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Fighting Irish
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PostPosted: Mon Nov 29, 2004 8:40 pm    Post subject: Fighting Irish Reply with quote

WELCOME!
Fighting Irish:

Quote:
More Gambling Celts at Single Malt and Other Good Scotch, Welshers, Punters, The Horses and The Dogs.

Check out the new PokerPulse Gambler's Sirius Fitness Guide - the Celtic Crush Workout Playlist.



Waking Ned Devine
DVD




Quote:
Meet the celebrated (in the U.K., at least) cast and director of this hilarious bit of blarney filmed in 1998 on the Isle of Wight. It's a story of the devilish ingenuity of a small idyllic village when the big lotto winner turns out to be a beloved neighbor, a bachelor fisherman, who is found dead in the comfy chair in front of the television gripping the winning ticket. The ending is enough to rival the last scene in Midsummer Night's Dream, a rollicking entertainment by another famous Celt we admire.


Quote:
View Crankycritic.com's interview with actor Ian Bannen and his comic bit on betting.



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PostPosted: Sun Feb 20, 2005 11:10 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

A Star Called Henry
Volume One of The Last Roundup
Hardcover
By Roddy Doyle


Quote:
More Gambles at Sea.

More Gambles on The Dogs.





Quote:
Who was he and where did he come from? The family trees of the poor don't grow to any height. I know nothing real about my father; I don't even know if his name was real. There was never a Granda Smart, or a Grandma, no brothers or cousins. He made his life up as he went along. Where was his leg? South Africa, Glasnevin, under the sea. She heard enough stories to bury ten legs. War, an infection, the fairies, a train. He invented himself, and reinvented. He left a trail of Henry Smarts before he finally disappeared. A soldier, a sailor, a butler -- the first one-legged butler to serve the Queen. He'd killed sixteen Zulus with the freshly severed limb.

Was he just a liar? No, I don't think so. He was a survivor; his stories kept him going. Stories were the only things the poor owned. A poor man, he gave himself a life. He filled the hold with many lives. He was the son of a Sligo peasant who'd been eaten by his neighbours; they'd started on my father before he got away. He hopped down the boreen, the life gushing out of his stump, hurling rocks back at the hungry neighbours, and kept hopping till he reached Dublin. He was a pedlar, a gambler, a hoor's bully. He sat on the ditch beside my mother and invented himself. (-- p. 7)


Henry Jr. age nine, making his way for himself and his brother in the world:

Quote:
I reinvented rat-catching. We didn't go after the rats; they came to us. We found their nests and took the babies, boiled them and rubbed the soup onto our arms and hands. (We never ate it. You can laugh or gag, but you've never been hungry.) The scent -- Jesus, the scent -- it drove their parents wild. We dangled our hands in front of their holes and they came at us as if, in their dreams, they'd just seen the dogs that were going to destroy them. They'd scream for the children they could smell on our hands as we dropped them into the sack. We carried the screeching, pounding sack to the betting men around the pit. They loved our rats. They paid me extra to put my hands into the sack. I always did it but I wouldn't let Victor risk his fingers. I loved watching the faces of the men around the pit; I read their contempt, pity and admiration. I stared at the rich ones, the ones I knew already felt guilty about being there, with the worst of the scum of the slums; I'd stare at them as I sank my hand into the sack and felt the fury in the rats' backs and the men would look away. I'd let them see the little boy being asked to maim himself for their entertainment. I'd leave my hand in there until I was ready to faint, I could feel my heart waiting for death; I'd feel the maddened rats sniffing for their children on my wrist and fingers, and I'd hang on just a few seconds longer -- before the rats knew that they were licking the hand of the killer. They were all looking at me, the men and boys around the pit; I was more important now than the dogs that were howling and digging into the ground. I loved the silence that I could make with my eyes. It was power. Even the dogs noticed and stopped still. Then I'd grab at the heat and pull out my fist with its screaming rat. I'd hold it over the pit, the rat breaking its back to get its teeth into my veins. Then they'd cheer. I'd hold it a while, looking around, letting them all know that I was the one who was giving them their night out. Then I'd drop the rat. I didn't care what happened after that. I had no interest in the dogs or the betting or kills. I never watched. The dog men paid me, the bookies paid me, the winners paid me. The rich men held out closed hands and let me take money from them. We walked back into the city through the dark, me and Victor. We remembered to wash the rats off our hands and arms before we went looking for a place to sleep. We lay together and I warmed us with my stories. I never slept until I knew that Victor was asleep. Then I joined him. We were in each other's dreams. (-- p. 66-67)


