When I look back on my childhood,
I wonder how my brothers and I managed to survive at all.
It was, of course, a miserable childhood.
The happy childhood is hardly worth your while.
Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood...
is the miserable Irish childhood.
And worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
You beautiful wee thing.
You are. Look at you.
So gorgeous.
What is it?
It’s a beautiful wee girl, Mrs. Leibowitz.
After four boys. Can you believe it? A wee girl.
What name is it, Malachy?
It’s Margaret Mary.
Oh, she’s so beautiful, Minnie.
Brown hair and blue eyes.
Just like her mom.
Beautiful wee thing.
Aren’t you?
Come on, Eugene.
Oliver, come on. Splash. Eugene, come on. Stop crying.
Good boy.
We’re in the bath. Bubbles. Don’t cry, Eugene. Don’t cry.
– Hey, Eugene, look at my bum. Ooh. – Malachy, stop showing your bum.
I’m only trying to make them laugh.
Sweet Jesus in heaven, Malachy.
She’s awful quiet, Angela.
A wee bit cold.
I’ll get Mrs. Leibowitz.
Everyone loved little Margaret.
Dad said there must have been a holiday in heaven the day this baby was made.
Dad said he would get a job soon...
and buy her dresses of silk and shoes with silver buckles.
Poor little Margaret. Just a few days in this world...
and she was taken back by the same angels who brought her here.
God, look at these twins.
- Stop crying, Ollie. - Eugene, please.
Frankie, I can't do this. Where do I put the pin?
My dad said he wasgoing for cigarettes...
and the twins just screamed and screamed.
Thank God for Mrs. Leibowitz who lived upstairs.
Boys, oh, my! What happened to you?
Where's your mother? What do you want?
We've got no dinner.
Eat just a little bit more.
Come on, Angela. You have to eat.
Good.
Come on.
Oh, my God.
The children are naked, Delia.
Where did Angela get such filthy habits?
And her mother was always spotless.
- The stink is awful. - The twins have shitty arses.
It's a mouth like a sewer you have. No wonder.
With a father from the north of Ireland with a funny manner and Protestant ways.
You could go to hell saying a thing like that.
- Where is your father, anyway? - He went for cigarettes.
- Two days ago. - Two days?
- I'll break his face, I swear. - Dad'll be home soon.
Get paper and a pen, Delia. We have a letter to write.
My aunts wrote to my mom'smother to send money for the tickets.
We must have been the only Irish family in history...
to be saying good-bye to the Statue of Liberty...
instead of hello.
We were going back to Ireland where there was no work...
and people were dying of the starvation and the damp.
It made no sense to me, but what did I know.
I was only five going on six.
Christ, look at that coat.
Get you buttoned up.
There we are now.
I’ll take him to the lavatories,
then I’m off to see the I.R.A. man for me money.
Francis, you can come with me for the company, eh?
I’ll be needing him to help me here.
Won’t I be needing him to help me carry all the money?
All right, Frankie, you can go with your pop. Malachy!
Malachy, don’t go to the lavatory there.
– I can’t stop. – Peeing all over me.
It’s coming out.
Da, Da, wait for me. I wanna go.
No record?
But I did my bit for Ireland.
I fought with the Flying Columns during the Troubles.
Had a price on my head.
Had to be smuggled to America.
There’s no record of your service here. None.
But I have a wife and four children.
I’m raising my sons to love Ireland.
Look. Please.
We have nothing.
I’m sorry. We can’t be handing out money...
to every man who wanders in here...
saying he did his bit for Ireland.
I’ll look into your claim.
I’ll let you know what turns up.
Here’s money for the bus back into the city.
You couldn’t add to that to make the price of a pint, could you?
It’s the drink you’re after, is it?
One pint is hardly a drink.
You’d make that child walk back into Dublin because you’re after a pint?
Remember this, Francis, this is the new Ireland.
Wee men in wee chairs with wee bits of paper.
