In recent years, the modern day twist on fairy tales has become quite popular with the likes of A Cinderella Story, Hoodwinked and Once Upon a Time. Yet Irish myths have yet to be updated.
That is until now.
I have taken it upon myself to write perhaps the most Irish post that will ever make it to this blog. These stories probably won’t make it to any textbooks but here’s hoping.
DISCLAIMER: THERE MAY BE SOME HISTORICAL INACCURACIES IN THESE STORIES, BUT SURE DIDN’T SAINT PATRICK HIMSELF CLAIM THAT HE DROVE ALL THE SNAKES OUT OF IRELAND AND YET…HERE I AM.
Tír na nÓg
‘Lads, c’mere till I tell ye, I have a right one for ye about this eejit who was desperate for the shift. So I was down with the fianna crew at the astro for a kick about. Ye know yer man Oísin, bit of a tool but sound enough like, well, he was doin’ keepie-uppies when this wan came over to him and asked him to come over to her gaff. She’d heard about Oísin’s mad skills, fancied ‘erself as a wag. I’d say she must’ve been a bit gone in the head. She was lettin’ on that she would use ‘er magic if Oísin didn’t come with ‘er, think she took a few yokes or somethin’. The floozie was an absolute ride though, huge tits on ‘er. But she wasn’t even a jackeen like, said she was from the land of the youths, think she was on about Ibiza. Oísin, being the proper chancer he is, was up for it. He rode away in ‘er white Nissan skyline, the height of tack. ‘I’ll be be back from Ibiza in no time, sure I’m just goin’ for the craic’ says he from ouh the tinted windows but I haven’t seen him for yonks. His oul fella is devo, he told my da that Oísin never had much cop on at all.’
‘Ah would you go away with that!’
Salmon of Knowledge
“Look at yer man Fionn over dere, throwin’ shapes. Up his own hole, he is, such notions. I’m tellin’ ye, ye get 625 in the big LC and yer too good for us all. Ye know he was a bit thick back in primary school, wouldn’t ‘ve known his arse from his elbow. I reckon he’s just a jammy bastard.”
“Well, I’m not actin’ the maggot but I heard that he had this feckin’ fish; salmon of knowledge or some shite. Now he’s mad smart and shtuff.”
“Salmon? I knew he was a wanker, couldn’t just eat battered fish & chips like the rest of us.”
“Seriously I’m not coddin’ ye. Sure doesn’t he actually get the tuiseal guineadach, have you ever heard the sorts?”
“Feck off, would ye, windin’ me up!”
“Gis the goss then!”
“Sure wasn’t I up in Coppers and who walks in, only the legend himself, Cuchulainn.”
“Who’s he again now?”
“Ye know yer man, yer man who plays county hurlin’, yer man with the hair on him.”
“Ah ye, sure wasn’t he the lad at that gaffer? The lad who hit the aul sliotar into the hound’s mouth and killed the poor hoor.”
“That’s the lad alrigh. He’s dead sound though, not the type of lad to go abou’ killin’ dogs atallatall. Pure daycent. Real name is Setanta, don’t ye know.”
“Aisling, would ye get on with it.”
“Well I shifted the face off him.”
“Fair play to ye!”