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PostPosted: Thu May 12, 2005 10:29 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

From The Horses:

The Love Department
Paperback
By William Trevor


Quote:
More of short story master, Trevor.





Quote:
James didn't know what he would do when Lake struck his final blow, and he didn't much mind not knowing. He had heard of cases like this in the business world: men who one day were highly successful and were the next reduced to selling motorcars in provincial garages, working out their commission on the backs of envelopes. He had heard of men who had taken to petty crime in order to keep up appearances, sacked men who left their houses every morning as though nothing at all had happened, and spent the day filching bicycle bells and small electrical fittings from the open counters of shops. He had heard of men with all the heart gone out of them, who cared no longer for their wives and children, who sold their houses and took on inadequate rented property, living on small capital and hanging about the kitchen all day, unwashed and drinking beer.

James supposed that the future might turn out to be something like that. He saw himself selling a second-hand Ford Estate car to a woman in a fur coat and receiving from her a hundred and forty pounds. He saw himself as a door-to-door salesman, interesting housewives in brushes and tea-towels and nylon gadgets, and he thought he'd be rather good at that. He thought he'd be good as a demonstrator of kitchen aids: vegetable dicers, garlic presses, frying pans that didn't burn. He saw himself selling racing tips at Epsom], and pouring petrol into people's cars, and working in a tube station, as Mrs Hoop had. He saw his children ill-dressed, with holes in their shoes, his wife exhausted, going out to work herself. 'The others don't take kindly,' one of the board-men said to him. 'They think you're being casual.' (-- pgs. 104-105)


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PostPosted: Mon May 23, 2005 12:08 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Family Sins
& Other Stories
Hardcover
By William Trevor




Quote:
A telegram arrived out of the blue. Come for the weekend, Hubert's message read, and I remember the excitement I felt because I valued his friendship more than anyone else's. I had no money for the train journey and had to raise the matter with my father. 'It's hard to come by these days,' my father said, giving me only what he could easily spare. I increased it playing rummy with McCaddy the courthouse clerk, who had a passion for the game.

It was August, 1946. Long warm days cast an unobtrusive spell, one following another in what seemed like orderly obedience. The train I took crept through a landscape that was just beginning to lose its verdancy but was not yet parched. The railway for the last few miles of the journey ran by the sea, which twinkled brilliantly, sunlight dancing on it.

'There's someone called Pamel,' Hubert said, greeting me in no other way. 'Probably I mightn't have mentioned her.' (From the title story at p. 29)


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PostPosted: Fri Jul 29, 2005 10:31 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Poems to Read
A New Favorite Poem Project Anthology
Edited by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz




Quote:
The Game

Outside my window an English spring was
summoning home its birds and a week-long fog
was tattering into wisps and rags and at last
I could see the railings when I looked out.

I was a child in a north-facing bedroom in
a strange country. I lay awake listening to
quarreling and taffeta creaking and the clattering
of queens and aces on the inlaid card table.

I played a game: I hid my face in the pillow
and put my arms around it until they thickened.
Then I was following the thaw northward and the air
was blond with frost and sunshine below me

was only water and the shadow of flight in it
and the shape of wings under it, and in the hours
before morning I would be drawn down and drawn
down and there would be no ground under me

and no safe landing in the dawn breaking on
a room with sharp corners and surfaces on which
the red-jacketed and cruel-eyed fractions of chance
lay scattered where the players had abandoned them.

