Best of Myles

by Flann O'Brien

  It is funny how small things irk far beyond their own intrinsic significance. The way he sucked at his dirty pipe, too lazy or stupid to light it. The trick of never lacing his boots up completely. And his low boasting about his drinking. Forty-eight pints of cider in a Maidenhead inn. Mild and bitter by the gallon. I remember retorting savagely on one occasion that I would drink him under the table. Immediately came the challenge to do so. ‘Not now,’ I remember saying, ‘but sooner than you think, my good friend.’ That is the way we talked in those days. Possibly it was just then that I first formed my murderous resolution. But I digress.

  When I had finally decided to murder this insufferable plumber, I naturally occupied my mind for some days with the mechanics of sudden death. I was familiar with the practice of homicide fashionable in the eighties, and I laid my plans with some care. I took to locking my bedroom so that the paraphernalia of execution could be amassed without arousing the suspicions of the patient. The chopper was duly purchased, together with a spare hatchet in case the plumber’s skull should withstand the chopper. I attended a physical culture class to improve my muscles. Alcohol and tobacco were discontinued. I took long walks on Sunday afternoons and slept with the window wide open. But most important of all—remember that I speak of the gaslit eighties—I purchased a large bath and the customary drums of acid.

  I was then ready. The precise moment of execution did not matter so much. It would coincide with some supreme extremity of irritation. And it did. One evening re-opening the manuscript of my novel I discovered traces of tripe on the clean copper-plate pages. The wretched plumber had been perusing my private documents. I went upstairs whistling ‘The Girl in the Hansom Cab’, came down cheerfully with the chopper behind my back, and opened the ruffian’s skull from crown to neck with a haymaker of a wallop that nearly broke my own arm. The rest was simple. I carried the body up to my room and put it in the bath of acid. Nothing more remained but to put things in order for my departure next day for a week’s holiday with my old parents in Goraghwood, my native place.

  When I returned to London, I went up to the bedroom with some curiosity. There was nothing to be seen save the bath of acid, I carried the bath down to the sitting room and got a glass. I filled the glass with what was in the bath, crept in under the table and swallowed the burning liquid. Glass after glass I swallowed till all was gone. It was with grim joy that I accomplished my threat that I would drink this plumber under the table. It was the sort of thing one did at the turn of the century.

  WHEN A RESPECTABLE lady was up in court recently for removing not clothing but articles of clothing from a crowded shop when she thought nobody was looking, the District Justice remarked that there was far too much shop-lifting in Dublin, and then imposed (well, what can you impose?) a heavy sentence of imprisonment.

  I suppose he was right when he said there was far too much shop-lifting in Dublin but I am not clear how one calculates what is the right amount of shop-lifting for Dublin. Would we be in a worse mess if there was too little shop-lifting? I think a small committee of D.J.’s should be convened to determine the optimum incidence of shop-lifting for Dublin and other urban centres and sentence only ladies who exceed their quota.

  Another thing. God be with the days when I was in business meself. I opted for a gratuity when I left the Black and Tans and bought two small shops. I think it was groceries I was selling. I did very well and in no time had bought five others. Soon I was a chain-store king (although I’m going to be honest and admit that chains was the one thing we never stocked). But I’ll tell you what happened. I ran into a frightful epidemic of shop-lifting. First my Stoneybatter house was lifted, then the Inchicore one. The loss of the shops was bad enough but as well as that I got into trouble with the Corporation over the gaping empty sites. PLEASE REINSTATE MISSING PREMISES WITHIN TEN DAYS FAILING WHICH. Red ink.

  Then in one week six other shops were lifted, including the head office, which contained a personable typist. One of the shop-lifters got qualms of (surely I needn’t say of what) and put the shop he had taken back but of course on the wrong site, it looked like a small boy in man’s clothes, it didn’t fit anywhere. Whereafter, of course, there was only one thing to do. We had to chain all the chain-stores. People thought this was odd and custom declined. Worse, my enemies started to taunt me about my ‘tied houses’. The only customers who did not desert me were the chainsmokers, who came to my chain-stores in the hope of getting chains, despite the fact that we never stocked the things. Ineffective custom of this kind was no use to me and I sold out to a wealthy Stater the year of the split. That was my only venture as an entrepreneur, which is a much nicer word than middle-man.