I think you should leave. Declan, the door.
And don’t bother coming back.
This is the Ireland men died for, is it?
Come on, Frankie. Free, my arse.
We’re not handing out money to support the Guinness family.
He wanted to marry her off to the King of Sicily.
But the beautiful young Wilgefortis,
she didn’t want to be marrying no scabby old man, did she?
So, she prayed to God for help.
And do you know what he did, Frankie?
No, what did he do?
He grew a moustache and a beard on her face.
– He didn’t. – He did.
Malachy, move away from that window.
Frank, take Eugene, and don’t forget your bag.
Put your coat on. Malachy, put your coat on now.
I’m telling you I’ll kick you so hard.
Here. There you go.
Oliver’s been sick on my jumper.
Hello, Mam.
Oh, come on.
This is Malachy.
Mrs. Sheehan, pleased to meet you.
And Aggie.
Hi, Aggie. How are you?
And Pat.
Hi, Pat.
What are you staring at?
Nothing.
Grandma said she had no room for us in her house,
so she gave us 10 shillings for two weeks’ rent...
in an upstairs room in Windmill Street,
near my mam’s sister Aggie.
– Mind yourself, Mrs. Sheehan. – Look at that.
– I’ll take the weight. – Why is the heart on fire?
It’s the sacred heart of Jesus.
Don’t these children know anything about their religion?
Ah, mom, it’s different in America.
The Sacred Heart is everywhere. Even in America.
There’s no excuse for that kind of ignorance.
Look. That’s the Baby Jesus.
And if you ever need anything, you should pray to him.
Will you tell Jesus that we’re hungry?
Shut up!
– Ma! – Ma!
They’re biting me!
– Mom, I’m bleeding! – Hold your noise now.
Look! Look at Malachy! His arm’s all bloody!
It’s the fleas, Angela. They’re everywhere.
– Malachy, out of the bed. – Jesus, will we get no rest?
– Malachy, come on. Pull. – Let’s take the mattress downstairs.
– Pull, Malachy, pull. – Come on. Come to me.
– Get the mattress downstairs. – There’s fleas on the floor!
– That’s it, on the ground. – Ouch!
Malachy, we’re surely gonna catch our death out here...
and you’ll be getting pneumonia.
Me dad said that if a man could jump like a flea,
one leap would take him halfway to the moon.
Once a flea has bit a human being, the smell of blood is too much for them.
They’re ready for the lunatic asylum.
They were brought over by the English, to keep us up at night...
and drive us out of our wits entirely.
Because the English knew that the fleas,
they multiply faster than the Hindus.
– What’s the water for, Dad? – They do. They do!
I wouldn’t put it past the English.
St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland; the English brought the fleas.
And the damp.
We loved our dad’s stories.
Hey, wait a minute. I need some coal.
I’ve got a docket here from St. Vincent de Paul.
Mister, please.
Francis. Fra-- put that down.
Don’t pick coal off the road.
We’re not beggars.
It’s terrible. Look.
No pride, Frankie.
Come on!
I can’t believe you.
This baby’s sick, and he needs a hot drink.
Now, if you’re too grand to pick coal off the road, I’m not.
Frankie. Malachy!
Okay, come on. Let’s go.
Oh, shit!
Malachy, come on.
Angela, come on.
It’s a rabbit she is, that Angela.
I don’t see why we should be paying for her mistakes.
Five born and one gone and so useless she can’t even scrub a floor.
Go easy with the sugar. We’re not millionaires.
She was always angry, was Aunt Aggie.
Me dad said it was a good thing she didn’t own the stable in Bethlehem...
or the Holy Family would be wandering the world still crumbling with hunger.
I swear the skinny fella’s the image of his father.
Aye, with the odd look and the sour puss and all.
I think this fella likes me. ’Tis Al Jolson he thinks I am.
I think we’ll keep this little fella.
– No, he’s our brother! – That’s Eugene.
