A Norwegian Viking in The Irish Store

 A Walk through a Mickey Market.

We were visiting one of the cute seaside towns and decided to walk the main street. It was a pleasant day. Audrey noticed an Irish gift shop. She wanted to go inside.

Both of Audrey’s parents were born in Norway. She did not know the nuances of Irish things. I was less enthusiastic, seeing as the preferred market are people trying to prove how Irish they are, even if their family has been in the United States since the Potato Famine (1838).

We went in the cute little shop. A couple of skinny little Irish women were behind the counter. Audrey noticed a little statue of a leprechaun that looked like Uncle Patty. This was the start of the journey.

Next, Audrey saw a sign advertising “Irish Fashions.” This piqued her interest. She hurried to the racks with Irish clothes. Irish fashion? If you are of Irish ancestry, think of the frumpy clothes your great aunts wore to indulge in the Hibernian science of Bingo. That’s right: Irish fashion is Old Lady’s Bingo clothes.

Irish Fashion

Then Audrey noticed the various tins of crackers and “cookies.” “These look interesting,” she said.

Yeah, interesting like the old Chinese curse: ‘May you live in interesting times.”

I remember a sunny day when I was about 5 years old, My grandmother had taken my brother and I when she visited our great aunt. Aunt Kathleen was an off-the boat genuine Irish harp-ette. She brought out a platter of crackers for us. Crackers? We knew what those things were.

Before we could refuse, our grandmother said, “Take one and say thank you!”

We were trapped. In Irish culture, it is considered unforgivable to refuse food. Any food. Even those Irish crackers that, when chewed, were like munching on large-sized aquarium gravel.

And here I was, watching my wife look at tins of these jawbreakers. Aaaagh!

Next Audrey looked at the shelves of Waterford Crystal. It used to be made by Irishmen in Ireland. (I heard that nowadays, a lot of it is made in China by Chinamen.) She saw large crystal urns.

“Oh, look at those. Are they vases? They must be made for huge bouquets.”

“No,” I replied. “Those are all whiskey decanters.” I replied. After all, these were made for Irish people, not a bunch of tee-totalers.

Then Audrey’s gaze fixed on a glass model of the Titanic. She has always been fascinated by the whole Titanic story. In fact, she must have seen the movie about 16 times.

“Why would they have a model of the Titanic?” she asked.

“Well, it was an English ship...” I replied.

“So?” she said.

“And it sunk.” Audrey understood, since she knew about the old feuds between the Irish and English.

As we were getting ready to leave, Audrey noticed Claddagh rings behind the one counter. She thought they were romantic.

“How wonderful,” she said. “Are these for married people?” she asked.

“No, they are made to sell to Americans trying to prove how Irish they are.”

So ended Audrey’s first tour through Irish boutique culture.

Note that people from Ireland do not buy that stuff. They think it is hokey crap. The Irish make it to sell to Americans, Canadians, New Zealanders and Australians of Irish ancestry. These people think that having these things makes them more Irish. Like I implied before, how Irish can they be if their families have been living outside of Ireland since 1838? Or in the case of latecomers, since the Civil War?

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There was a so-called Irish store in another town and Audrey wanted at look. It had the usual gee-gaws and souvenirs and all. In one corner was a glass-topped counter that had Civil War items. There were odd pieces of brass, cap badges and such.

Audrey was curious as to why an Irish store would sell Civil War relics. I explained that a large number of soldiers on both sides were Irish.

The store did not feel right. The fellow behind the counter got talking to us. He mentioned that he was Polish, not Irish. It turns out that he also did not understand some of the nuances of Irish stuff.

We left and shook our heads. It has to be the screwiest Irish store I ever saw. In a genre of screwy stores, that is saying a lot.

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If you enjoyed this story, please read some of the other articles in this blog.

Paddy Beaks and Viking Descendants

The Extreme Right is a curious mix, indeed. Here is an example from 40 years ago. A friend who was into it subscribed to a magazine called American Mercury. The cover usually had art of the Founding Fathers and other historical personages. At first glance, I thought it was a history magazine.

One day, while at my friend’s house, I picked up a copy of the magazine and tried to read it. There was an article about a man’s visit to Iceland. The article made sense at first, but then the author started complaining. He complained about all the “Irish noses” on the Icelanders. Of course, the Icelanders did mix with the Irish. That is no surprise. But to read the article was to hear a litany of complaints about “Irish noses” and the implied mixing with the Irish.

I found it hilarious, though the author did not intend to be funny.

Think of it this way. You are in medieval Iceland, and there she is. A pixie-faced Irish harp-ette with those floppy Celtic boobs and pile-driving hips. And she has eyes for you. Are you going to pass her up? Are you going to complain that any offspring might have Irish noses? You already know that like most Irish women, she is probably a pain in the ass, but why let that stand in your way?

Just for laughs, imagine someone with a Scandinavian accent saying:“ I will not mate with an Irish woman because I do not want my children to have Irish noses.”

By the way, some Scandinavian women are a pain in the ass, too.

Yes, it is funny. And it is pathetic. The article was an episode of petty bigotry and stupidity. Then again, most things of that nature are inherently stupid. The one who comes off bad is not the Icelanders with the so-called “Irish noses” (also know as Paddy Beaks), but the moron who wrote the article.

Back then, the Right-wing rags also had ads for Laetrile, investing in gold, and other crackpot schemes. I guess that if you are offended by Irish noses, you may be a sucker for the latest pseudo science and goofball investment scheme.

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It is a scientific fact that when it comes to Irish women, the bigger they are, the more pleasant they are. On the other hand, the scrawny little ones with button boobs are constant complainers, perennial grouches and a monumental pain in the ass. I know this from personal experience: growing up around them, and dating some of them.

If you enjoyed this article, please read some of the other articles on this blog.

Irish Bar He-She-nanigans

Irish Bar He / She - nanigans

(Names have been changed to protect the guilty)

My friend Seamus used to tend bar in an Irish gin mill. Most of the patrons were older Irish men. One day a very tall woman came in. She was younger than most of the men. When Seamus served her, he noticed something peculiar. Beneath her scarf, he saw an Adam’s Apple. The woman was actually a man.

One of the regular patrons remarked about the "pretty woman.” Seamus told him, “That’s a transvestite.”

A few minutes later, the patron’s friends came in. The bar fly pointed to the “woman” at the end of the bar and said in a thick Irish brogue,

“Would ya’ have a look at that? It’s a trifecta!”

Seamus was busy at the other end of the bar. He heard a rustling, as if there were a scuffle. The woman hurriedly left the bar.

A little old Irish man was standing there with a bewildered look on his face.

“What happened here?” Seamus asked.

“She had balls, Seamus. She had balls!” Apparently, the little Irishman had put his hands up the “woman’s” skirt.

These days, there would be a lot of hullabaloo, what with all the politically-correct talk of “Transgender” and “trans-sexual.” Back then, it was transvestite and cross-dresser. A man dressed as a woman - or vice versa - was outside the norm. I don’t understand it and no amount of explanation will change that.