  And now I have a letter here I want to answer. A correspondent (and he’s fairly substantial. I looked him up in Thom’s, PLV £38) asks me what is the meaning of the Dublin word ‘moppy’. He had overheard somebody saying that so-and-so was moppy. What did moppy mean? Well, here are a few synonyms.

  Moppy; drunk; jarred; fluthered; canned; rotten; plasthered; elephants; fluthery-eyed; spiflicated; screwed; tight; mouldy; maggoty; full to the brim; footless; blind; spaychless; blotto; scattered; merry; well on; shook; inebriated; tanked up; oiled; well-oiled; cock-eyed; cross-eyed; crooked; boozed; muzzy; sozzled; bat-eyed; pie-eyed; having quantum sufficio; and under the influence of intoxicating liquor.

  Curiously enough, the latter rather prim phrase is the only one used by the Gárda Siochána; they use it even when it emerges in the evidence that the defendant had only two small sherries in Swords, that he never takes drink, and that on the present occasion he was offered the sherry by his brother-in-law, who was celebrating a happy event.

  Alas, the poor human.

  TWO ATTITUDES are admissible in relation to roads: one, that there are not enough roads in this country and that more should be provided; two, that all existing roads should be ploughed up and wheat sown.

  In relation to proposal No. 1, competent engineers have informed me that new roads could be most economically provided side by side with existing roads; this for the reason that road-making machinery can be readily and cheaply transported and operated on the existing roads. It must be borne in mind, however, that once a duplicate road has been constructed beside an existing road, the second road can itself be used as the ‘base’ for the construction of a third road; thus there is no considerable engineering difficulty in constructing an indefinite number of new roads provided they are located parallel and together. Hollows in the terrain can, of course be filled in with cement and eminences removed by mechanical excavators. It must be added, however—and I have the authority of an agricultural expert for saying this—that the construction of a large number of new roads in the manner suggested would tend to diminish tillage activities. Generally speaking, then, the proposal is feasible but open to objection by sectional interests.

  Very well. Now as to proposal number two. The cultivation of wheat on roadways is not, I am advised, impossible; it would be, however, difficult and a successful crop could not be expected save at the cost of great skill and diligence in husbandry. Roadways of some centuries standing could not, of course, be dug or ploughed in the ordinary way. Excavation whether by mechanical means or with pick and shovel would be necessary. Arable soil would scarcely be reached at a lesser depth than 3 feet and thus a considerable quantity of material would have to be excavated to secure an arable trench of even moderate width. The disposal of this material presents a problem. Assuming that a stretch of roadway fifty miles long is to be prepared for wheat, it would be necessary to remove the material by motor lorry, starting from the remote extremity; this for the reason that since the roadway is disappearing, traffic must be confined to the portion still intact at any moment. Fleets of fast horse carts could, of course, be used for less ambitious undertakings but mechanical transport is essential for long hauls.

  There is, however, another alternative. The excavated material could be stacked on the roadside at both sides of the tren
ch. It is true that this plan would curtail the area available for cultivation to a strip two or three feet in width, but this cannot be avoided without permitting the excavated material to encroach upon the adjoining fields, thus diminishing what is called the agricultural potential. Since this is (for obvious reasons) to be avoided at all costs, it is possible that on a very narrow road, where abnormally deep excavation would be called for, the excavated material would have to be erected in the nature of a wall on each side of the trench, and the trench would only be of diminutive lateral dimension—possibly as little as six inches. These crude rubble walls would, of course, obstruct sunlight and even rain, and to that extent growth in the trench-bed would be retarded. Moreover, where excavation had to be brought in such a trench to a depth of four or five feet, the side-walls would be a corresponding height above ground level, so that the wheat, even if it attained normal height, would be about three feet below the level of the walls. In a trench six inches wide it would be impossible to save such wheat unless special machinery could be devised for the purpose. Whether such machinery could be devised and economically manufactured and marketed would depend on the number of very narrow wheat trenches in the country having high side-walls.