– You can’t keep him. – Don’t bother.
I wouldn’t want anything that was half Limerick and half North of Ireland.
– You should be so lucky. – Don’t worry. I’ll have me own someday.
If I have to crawl to Lourdes on me two bended knees.
Oh, did you bang your foot? Show me your foot.
I’ll go down to Thompsons the undertakers...
to see about the coffin and the carriage.
The St. Vincent de Paul Society will surely pay for that.
God knows.
Oh, son.
Jesus, I said to me self, I have so much gas in my system,
’tis a great pity to waste it.
So I shove a pipe up my arse, light a match to it...
and there I have a fine flame ready to boil water in any billycan.
The English come from trenches...
to pay me any amount of money to boil their water.
That’s no story to be telling in the presence of a dead child.
’Tis better than sitting with a long face.
I made so much money in the trenches that I was able to bribe the generals,
who didn’t normally give a fiddler’s fart about the Irish,
to let me out of the army, and off I went to Paris,
where I had a fine time drinking wine...
with the models and artists and talkin’ the lingo.
You think that’s funny, do you? I had a great time over there.
Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.
Requiescat in pace.
Anima eius, et anime omnium fidelium defunctorum,
per misericordiam Dei, requiescant in pacem.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
Amen.
I don’t know why we can’t keep Oliver.
I don’t know why they sent him away in a box like my sister.
It’s not right.
I wish I could say something to someone.
Dad said he was going to the Labor Exchange to get the dole.
He’d be home by noon, he said, and he’d have rashers and eggs and tea.
He wasn’t home by noon...
– or 1.00... – On your feet.
or 2.00...
or anytime before the sun went down that day in May.
Fight! Fight!
Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!
Come here. Stop! Quit that now! Quit! Stop, I said!
Quit now!
You little hooligan.
Is that the kind of behavior you brought from America? Is it?
Well, you come on with me.
I’ll put the fighting out of you, boy.
My little Yankee Doodle Dandy.
The masters at Leamy’s School all have straps and sticks.
They hit you if you don’t know that God made the world,
or if you don’t know the patron saint of Limerick.
They hit you if you can’t say the Hail Maryin Irish...
or if you can’t ask for the lavatory pass in Irish.
They hit you if you laugh, if you’re late, if you talk.
One master will hit you if you don’t know that Eamon De Valera...
was the greatest man that ever lived.
Another will hit you if you don’t know that Michael Collins...
was the greatest man that ever lived.
McCourt.
You’re a bad Yank, McCourt. What are you?
They said we were cowboys and gangsters, sir.
– I was only joking, sir. – No more jokes.
– It’s not their fault they’re Yanks. – T’isn’t, sir.
You should go down on your two knees every night...
and give thanks to God that you’re not a Yank.
If you were, Al Capone himself would be coming to you for instruction.
I know Oliver is dead.
Malachy knows Oliver is dead,
but little Eugene is only two and too small to know anything.
Malachy and I make him laugh,
pull faces, put pots on our heads,
take him to the park, show him the flowers.
Me dad says Eugene is lucky to have such brothers like me and Malachy.
He died anyway.
Ma.
Please, God,
is this what you want, is it?
I’m not supposed to question this, am l?
You took my son, Oliver.
You took his brother, Eugene.
You took their beautiful wee sister, Margaret Mary.
Dear God above,
why do you want the wee children to die?
Please, God, don’t let Malachy and me and the rest of us...
be taken off in the box for the hole in the ground.
Or even Aunt Aggie or Mr. Benson at Leamy’s School.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Toast.
Be going in a minute, son.
No, that’s Eugene’s coffin.
I’ll tell mam you put your pint on Eugene’s coffin.
– Have another pint, mister. – Will you wait outside a few minutes?
– No! – Jesus, if that was my son,
I’d kick his arse from here to County Kerry.
I mean, if a man can’t have a pint on the day of a funeral,
what use is living at all?
I couldn’t have spent another minute in that room.