Later on I would get up and go to school in
the scalded light which fog leaves behind it;
and pray for the King in chapel and feel dumbly for
the archangels trapped in their granite hosannas.

Eaven Boland, at p. 6)


A nice-sized tome to throw at a reptile claiming not to hear the music of poetry.

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PostPosted: Tue Dec 27, 2005 10:31 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Teacher Man
Hardcover
By Frank McCourt


Quote:
More of the book.

More of Frank.

More of his author/disability advocate brother, Malachy.





Quote:
Look at me: wandering late bloomer, floundering old fart, discovering in my forties what my students knew in their teens. Let there be no caterwauling. Sing no sad songs for me. No weeping at the bar.

I am called before the court, accused of leading a double life. To wit: that in the classroom I enjoy myself and deny my students a proper education while I toss nightly on my celibate cot and wonder, God help us, what it's all about.

I must congratulate myself, in passing, for never having lost the ability to examine my conscience, never having lost the gift of finding myself wanting and defective. Why fear the criticism of others when you, yourself, are first out of the critical gate? If self-denigration is the race I am the winner, even before the starting gun. Collect the bets. (Chapter 13, pgs. 211-212)


Probably even the McCourt laundry list would be engaging, bless him. Brother Frank is again a wonder as are all the boys, in our view. May they be fed like kings in love and laughter now and forever.

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PostPosted: Wed Feb 22, 2006 3:27 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Irish Times
The last readable English-language Daily Newspaper
Irishology: WINNING STREAK
Shane Hegarty's encyclopaedia of
Modern Ireland

Feb. 18/06


Quote:
You've got to hand it to the people behind Winning Streak. They know their audience. They've come up with a gameshow format that manages to give away holidays, cars and millions of euro without ever worrying the hearts of the people watching. Blood pressure untroubled. Pacemakers go unjolted. Winning Streak is a show you can watch while taking heart medication without fear of falling asleep at the remote control.

And what an audience it gets. Hundreds of thousands tune in every week. And hundreds of thousands go to great pains to avoid it. Because the dividing line in modern Ireland is no longer between rural and urban. Nor is it along the old Civil War split. Instead we are divided between those who get Winning Streak and those who don't. Between those who see it as a highlight of their week and the rest, who see it as a lowlight of our culture. Between those who see Derek Mooney as a surrogate son and those who want to send him on a one-way trip to the sun. .If it had been French, we'd have hailed it as a surrealist masterpiece. But it's Irish. So it's not. (-- p. 6, Irish Times Magazine)


Quote:
Editor's Note: If Times reporters knew how hard we had to work to get our weekly dose of Irish wit, they would flay the management to within an inch of its life. Could there be a communications enterprise that hates subscribers' money more than this one? Unbelievable. If this is the way Irish businesses are managed, Paddy will be lucky to hear the once-roaring Celtic tiger softly cough.


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PostPosted: Mon Mar 27, 2006 12:37 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Ultimate Collection
CD Audio
The Pogues






Quote:
If I Should Fall From Grace With God

By Shane MacGowan

If I should fall from grace with god
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I'm buried 'neath the sod
But the angels won't receive me

Let me go boys
Let me go boys
Let me go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry

This land was always ours
Was the proud land of our fathers
It belongs to us and them
Not to any of the others

Let them go boys
Let them go boys
Let them go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry

Bury me at sea
Where no murdered ghost can haunt me
If I rock upon the waves
No corpse can lie upon me

It's coming up three boys
Keeps coming up three boys

Let them go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry

If I should fall from grace with god
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I'm buried 'neath the sod
And still the angels won't receive me

Let me go boys
Let me go boys
Let me go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry


One of the BEST live concerts ever!

