief sensation that I might be more important than I really was.
Again. “Ahhh, Johhhnnn! Dere’s really nuttin’ like Guinness. It’s beautiful.”
“Aye, Paddy. It stands alone among beers, ales and stouts,” I replied. And we were off once more, deep into a philosophical discussion – this time, on the beauty of Guinness.
At one point in our discussion, Paddy stopped. “Y’know Johhhnnn. I can t’ink of fifteen or twenty ideal adjectives dat, when put togedder, perfectly describe what I feel about Guinness. I should write dem down and send dem to the Guinness Corporation for dem to use in der advertisin’.”
Says I, “Good idea, Paddy, but you have to think about it a little, first. Adjectives are great ways to modify your subject. Adjectives bring a little descriptive colour, particularly if they are alliterative. But you sometimes have to guard against their overuse, don’t you think?”
“Wot? Alliterative? Oh, you mean like, ‘Take a good gulp of grand ‘n glorious Guinness while genuflecting before God.’ Sommit like dat?”
I laughed, “That’s perfect, Paddy. A bit blasphemous but that’s an ideal example of what overuse means. You can go too far with adjectives. They’re tricky things that can change the mood of what you’re saying. Before you know it, you’re off in a direction you weren’t intending. You have to be careful and think about your choice of words.”
“Are you tellin’ me I’m wrong? I t’ink, da more da merrier. S’wot I t’ink.”
Our conversation continued, well into our fourth pint. I have to tell you that, the more he was failing to see my point of view, the more agitated I was becoming. He was really getting on my wick.
“You’ll never get me to change me mind,” said Paddy.
That did it. I turned to him and said, “Paddy! I’ll give you an example how too many adjectives can sour things and change the mood. See young Brendan sitting over there? Take a close look. Right now I would say this about Brendan. ‘He’s a discerning dermaphile, dreaming of delectable dining delights. Discriminating, yet determined, he desires and demands to sample different fruits, particularly the peaches of yon fair damsel.’ How’s dat?”
Silence! Paddy’s eyes screwed nearly shut. A very questioning look came over his face as nearly five minutes went by. I had time to suck back an enormous gulp of Guinness.
Eventually Paddy replied, “Wot’s dat you say? Dem words wasn’t all just adjectives. I understood o’ course, but I dinna quite catch the drift. Wot’s a ‘dermaphile’?”
I got angry. I shouted, “Are ye daft, Paddy? I’m talkin’ ‘bout your daughter’s breasts, Man!”
The whole pub went silent. Paddy blinked a few times.
The mood at our table begin to change fairly rapidly. It happened as Paddy’s face and smile slowly collapsed, changing from rosy pink to beet red.
At that time, I was confident the table we were sitting at was sturdy and robust, but over the next few minutes, in the hands of Paddy Dunne, it came apart like it was made of Popsicle sticks. I don’t remember much of what happened next.
----
A few days later I was released from St. Vincent’s. They had successfully staunched the bleeding just above my left eye and managed to pop my eyeball back into its socket. I was told that, given a little time, the bruising and swelling would reduce. They couldn’t say when my blurry vision or the pain and dizziness would end.
I went in search of Paddy. He was still my best mate and I knew where he’d be. It was lunch time.
Was I surprised to find the Black Sheep shut up, tight? A large sign was on the front saying, “Closed for renovations.” I never knew they were planning renovations. A head came out the door – Riley, the publican. He scowled at me, told me Paddy wasn’t there, nodded to the left and muttered, “Next door. We’re closed.”
For nothing else to do, I wandered into the station-house next door. I don’t normally visit such places voluntarily and I was a little nervous, I must say. It doesn’t do a person a lot of good to make oneself too conspicuous to the Garda. After all, there are things a man has to do in life that would best be kept away from the eyes and ears of those fine officers. On the rare occasion when I find it necessary to speak to a member of the Garda, I use my typical friendly approach and restrain my nearly uncontrollable urge to give them a taste of my knuckles.
Fortunately, with my swollen forehead, the bruising, and that patch over my left eye, I was confident of my disguise. No-one would recognize me.
I kept my tightly clenched fists ready at my side and, in my best and softest voice, I spoke gently to the Sergeant.
“Bloody hell!” I demanded. “Wot you’s done wit’ me best mate, Paddy?” There was more but, as far as I remember, I only swore five or six times and never used the f… word, not even once.
The Sergeant very gently reached over, put what I would call a choke-hold on my necktie and whispered, “Don’t ye know? Weren’t ye dere?” I could hardly breathe but I judged it not the proper time to offer him my knuckle sandwich.
Nervously I replied in my best Irish, “To be sure, I was dere but I was unfortunately indisposed at the time. I couldn’t really see out of me left eye and the table leg that someone laid across me forehead left me somewhat dizzy.”
