Dear Stranger from Tipperary,
I’ve never been good at “putting on accents”, a personal fail considering I was born in the northeast of England and started life off with the distinct Geordie dialect. That being said, there are exceptions when I still try, one being, when I put on my best Irish accent and recount the story you told me during our flight.
You plonked yourself down in the middle seat of the row where I occupied the aisle seat on the flight from Dublin to Reykjavik. I had just completed 2 weeks of solo travel around Ireland, and, before heading home to Nova Scotia I was stopping in Reykjavik to spend 5 days to discover a bit of Iceland. This was also your final destination and you were travelling from your hometown of Tipperary, Ireland with your wife, two daughters and granddaughter who were scattered in other assigned seats throughout the plane.
As my Grandmother would say, “you had the gift of the gab”, perhaps having life long access to kiss that Blarney stone?! And really, that you were from Tipperary, is there an Irish town that better conjures up an image of Ireland. There is something lyrical in the town name that evokes a vision of leprechauns, fairies and the quintessential 40 shades of green. You were every bit what I would expect a man from Tipperary to look like – that is, like a wee leprechaun, sprightly, with twinkly, expressive eyes and a lyrical voice that was well accustomed to a great deal of storytelling.
From the moment you sat in your seat, our conversation was non stop and whatever the subject matter, you had an accompanying story that literally made me roar with laughter. We learned that music was a big force in both our lives and we are both fans of live music. Who had we seen perform, who we wished we had seen, who we were hoping to see (both landing on Leonard Cohen). This lead to a heartfelt conversation about the Canadian legend, his poetry, the recent death of his beloved Marianne and the accompanying letter that had just been written by Leonard. You recited the words “.....know that I am so close behind you that if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine", our laughter paused as we let the weight of those words hang deep in our hearts. Ironically a mere weeks after our conversation, Leonard died, 5 months after his Marianne, did you think about our conversation when he died? I thought about you.
I guess I wasn’t roaring with laughter all the time.
Yet, our conversation continued and we talked about the last big concerts we had attended, for me, it happened to have been Sting and Paul Simon on stage together. This was when you told me the story, the story that had been told to you, by your sister, in the mid 1960’s when Paul Simon happened to be residing in England. You told the story in the words of your sister, narrating the story as if it were your own.
In her youth, your sister had a seasonal job at an attendant at a petrol station near your home in Ireland. At that time the stations were full service, so cars would pull up to the petrol pump and the attendant would come out of a booth to inquire as to the amount of petrol wanted by the driver (fill-up or volume or a monetary amount). The attendant would be responsible to pump the petrol prior to the cash being exchanged.
All these years later, when you told me the story, in the words of your sister, it had a wonderful, full span use of the word, feck. For the unfamiliar, in Irish speech the word feck is quite a popular expression. It can be used in a variety of phrases but generally it’s a pretty mild swear word that straddles between using the term flip as an expletive and of course the more familiar fuck. The Irish generally use the word feck a lot, and more with annoyance than real anger, to express (a) you’re pissed off, or (b) describing someone who pissed you off or put it all together like: “Ah feck it, the fecking feckers”.
I’ve told your story or I should say your sister’s story, numerous times. I tell the story just like you told it to me, almost like it was my sister and not yours that day in Ireland almost 60 years ago. In fact, in my best, being the worst, Irish accent possible - I tell it just like this:
It wus a cowl, miserable, windy, grey day. De sky 'ad opened an' it wus pissin' down from de 'eavens in al' direcshuns. De rain wus splatterin' down, bein' blown sideways an' 'ittin' de groun' so 'ard it wus also bouncin' back up. That’s whaen de car pulled into de petrol stashun. Two attendants were occupyin' de space in de booth at de petrol stashun, Ye sister an' a male attendant. De lad put de 'ud up on 'is raincoat an' 'eaded outside ter de car. Naw sooner than yer man lef de booth an' 'ad a queck ward wi' de driver yer man returned an' said ter ye sister , “Thought yer might fancy pumpin' de petrol, 'e’s lookin' for a fill-up, it’s Paul Simon in de car”.
She wus thrilled an' promptly pulled up 'er 'ud ter venture into de torrential rain ter git a glimpse av Paul whilst fillin' 'is car wi' petrol. The rain al' de while wus relentless, lashin' down an' soakin' yer sister. But as de cars were smaller den, a fill-up didn’t take too long, an' soon enoof de tank wus full. After returnin' de petrol pump nozzle, she approached de drivers side av de car an', through de crac av de window wus given cash for de fill-up dat exceeded de amount owed. She tuk de money an' reached into de loose bills in her raincoat ter git de requisite change. Dis wus provin' ter be murder wi' de wind an' rain flappin' de money an' soakin' it in de short patt from 'er rain jacket back through de open window ter Paul. It wus at dis time dat dare wus sum conversashun between ye sister an' Paul. Paul in de car an' ye sister bein' blown aboyt wi' rain standin' outside de car:
Paul: “You haven’t provided me the correct change”.
Ye Sister: “Waaat ye blatherin' about” she implored.
Paul: “You are short changing me, you still owe me two pounds”.
Ye Sister: “I’ve given yer al' de roi change”.
Paul: “No, you are short changing me, is it because you know who I am and so you think you can keep some of my money”.
Ye Sister: “Eeeeeeee, well oi never, never in me life 'av 'ot nicked from anyone, oi gave yee de full amount”.
Paul: “you know that I’m Paul Simon and so you think because I do well and have some money that you can rip me off and if I squabble of a couple of pound, everyone will think that I’m cheap but it doesn’t make it right.”
Ye Sister: “Never in me life 'av oi 'ot nicked, feck yee Paul Simon, yisser a fecker. Oi gave yer al' dat oi owed yer. who de feck yer tink yer are? feck aff, feck aff witcha Paul Simon!”
By ye accounts she wus livid, an' likely looked loike a lunatic, yellin' through de car window at de driver, al' awhile becomin' almost wan wi' dat grey slate day dat wus blowin' through 'er. She stomped back ter de booth, cursin', under 'er breath, feck yer, feck yer paul simon, never in me life.
Once back in de booth, de male colleague, who wi' a nod av acknowledgment, den pointed a finger towards 'er soppin' wet rain jacket. An' dare, thoroughly soaked, an' stuk ter de bottom av 'er rain jacket were two, one quid bills.
Oh, I laughed at your story, I laugh when I tell it, I laugh at my ridiculous, likely insulting, but heartfelt attempt at an Irish accent. Dear Stranger from Tipperary you are welcome on any flight to share my armrest.