Live at the Town & Country
VHS
The Pogues




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PostPosted: Fri Apr 07, 2006 8:57 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Pogue Mahone
Audio CD
By The Pogues






Quote:
How Come

How come when I got the ace of hearts
Ya always draw the ace of spades

How's it when your best friend
Brings you lillies on your birthday

Hey how come, hey how come
Well I ain't superstitious, but well these things I see
How come, how come
I ain't a superstitious fella, but it worries me

How come when your local clergy calls
He tells me that you shouldn't wear black
What kind of bread are you gonna' bake
With that hemlock in your spice rack

Hey how come, hey how come
Well I ain't superstitious, but well these things I see
How come, how come
I ain't a superstitious fella, but it worries me

The spider's run, the cobwebs gone
Did you eat it when the moon was new
I drowned your cat, what do you say about that
I've even broken up your broom

How come, how come
Well I ain't superstitious, but well these things I see
How come, how come
I ain't a superstitious fella, but it worries me
Well how come, how come
Well I ain't superstitious, but well these things I see
How come, how come
I ain't a superstitious fella, but it worries me


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PostPosted: Fri Apr 07, 2006 9:15 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Story of Chicago May
Hardcover
By Nuala O' Faolain




Quote:
When he [May's husband, Dal Churchill) was away with the gang, she would have had nothing to do but play cards for cents and eat fatty sausage and boiled potatoes in some settlement where thirsty dogs howled and howled because they were kept from the well by a board fence and where men building houses struggled with sheets of tin in the hot wind. Newly settled America must have been full of people waiting. For tools and livestock to come from the East. For wives and children who would climb down onto the platform, wratithlike in the smoke from the engine, and shy. Sometimes, she says, when the boys went off, they'd send her to a village they knew in the Badlands, or they'd send her back to Chicago where one of them had a sister. So when Dal [Churchill] wanted her to work with him, just the two of them together, I was for the plan, full of enthusiasm and anxious to prove myself. It was as his comrade that she learned how to rob men and banks, out there in pioneer America.

...We're hearing her voice in her book now, but when she describes Dal she might as well be every girl who ever fell for a boy. He fearlessly rode the countryside, she wrote, and forded the rivers where fords there were none, dealing out rough justice to oppressors of the common people. He was strong, muscular and quick as a panther. Children and women were safe in his hands. His friends could count on him to the death and so could his enemies. An inveterate gambler, he rarely touched liquor and never indulged in dope of any sort. He was quick on the trigger and a good pistol shot. Add to all this that he had black eyes that fairly bored through you and wavy chestnut hair, with a complexion that was bronzed with exposure, and there is little wonder that I fell desperately in love with him. (From Nebraska to Chicago, 1890-1893 at pgs. 33-34)


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PostPosted: Tue Apr 18, 2006 9:56 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Irish Times
About Us
Bowling on the byways
Long associated with Co Cork, the story of road bowling,or 'long bullets' has followers all over Ireland, writes Barry Roche
April 8/06


Quote:
A game is called a score (because historically, according to Lane, matches involved 20 throws) with each bowl player bringing their own entourage of road showers to mark the road and give them a good line for a shot, particularly if trying to negotiate a bend.

The technique of throwing can vary from the Cork style, where the player uses a windmill type swing to loft the bowl high in the air and over bends, to the underarm throw favoured in Co Armagh where players throw the ball low but put spin on it to round bends.

The road is marked with a sop of grass (a training video on the sport is called Splitting the Sop)while a score invariably involves a stake with backders of both players contributing matching sums to the pot. Gambling on scores is not unknown. (-- p. 9)


Quote:
* Editor's Note: According to Roche, bowling here rhymes with fouling.


Long Bullets
A History of Road * Bowling in Ireland
Hardcover
By historian and peace activist Fintan Lane




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PostPosted: Thu Apr 27, 2006 10:46 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

The New Yorker
Magazine Subscription
An Afternoon
By William Trevor
May 1/06


Quote:
More of Trevor.





Quote:
The Gold Mine was a place he knew, and they went there to play the fruit machines. He always won, he said, but today he didn't. He didn't mind that. He didn't raise the roof like Giggs did when his money went for nothing. He didn't say the whole thing was fixed. Good days, bad days was all he said.