I saw me little twins morning, noon and night.
If we hadn’t have moved, I’d have gone out of my mind...
and ended up in the lunatic asylum.
I’m sorry, but it was only five months ago.
And before that, I lost my little girl in New York.
And I’ve the two boys here and I’ve one on the way.
Ah, now, missus, sit down, will you?
Thanks.
That’s a nice coat you’re wearing.
It was given to me by my cousin in Brooklyn. It’s not new.
McCourt. That’s not a Limerick name.
Where’d you get a name like that?
My husband, sir. He’s from the North.
Why don’t you go to Belfast and see what they can do for you up there?
I don’t know, sir.
Of course you don’t know.
There’s great ignorance in the world.
I said there’s a great deal of ignorance in the world.
And what do you want from us?
There isn’t a stick of furniture in the new place.
– Does your husband have a job? – No, sir, he’s on the dole.
We’ll give you a docket for a table, two chairs and two beds.
You can take it to the second hand furniture shop in Irish town.
Excuse me, sir, but will the beds be second hand?
Of course they will.
I’m worried about sleeping in beds people might have died in.
Especially if they died of the consumption.
Beggars can’t be choosers, Mrs. McCourt.
Thanks.
I should say it’s a good fire.
Could it be true
Hey, hey, that’s my wife.
Someone like you
Who’s he?
That, Francis, is Pope Leo XIII,
and he was a great friend of the working man.
You know, I found this in an alley in Brooklyn in someone’s rubbish.
No doubt thrown away by some eejit that had no time for the working man.
Ugh, what’s that stink?
Hey, what are you doing?
Why are you emptying your bucket in our lavatory?
Your lavatory, mister? Ah, no. I think you’re mistaken there.
This here is the lavatory for the whole lane, it is.
The buckets of 11 families get flushed down here every day.
And it gets fairly powerful here in the warm weather.
So powerful you’ll be calling for a gas mask.
So, good night to you. Missus.
I hope you’ll be happy in the house.
Thanks very much.
And there was this big man, and he came along and he met this woman,
and he grew a big huge beard all over her face,
and then they got married.
Have we moved again, Frankie?
No, they wouldn’t go without the Pope.
Oh, Jesus, look at the state of youse. Couple of drowning rats.
Get your wet clothes off, dry yourself by the fire,
and say hello to your brother Michael.
He’s fatter than the Baby Jesus.
He’s the spitting image of your dead little sister...
with the lovely blue eyes and the gorgeous eyebrows.
Why are we all upstairs?
The downstairs is full of the damp. It’s killing us one by one.
That lavatory could kill us with every class of disease.
It was the Limerick damp that killed your wee brothers.
We’ll be dry up here for now. We’ll go downstairs for the spring.
It’s like going away on holiday to a nice, warm, foreign place,
like-- like Italy.
– Italy? – Aye, we could be in Sorrento.
Calcutta, more like.
– What about the Pope? – He can stay downstairs in Ireland.
Will you look at the state of those children’s shoes?
I can’t go to the St. Vincent’s for boots.
I’m too weak to be standing in the queue.
There was a woman who had triplets waiting forever in that queue.
Have you no pride, Angela, begging like that?
What would you do, Mr. Grand Manner?
You’d let them go barefoot before you got off your arse,
useless feck that you are.
Right.
Useless feck, is it?
We’ll see.
It’s poor I am.
It’s unlucky I am.
But it’s useless...
I’m not.
Look at those shoes!
– Where are your shoes? – Don’t know, sir.
Of course you know, boy. Where are they?
Did your mommy not put on your shoes this morning?
Did you come to school without shoes, did you?
How many times have you been told about walking the streets in your bare feet?
By God, I’ll boot the bare feet out of you, boy.
Put them on, boy.
Quiet!
Do I hear sneering in this class?
Do I hear jeering at another’s misfortune?
Is there any boy in this class who thinks he’s perfect?