  All these considerations must be weighed by every thoughtful Irishman.

  IT ONLY OCCURRED to me the other day that I will have biographers. Probably Hone will do me first and then there will be all sorts of English persons writing books ‘interpreting’ me, describing the beautiful women who influenced my ‘life’, trying to put my work in its true and prominent place against the general background of mankind, and no doubt seeking to romanticise what is essentially an austere and chastened character, saddened as it has been by the contemplation of human folly.

  One moment. Where is Con? Con! Here he is. Con, do you like sole bonne femme? A very stylish dish. Con, fashion is good for the sole.

  Here is my confession, which I address to Hone. Call it a solemn warning if you like. Believe nothing that you see in my cheque-book stubs. The entries therein might well have been made by that historic protolouse, the father of lice. Let me confess. At the beginning of the month when I get my wages from across the way —→ (often paid by mistake in mysterious Russian and Tunisian currencies, frightful row every now and again trying to get Caffey to change them into humble Irish uncomplicated agricultural notes) I naturally put five pounds in my pocket (not my mouth) and stick the remaining £145 into the bank. A day passes. On the evening of the second day I am in the usual place giving out about the Labour Party; I have ordered 4 at elevenpence each, two at sixpence halfpenny plus eightpence halfpenny for ten cigarettes slipped in under my coat-tails and to my surprise I find I have no money to meet this commonplace mercantile obligation. Out comes the cheque-book and a docket is written out for five pounds. Do I enter ‘Self, £5’ in the stub? I certainly do not.

  I am ashamed to do that because these payments to myself are so embarrassingly frequent. I have no desire to have Hone making me out as a sore hedonist. Hence the appearance in my life of a mysterious character called Hickey. I always write ‘Hickey, £5’ or ‘Hickey, £6’, or ‘Hickey, £3’ whatever it may be. I have a cheque book stub before me as I write. In the space of a fortnight the following payments are recorded against Hickey: £5, £5, £3, £4, £2, £2. But let me be perfectly honest, let me make of it that immaculate pectoral phenomenon, a clean breast. I have not told all. Apparently my shame in writing ‘Self’ begot a counterfeit secondary shame at the frequency and consecutiveness of these windfalls to Hickey and—pray bear with a weak character in the agony of confession—I notice that between the £4 and the £2 towards the end, there is a payment of £2 to ‘Hodge’. Later on in the book, both Hickey and Hodge get £5 apiece within three days of each other. Later again, Hickey alone benefits to the tune of £2, £2 and £4. So far as I can ascertain, Hodge has received only four cheques totalling £21 10s od in a space of eighteen months but Hickey has received hundreds of pounds.

  Consider the ass Hone would have made of himself had I not chosen to make this revelation in the interests of history. Some terrible drama would be invented. Blackmail. ‘It is scarcely to be credited that while engaged in giving masterpiece after masterpiece to the world, the master was in the toils of a blackmailing ruffian called Hickey, who, with a confederate called Hodge, extracted from him practically every penny he earned.’

  Or would he insist on Mrs Hickey, a mysterious widow? A sordid entanglement, straightened out eventually with money to make her keep away? Would the public believe in the existence of a woman so rapacious?

  But do you mind the cuteness of me.