"No you take it," he said when she had to explain she hadn't any money, and in the end she took the two-pound coin he gave to where they broke it down for her. He picked up a necklace for her with the grab, guiding the grab skillfully, knowing when to open the metal teeth and knowing not to be in a hurry to close them, to wait until he was certain. He'd cleared out everything there was on offer once, he said -- sweets, jewelry, dice, three packs of cards, two penknives, the dancing doll, a Minnie Mouse, ornaments. He swivelled the crane about when he got the necklace for her, asking her what she wanted next time, but this time the teeth closed an instant too soon and the bangle he'd gone after moved only slightly and then slipped back. They spent an hour in the Gold Mine. (-- pgs. 76-78)


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PostPosted: Mon Aug 07, 2006 12:22 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

From The Horses:

A Day in the Life of Ireland
May 17/91
Featuring the work of 75 photographers
Hardcover
Edited by Jennifer Ewitt and Bob Lawlor




Quote:
Competition is keen both on and off the track as a steeplechase event gets under way in Dundalk. About 350 licensed bookmakers roam a circuit of Irish horse tracks throughout the racing season, taking bets from all comers and paying out on the spot. A government backed Racing Board runs its own betting operation, known as the Tote, but five times as much business passes through the hands of private bookies. Together, the two systems turned over $120 million in 1990. Another $300 million passed through off-track betting parlors strategically situated on streetcorners throughout the land. (Photographer Dego Goldberg, Argentina, pgs. 164-165)


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PostPosted: Mon Aug 07, 2006 12:43 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Irish Times
From disco pants to sheepskin coat
With a steely nerve behind his squeaky clean image, Niall Quinn has taken a gamble by buying and now managing his old club, writes Andrew Fifield
July 29/06


Quote:
Niall Quinn likes a gamble. As a gangly teenager with Arsenal he would regularly fritter away his $500-a-week wages within an hour at the local bookies and, though his instincts have sharpened since then, the thrill of the wager has clearly not dulled. Last week, the former Ireland forward headed a consortium that bought Sunderland Football Club and promptly appointed himself manager. In betting terms, it's akin to putting big money on an outside bet. (Opening paragraph of the profile, p. 5 at News Features)


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PostPosted: Mon Mar 12, 2007 2:25 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The Irish Times
Modern Moment
Donald Clarke is always disappointed when a cult entertainment - poker, say - gets discovered by the undiscriminating masses. It looks as if we are the sort of fellows who allow hotel heiresses to dictate how we spend our evenings.
Oct. 28/06


Quote:
More Celebrated Women Gamblers.


Quote:
Despite the banning of online gambling in the US, the advance of poker as a mainstream pastime continues largely unabated. Late last year reports began reaching us that the craze might be petering out. Gift stores were, it was said, having to move their ostentatiously packaged sets of gaming chips towards the backs of their sales floors. Idiotic celebrity sheep were growing tired of pretending they could recognize an inside straight and were returning to less cerebral pursuits, such as cramming small pink dogs into smaller pink handbags.

Then it was announced that Paris Hilton, that late adopter of voguish enthusiasms, had become addicted to the game. Her representative denied that she had, as reported on naughty websites, lost her Bentley during an aggressive session of Texas hold'em, but it was confirmed that the ever-friendly socialite did enjoy a nice hand now and then (of poker, that is). The diversion, once the preserve of men with cities for first names, remains a populist phenomenon. How upsetting.

For some years a group of friends and I have met regularly to exchange modestly sized stacks of cash while swearing, drinking, bickering and generally doing anything possible to appear less cosily middle class than we are. It's interesting how the simple act of slapping down five cards of the same suit can make a balding academic from Terenure appear, to himself at least, like a swarthy one-eyed Texan with the morals of a rattlesnake. For years poker was our thing. While contemporaries played stupid golf, or tended wretched gardens, we retained our edge by allowing a pack of cards to determine the destiny of terrifying two-figure sums.

Poker's rise in popularity has taken the edge off our pleasure. Suddenly, it looks as if we are the sort of fellows who allow intellectually unspectacular hotel heiresses to dictate how we spend our evenings. (Irish Times Magazine, p. 62)


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