If so, raise your hands.
Is there any boy here now who has money galore to be spending on shoes?
Raise your hands.
No.
There are boys in this class who have no shoes at all,
and it’s not their fault.
It’s not their shame.
Our Lord had no shoes.
He died shoeless.
You don’t see Him hanging on the cross sporting shoes.
– Do you, boys? – No, sir!
What is it you don’t see Our Lord doing?
Hanging on the cross sporting shoes.
“Hanging on the cross sporting shoes,” what?
Hanging on the cross sporting shoes, sir.
Everyday, me dad would look for a job,
– somehow, he never seemed to get one. – We’ve enough for today.
– Mam said it was his Northern accent. – No work here. Sorry.
Grandma said it was because of his funny manner.
Me dad knew those lanes like the back of his hand.
He walked them often enough when he couldn’t get work...
and was too ashamed to come home to me mam.
That’s why we loved Easter.
Because it was at Easter that me dad got his first job.
The dipsy doodle is the thing to beware
The dipsy doodle is gonna get in your hair
And if it gets to you it couldn’t be worse
The things you say will all come out in reverse
Don’t go up the mine, Manny
That’s the way the dipsy doodle works
The dipsy doodle is a way to do fine
It’s almost always at the back of your mind
You never know it’s there until it’s too late
And then you get in such a terrible state
Will you stop it?
Maybe if you weren’t strangling me, I’d be fine.
– Stop it. – When you think you’re crazy
It was only at the Limerick Cement Factory,
but he still wore a collar and tie.
He said a man without a tie had no respect for himself.
Come on.
In Mountjoy jail
One Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the cause of liberty
For Jesus’ sake, put a sock in it!
Some of us have to go to feckin’ work in the morning!
Yet there’s no one can deny
As he walked to death that morning
He proudly held his head
His head up high
Francis! Malachy!
Come down here, boys. I have the Friday penny for you.
No. Be quiet.
Up, boys!
Those Red Branch Knights!
Those Fenian men!
The glorious I.R.A.!
Up! Up! Up!
I have the Friday penny for you, boys.
You line up like soldiers now,
and promise to die for Ireland.
– I don’t want it. – I don’t want it either.
Damn!
When we woke up the next morning,
he was still asleep.
He missed work and lost his job.
And what do I have here, Clohessy?
Strips of newspaper, sir.
And what do they represent, Clohessy?
Pieces of the Limerick Leader, sir.
No!
The body and blood of Christ.
If you don’t pay more attention, it’ll be the Last Rites...
you’ll be getting, not your Holy Communion.
Irish is the language of patriots...
and English of traitors and informers.
But Latin-- ah, boys, Latin--
that the Holy Martyrs spoke before expiring...
in the foaming mouths of ravenous lions.
Yes, it’s Latin that gains entrance to heaven itself.
But there are boys in this class...
who will never know Sanctifying Grace.
And why? Because of greed.
Those greedy little black guards are talking even now...
about the money they’ll get from the Collection.
They’ll go from house to house in their little suits like beggars.
And will they take any of that money...
and send it to the poor black babies in Africa as they should?
Oh, no.
It’s off to the cinema the First Communion boys will go...
to wallow in the disgusting filth...
spewed across the world by the devil’s henchmen...
in Hollywood.
– Isn’t that right, McCourt? –is, sir.
Don’t speak, you! Can’t you see that God is on your tongue?
Where is God, boys?
On his tongue, sir.
On his tongue.
My friend, Mikey Molloy,
tells us all about how much money we’ll make...
at the Collection after our First Communion,
when we all knock on the neighbors’ doors...
and get as much as five shillings for sweets and cakes...
and even go to the Lyric Cinema to see James Cagney.
– I seen it three times. – What happens in it?
Also, Mikey is the expert in the lane on girls’ bodies...
and dirty things in general.
Now, on top, the girls have great floppy things called titties.
And at the end of them, great red things like dogs’ noses.