The Sergeant smiled but didn’t let go of my necktie. He assured me that Paddy was in tip top condition. He told me they simply talked softly to him as they always do with those who make minor mistakes in judgement. Paddy quickly saw their reasonable arguments and calmly agreed to depart in their care. The Sergeant explained that, after a couple of days, Paddy woke from his gentle sleep and asked to see a magistrate. And with the magistrate’s approval, Paddy had now agreed to take up residence at Wheatfield Correctional Facility for a year or so until he saw the error of his ways. The Sergeant’s beautiful, soft smile was frightening to see when it was that close to my face. I’ll remember that one shiny gold incisor for the rest of my life.
I opened my mouth to protest about their probable mistreatment of the soft-spoken Paddy. The Sergeant slowly tightened his grip on my necktie, gave it a little twist, gently smiled back at me, leaned even closer into my face so I could smell his oniony breath, and said, “You’s can visit ‘im if you wish, Johhhnnn.”
He used my name. That shook me. I thought he didn’t recognize me, maybe thought I might be Paddy’s solicitor. He was quietly jingling a brand new pair of surgical steel handcuffs at the time; and he was shaking with tension.
I coughed.
“What a kind offer that is, Sergeant, but I’m truly sorry I must decline, owing to a subsequent engagement with me Reverend Father. Paddy was clearly at fault for all the terrible troubles he caused. He should never have started that ruckus. He deserves to be punished.”
The Sergeant gave my necktie another twist. “So ye t’ink it was all Paddy’s fault, do ye? Ye don’t t’ink he was provoked…just a little?”
I could feel my face turning purple. Breathing was becoming difficult. My one good eye was beginning to bulge. Then I thought, “That would give me an innocent look.”
“I can’t t’ink who might have done a t’ing like dat,” says I. “I’ll say a few ‘Hail Marys’ for him, up dere at St. Patrick’s, when I visit me Reverend Father.”
The Sergeant loosened his grip on my necktie. I gave another little, subservient cough, bowed to him, thanked him profusely, and continued to mutter obsequious comments as I slowly backed out of the station-house.
----
It is now nearly a year after that unfortunate incident at the Black Sheep, and I’m happy to announce that I have regained full, un-blurred vision in my left eye. The bruising, swelling and pain has also abated.
Brendan was less fortunate. He remained a resident of St. Vincent’s until just last week. Eventually, with the proper use of plastic and titanium, and with the technical skills demonstrated by his surgeons, a full reconstruction of Brendan’s lower jaw was achieved. After five separate attempts, he began to look almost normal.
Dental construction followed. Brendan needed a new set of teeth. Parts of his original set still turned up occasionally, under tables and in the far corners of the Black Sheep. In retrospect, it can certainly be said that Paddy successfully wiped that soppy grin from poor Brendan’s face.
It is difficult to surmise what might have happened to Paddy’s beautiful daughter, Theresa, on that day. It seems Riley, the publican, was acutely aware of the altercations that brewed at our table, not for the first time, apparently. He quickly summoned a squad of the Garda from next door. On that occasion, it only took six of those gentle officers to quell Paddy’s outlandish behavior and haul him off to the local gaol. Their rapid intervention possibly saved the life of the lovely Theresa.
Theresa visited Brendan at St. Vincent’s as he was recovering but, over time, she began to lose interest. Perhaps it was because Brendan’s jaw was somewhat dislocated for the first few months. He was not a pretty sight. Or perhaps it was because Brendan mentioned he was no longer interested in savouring the taste of peaches. At the time he was being fed through a tube and couldn’t savour the taste of anything. So, who really knows what happened?
----
This morning, a year later, I picked up my best mate, Paddy, from Wheatfield. All his sins forgiven. All his bruises and welts finally gone, even those which somehow showed up after he went to Wheatfield. I couldn’t figure that out. Paddy was always such a gentle soul. Perhaps he had inadvertently fallen.
It was yet another Saturday afternoon and lunch would be waiting at the Black Sheep. You can imagine my surprise when we showed up to find that Riley wouldn’t let us in. He was okay with Paddy, recognizing that he had done his penance before God. It was me they banned.
I took a swing at Riley but it was ill-timed and somehow I found myself sitting in the road outside the front door. I had to move quickly before I was run over by old Granny O’Leary racing hell-bent down the lane in her moped at close to the speed of light, empty Guinness bottles rattling and jingling in the basket behind her. She was on her way to the off-licence and nothing could slow her down.
I picked myself up and peered in the window of the Black Sheep. There was Paddy, grinning and saluting me with a large jar of Guinness, surrounded by a dozen of his new best mates. At the bar stood Riley, with a nervous smile on his face. He was probably mentally calculating the cost of yet another renovation because Theresa was there too, sitting in the back corner with her new boy-friend. His name was Connor. I wondered if he liked the taste of peaches. “Take care, Connor!”
It was still a sunny day so I thought I would slip down to the ‘Red Rooster’, no more than a hundred yards away. I was sure my old friend, Séamus, would be there. He had probably started lunch without me but that was okay. I could catch up.
So I left the Black Sheep and wandered down the lane muttering to myself, practising my four-letter adjectives.