  I HAVE A NEW BOOK in Hands (the name of the family I’m in digs with) and I have been slaving away in connexion with it night after night above in the National Library. (Drop in there some day if you want a laugh—watch many a forthcoming ‘novel’, ‘play’ or ‘biography’ being copied straight out of the nation’s books—and all under the auspices of that handsome soldier, ‘Buck’ Shea!) This book of mine will be all about the Wild Geese, you know the crowd that were concerned with putting absurd counterfeit pennies in the sea, grey wing upon the tide and so on. Of all the men that fled with that quaint letter heading, RESHAYMUS, perhaps none was so glamorous, none so handsome, none so romantic as Brigadier Remus O’Gorman. Though born in Cookstown and a fine broth of a boy, he is sometimes referred to as an Irish Swords-man; this is nonsense, he never set foot in a bona fide in his life. Be that as it may certain it is that here we have perhaps the most successful Wild Goose that ever laid a golden ague. He founded (by marriage) a family that shed that cheap old-fashioned cloth, lustre, on the country of his origin and gave to the country of his adoption a Marquis, two Marshals including a traffic marshal, a King (under the Empire), three Presidents, four Princes (under the second empire) and the imperishable poet and racketeer, excuse me, raconteur, Rémy de Gourmont nach maireann. (Some of the boys were a bit wild—do you remember that reproach to a certain party for the reason that nunc in quadriviis et angiportis glubit magnanimos Remi nepotes?) You must order a copy of this book (all orders will be dealt with not so much in rotation as in strict rotation)—it will be fully documented and will have a handsome appendix presented to me by Barniville in memory of the old days in Cecilia street. The price will be a quid.

  ADVICE TO PARENTS

  One thing you’ll have to make sure about if you’re a father—never permit your son to consort with anybody in the building trade. Take my own boy. I can only conclude that he spends practically all his time in the company of some plasterer because, do you know what it is, that fellow comes home thoroughly plastered every night. Frightful business. And then all this talk about shortage of supplies.

  It worries me, I may tell you. I sit at home every night thinking about it and smoking endless cigarettes. If you call to my place any evening after seven I will show you one of them. Quite circular, like a hoop. My endless cigarettes are made specially for me by Carrolls of Dundalk, that hateful centre of everything that spells reaction in the steam world. G.N.R.(I.). Bah! Why not put the whole show into the brackets while they’re at it? G.N.R.(I.) looks like a man lying naked in bed with a hat on him.

  And why this (I) at all. One thing that is to be admired about the English is their superb conceit. Thus they call their papers ‘The Times’, ‘The Daily Telegraph’ and so on, scorning to mention their nationality. But our Irish newspapers, railways, natives and stews always bear an explicit statement that they are Irish—as if anybody in any part of the world could be in any doubt about it.

  A MEMOIR OF KEATS

  Of course there is no drink can compare with a bottle of stout. It is sui guinnessis. Keats once called a cab and was disgusted to find the beautiful upholstery ruined with milk spilt by some previous reveller who had been going home with it. Instead of crying over the spilt milk, Keats said to the cabman:

  ‘What’s this? A cabri-au-lait?’

  ANY TIME you happen to visit the
kingdom of the blind, you will find the one-eyed Manus King.

  Excuse me. I have been glancing over an old newspaper and I read that on the 21st May the City Council will meet for the purpose of ‘striking this year’s rat’. This is probably one of these medieval ceremonies, like the one where the Lord Major fires a dart into the Liffey estuary to proclaim the borough’s dominion over the port. Where is this rat caught? What is it struck with and how hard are the blows? It may be the N.S.P.C.A. in me but I think it’s damn silly for a crowd of grown-up men to gather in the City Hall to beat up one defenceless rat, matteradamn what the excuse is. It’s not so much that I’m friendly with rats but I could think of creatures that deserve a hiding far more. I regret we cannot print their names here. We’re afraid of libel but there’s also the difficulty of space remember.

  You know that thing of Yeats beginning When you are old, Dan Grey, and full of sleep? Well, I have translated it into rather fine French. Write to me enclosing a damped stressed envelope and I will send you a copy printed on black glazed buckram with a handful of parsley and two hardboiled eggs. My version begins Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle, assise auprès du feu … and ends with this really pukka sob: Cueillez des aujourd’hui les roses de la vie. The thing doesn’t need a frame and can be bent, screwed or nailed just like a piece of steak.