And down at the bottom-- Now that’s an entirely different matter.
– They don’t have a mickey down there. – What do they have?
I can tell you, but I don’t think he should hear it.
Malachy, go away.
Eww! Yuck!
Oh, look, I’ll take one of these as well.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.
Yes, my child. And what sins have you committed?
I told a lie, I hit my brother,
I stole a penny from my mother’s purse,
and I ate a sausage on Friday.
Yes, my child, anything else?
I listened to dirty things about girls from the lanes...
who don’t care what they do because they--
because they’ve already done it with their brothers.
And who told you these things?
– Mikey Molloy, Father. – Hmm.
For your penance, say three Hail Marys, three Our Fathers,
and say a special prayer for me.
Am I one of the worst boys, Father?
No, my child. You have a long way to go.
Wake up! Wake up!
His First Communion, the happiest day of his life,
and the lot of you still snoring in there.
Here, you two, get up. Go on.
Look at him. A bar of soap wouldn’t be lost on him.
I’ll be red raw.
I swear it’s the Northern Ireland in you.
It attracts the dirt.
You’ve the dirty gob of your father.
Aah! That’s cold.
Jesus, you have enough dirt in your ears...
to grow potatoes.
Will you look at that mop? It won’t lie down.
You didn’t get this hair from our side of the family.
This is North of Ireland hair you got from your father.
It’s like-- like what you’d see on a Presbyterian.
Will you stop spitting on me?
A little spit won’t kill you.
If your mother had married a proper, decent Limerick man,
you wouldn’t have stand-up, North of Ireland, Protestant hair.
And we wouldn’t be late.
Corpus Christi.
Will you stop your clucking and get back to your seat?
Corpus Christi.
Mam, can I go now and make the Collection?
I want to go to the Lyric to see James Cagney.
You can’t make the Collection until you’ve had...
a proper First Communion breakfast at my house.
Mam.
Will you look at him? The manners of a pig.
He eats like a Presbyterian.
Is it a millionaire you think I am? An American?
Is there any more tea in the pot, Mam?
– Aye. – I could do with a cup.
You all right, Frankie?
– What’s the matter, Frankie? – What’s wrong with that child?
Look what he did! He’s thrown up the body and blood of Jesus.
What am I to do? I have God in me backyard!
I’m taking you to the priest.
That was a dreadful thing you did in my backyard.
In the name of The Father and of The Son and of the Holy Ghost.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
It’s been a day since my last confession.
A day?
And what sins have you committed in a day, my son?
I overslept, and I nearly missed my First Communion.
My hair stuck up like a Protestant’s,
and I threw up my First Holy Communion breakfast.
Now me grandma says she has God in her backyard and what shall she do?
Tell your grandma to wash it away with a little water.
Holy water or ordinary water?
– He didn’t say, Grandma. – Well, go back and ask him.
In the name of The Father and of The Son and of The Holy Ghost.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
It’s been a minute since my last confession.
A minute? Are you the boy that was just here?
– I am, Father. – What is it now?
My grandma says holy water or ordinary water?
He says ordinary water, and don’t go bothering him again.
Bothering him?
Well, the ignorant old bog trotter.
There wasn’t anytime for the Collection. Not a penny.
So Mikey Molloy pretended to have one of his fits...
so that I could slip in when no one was looking.
– Missus, quick, He’s having a fit! – Is he all right?
Mr. O’Brien, quick!
Watch he doesn’t swallow his tongue.
Does anyone know what to do?
– No, don’t. I’ll do anything. – Oh, no, you won’t.
You’ve had your last chance. You can take this with you.
Shoot him!
All you had to do was bump me off.
– Do you want a toffee? – Thanks.
I’m glad I did the First Communion.
I’m glad I got my First Confession over and done with.
Now I’m free to grow up. Old enough to be ten, anyway.
Old enough to pay the ultimate penance for growing up.
Worse than joining the army or the police...
or going to Australia or becoming a nun in Africa.
