These guys had great brogues “Meeeee”
Day 1: Dublin
Jake: “Hi, yeah, can we get two pints of Guinness please.”
Me: “And two shots of Black Bush too, please.”
Barman: “In less than two jiffs. From where do ye hale, lads?”
Jake: “Pittsburgh.”
Me: “Langhorne.”
Barman: “Ah yes. Lovely, it is.”
There are things one expects when traveling in Ireland: Guinness, quaint pubs, green, red hair, and the Irish brogue. As we are in a quaint pub drinking Guinness and the barman has on a green vest and shock of red hair, we are fulfilling those expectations. Moreover, his brogue pours out of his mouth like cool bubbles. It causes no distress.
Of all the variants of English, I find Irish to be the most pleasant. Not that it’s got a lot of competition in the world of English accents. Just watch an episode of The Young Ones, any American reality show, or listen to an Australian speak. We are all chewing gravel compared to the Irish. It is a delicious accent.
Part of what makes the Irish accent so appealing is that it so often comes along with a pleasant temperament.In my time in Ireland, I have heard very few words spoken in anger. I know it happens, of course, but in my personal interactions with Irish people they have been extremely warm, open, and friendly. Their brogue seems specially constructed to convey that personality.
Also, it’s addictive.
Day 5: Westport
We spend a day driving through the countryside, dodging cows and sheep. Then it takes us forty minutes to find our accommodation. At the end of it, we sidle into a local pub and sit at the bar.
Barman: “Good day, lads. What’ll it be?”
Jake: “Guinness, it is.”
Me: “Flank those with a coupl’a Black Bush as well, sir.”
Barman (bright smile): “Well, I think I can make that happen before ye grow another whisker. From where do ye come from, lads?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“Langhorne.”
“Grand. Grand.”
OK, addictive isn’t the word.
There are things that are impossible not to do. It’s impossible not to dance while listening to James Brown. It’s impossible not to click on a video with the word ‘lesbian’ in its title. It’s impossible not to eat an entire tube of Pringles.
And it is impossible not to mimic an Irish brogue. What’s more, it comes with such a rich phraseology that we find ourselves slipping into it like a hot tub.
Day 8: Dunfanaghy
There is a bog in Dunfanaghy. After looking at the bog for longer than one should, we make it to – yes, you’ve guessed it – a bar.
Waitress: “What ye doing round here, then?”
Me: “Seeing your bog yonder.”
Waitress: “Lovely, isn’t it?”
Jake: “Aye. Tis lovely.”
Waitress: “Fancy a few scoops?”
Jake: “Aye. Two Pints and an equal number of Shirley Bassies.”
Waitress: “Neat, is it?”
Me: “Yea.”
Waitress: “Where ye from lads?”
“Langhorne.”
“Pittsburgh.”
Waitress: “You’re no’ Irish, then?”
Me: “Nay.”
She leaves.
Me: “Why would the lass have a thought that we’re from the island?”
Jake: “No idea. Say, think we should mosey back to the bog after a pair of Bassies?”
Me: “Sound as a pound, laddy.”
After we acknowledge and accept what’s happening to us, we enjoy slipping deeper and deeper into the brogue. However, there are some downsides. Northern Ireland features vastly different versions of the Irish accent, so in Derry and Belfast we find our brogues dissipating like shy genitalia in a locker room. Secondly, we don’t want to be that guy. You know who that guy is. That guy who desperately yearns for a cooler accent than his own. That guy who goes to London for a week holiday and comes back saying things like: “Smashing good time, that!” That guy who goes to Australia for a week and comes back saying, “The Sheila’s got a good idear.”
We do not want to be that guy.
But we can’t help it.
Day 15: Dublin Airport
Me: “Been a grand fecking time, lad.”
Jake: “Twas. Twas.”
Me: “Safe flight.”
Jake: “Christ on a bike, I gotta run.”
Me: “Top o’ the mornin’ to ye!”
Jake: “And the rest of the day to you!”
