The Irish Buddha
by John McGroarty
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: An ould Irish folk tale.
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This is a little tale about how I imagine it must have been back in the old country; back in what was for many of us in our youth romantic Ireland. And it’s a grandfather telling his grandson about an encounter he had one day while out walking in the hills. If you think it’s funny and would like to recite it after a few jars à la Billy Connolly, I recommend you do it in an Irish accent (southern, not Ian Paisley, though the latter does give it a further comic twist if not a sort of historical/ironic one). One word of warning: if there are any priests or Catholic romantic Irish or their descendents present, I would wait for a better opportunity (though in my experience there never is one).
… Now you have to imagine what it was like back then, what with the priests everywhere, running everything: good morning this, father, good afternoon that, father, lots of bags full, father. And so when it all got too much for you, you would go out for walks, big long walks out into the hills and valleys for hours on end, sometimes for days or weeks, never speaking to anyone except to wish a good day to some passing monsignor on a donkey or old woman carrying a bunch of sticks on her back or to direct a wolftone whistle at some maids doing a jig at a crossroads.
Well, one morning I was out for a humongous walk, despite having been walking the whole night before, and had just got up from inspecting a grave hoping it would finally be O’Leary’s (where Romantic Ireland is said to be) when I met him, the Irish Buddha. He was sitting there on the top of a hill looking out over the valleys with his shaven head and his mystic aura, wearing nothing but a green sash across his chest and wrapped around his privates for decency’s sake.
I tried speaking to him. I spoke to him in Irish and then in English: What’s it all about, eh? Can you tell me? I asked him, a little desperately, if not pleadingly the last time. EH? EH? EH??? But he didn’t say a word, that Irish Buddha, just squatted there with his legs crossed looking out silently towards the sea.
So that’s when I went back to the priests. Because let’s face it they’ve got all the answers and all that theology and faith and stuff. They can tell you what to do under any eventuality or circumstance, and, of course, what not to do. Not like that Irish Buddha, just sitting there looking out over the hills and the valleys out to sea, waiting for you to come up with the fucking answer………
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: An ould Irish folk tale.
_____________________________________________________________________
This is a little tale about how I imagine it must have been back in the old country; back in what was for many of us in our youth romantic Ireland. And it’s a grandfather telling his grandson about an encounter he had one day while out walking in the hills. If you think it’s funny and would like to recite it after a few jars à la Billy Connolly, I recommend you do it in an Irish accent (southern, not Ian Paisley, though the latter does give it a further comic twist if not a sort of historical/ironic one). One word of warning: if there are any priests or Catholic romantic Irish or their descendents present, I would wait for a better opportunity (though in my experience there never is one).
… Now you have to imagine what it was like back then, what with the priests everywhere, running everything: good morning this, father, good afternoon that, father, lots of bags full, father. And so when it all got too much for you, you would go out for walks, big long walks out into the hills and valleys for hours on end, sometimes for days or weeks, never speaking to anyone except to wish a good day to some passing monsignor on a donkey or old woman carrying a bunch of sticks on her back or to direct a wolftone whistle at some maids doing a jig at a crossroads.
Well, one morning I was out for a humongous walk, despite having been walking the whole night before, and had just got up from inspecting a grave hoping it would finally be O’Leary’s (where Romantic Ireland is said to be) when I met him, the Irish Buddha. He was sitting there on the top of a hill looking out over the valleys with his shaven head and his mystic aura, wearing nothing but a green sash across his chest and wrapped around his privates for decency’s sake.
I tried speaking to him. I spoke to him in Irish and then in English: What’s it all about, eh? Can you tell me? I asked him, a little desperately, if not pleadingly the last time. EH? EH? EH??? But he didn’t say a word, that Irish Buddha, just squatted there with his legs crossed looking out silently towards the sea.
So that’s when I went back to the priests. Because let’s face it they’ve got all the answers and all that theology and faith and stuff. They can tell you what to do under any eventuality or circumstance, and, of course, what not to do. Not like that Irish Buddha, just sitting there looking out over the hills and the valleys out to sea, waiting for you to come up with the fucking answer………
About the Author
John McGroarty was born in Glasgow and now lives in Barcelona, where he works as an English teacher. He has been writing short stories for many years. His acclaimed long short story Rainbow is a McStorytellers publication.