Worse than that, I had to learn Irish dancing.
I don’t want to learn it. Ow. What did you do that for?
Just don’t want to learn how to dance.
...and back and back.
Up and back and one, two.
Lift up your feet, for the love of Jesus.
One, two, three. And one, two, three. And up and back, and one, two, three.
And up and back, and one, two, three.
If my mates saw me making a pure eejit out of me self...
at the Irish dancing, I’d be disgraced forever.
I want to be Fred Astaire.
Irish dancers look like they have steel rods stuck up their arses.
Would you stop the frowning Frankie McCourt?
You’ve a face on you like a pound of tripe.
And up and back, and one, two, three. And up and back, and one, two, three.
The next time I went to dancing lessons, I bumped into Paddy Clohessy.
– Hi, Frankie. – Hiya, Paddy. How you doing?
– Not too bad. You? – Grand. Catch.
Frankie, I’m telling you, that dancing stuff is for sissies.
You won’t be able to play football next.
– I won’t? – You’ll be running around girlie-like.
– Shut up. – Everyone will be laughing at you.
– They will? – Next thing, you’ll be knitting socks.
I was finished with the dancing.
Every Saturday, my mam’s sixpence got me and Paddy into the Lyric...
with enough left to stuff our gobs with Cleeves’ toffee.
Yay!
I was so happy, I didn’tknow whether to shit or go blind.
Every week, I’d take the money and skip the dancing...
and go to the pictures.
When I got home, I’d make up the dancing...
– and pretend I had a poker up my arse. – Well done, son.
Hitler shows himself in his true colors.
He marches his troops into the Rhineland...
in defiance of the terms of the Treaty of Versailles.
The swastika spreads its evil shadow.
Sir, what use is Euclid when the Germans are bombing everything in sight?
What use is Euclid?
Without Euclid,
the Messerschmitt could never have taken to the sky...
and dart from cloud to cloud...
and bomb the bejesus out of the English,
who deserve it after what they did to the Irish for 800 years.
Euclid is grace and beauty...
and elegance.
– Do you understand that, boys? – We do, sir.
– I doubt it.
To love Euclid is to be alone in this world.
You. Clohessy.
Who stood at the foot of the cross when our Lord was crucified?
The Twelve Apostles, sir?
Clohessy, what is the Irish word for fool?
Omadhaun, sir.
Sir. I know who stood at the foot of the cross, sir.
It was the three Marys, sir.
That’s Fintan Slattery.
He’s going to be a saint when he gets older.
Everyone know she wears his sister’s blouse at night...
and curls his hair with hot iron tongs...
so that he’ll look gorgeous at Mass on Sundays.
It’s no wonder we played truant.
Chickens!
Of all the girls I’ve known and I’ve known some
Until I first met you I was lonesome
And when you came in sight my heart grew light
And this old world seemed new to me
You’re really swell I have to admit you
Deserve expressions that really fit you
Hurry up, Frankie. I can’t hold them.
I’ve racked my brain hoping to explain all the things that you do to me
Bei mir bist du schon, please let me explain
Frankie, there’s nothing in the world...
like a good feed of apples and a drink of water...
and a good shit and plenty of grass to wipe your arse with.
Paddy, quick, wipe your arse. It’s milking time!
Will you wait for me? Frankie, wait.
Frankie, you’re doing it wrong. You’ve got to pull it down.
– You have to squeeze down. – Shut up!
– Frankie, don’t!
– Hey, clear off, you little bastards! – Run, Paddy, run!
I’ll give you such a kick in the hole, you won’t know what hit you.
Here, piggy.
Mikey Molloy persuaded us to go to Peter Dooley’s house.
Peter Dooley has a hump like the one Charles Laughton had...
in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
That’s why they call him Quasimodo.
Oh, and he has these four sisters with the enormous breasts.
Okay, it’s a shilling for the three of you.
Climb up the spout, and each of youse have a look, but no wankin’.
I’ve my own sisters. Why should I pay to see your naked sisters?
’Cause looking at your own naked sisters is the worst sin of all.
Not even a bishop in the world could forgive you for it.
What can you see?
– Oh, it’s grand. – Can you see their tits?
I said no wankin’. There’s to be no wankin’ up the spout.
– Oh, it’s grand. – I said no wankin’ up the spout!
– You perverted bunch of filth! – Let go!
My daughters can’t even wash themselves on a Friday night!
Poor Quasimodo. He was right.
Gawking at your own naked sisters is the worst sin of all.
Except when you charge a shilling for the pleasure.
That’s worse still.
Introibo adaltare Dei. And then you say?
Ad Deum quila etificat juventutem meam.
Right. Introibo adaltare Dei, and then you say?
Ad Deum quila etificat juventutem meam.
Very good. Again. Introibo ad--
Ad Deum quila etificat juventutem mean.
Hello. How are you? This is my son, Francis.
He can recite the Latin, and he’s ready to be an altar boy.
– Ad Deum-- – I’m sorry. We have no room.
Never mind, son.
Sacred Stan said there was no room for him.
I’ll tell you what it is.
’Tis class distinction.
They don’t want the boys from the lanes at the altar.
They don’t want the ones with the scabby knees...
and their arses hanging out of their trousers.
They want the boys with the nice shoes and the clean hair...
and the fathers with the steady jobs.
Not useless like you.
That’s what it is.
And it’s hard to hang on to your faith.
You buy pints for people you don’t know who tell you you’re a grand man,
while your children are at home with their bellies stuck to their backbones.
Aye, you’re right.
I’ll get a job. I promise.
If you get a job, you lose it the third week...
because you drink all the wages...
and you miss the work.
We’ll get by, Angela.
I’ll change.
The dole is 19 shillings and the rent is 6.
And that leaves 13 shillings to feed and clothe 5 people.
God is good, you know.
God might be good for someone somewhere,
but he hasn’t been seen lately in the lanes of Limerick.
Oh, Angela.
You could go to hell for saying that.
Aren’t I there already, Malachy?
Come here. Come here.
And then the angels left another baby on the stairs again.
What are you going to call him, Angela?
I like the name Kevin or Sean.
If you called out the door, “Kevin, Sean, come in for your tea,”
you’d have half of Limerick running at you.
– I like the name Alphonsus. – Alphonsus?
That’s a stupid name.
Ah, Jesus Christ!
– Don’t curse! – Will you leave the poor child alone?
I wondered how many more babies...
the angels would leave on the stairs.
Someone else to share my dinner with.
Ow. What did you do that for?
Don’t laugh. Now you know what it feels like.
At least my grandpa in the North...
sent us five pounds for the baby Alphie.
All right. You go home and tell your mother I’ll be back in a few minutes.
You’re not to go to the pub, Da.
Mom said you’re to bring home the money.
– You’re not to drink the pint. – Now listen.
– You go home to your mother now. – Da.
Give us the money. That money is for the new baby.
Da!
Please, Da.
Go home!
Will you come in here, Frankie?
I want you to go down to South’s Pub,
and I want you to stand in the middle of the pub...
and tell every man that your father is drinking the money for the baby.
You’re to tell the world there’s not a scrap of food in the house.
There’s not a lump of coal for the fire.
There’s not even a drop of milk for the baby’s bottle.
Oh, come on.
And I pray that the world would in peace let me be
And the green glens of Antrim
Are welcoming me
And if you only knew
How the light of the moon
My heart is banging away, and all I can think of doing...
is giving him a good kick in the leg and running away.
– But I don’t. – You’d imagine a picture
Because I remember all the nice times he sat me by the fire...
and told me his stories of Cuchulain, Roosevelt and De Valera.
Later, he’ll be home singing and offering us a penny to die for Ireland.
It’ll be different now.
Because it’s bad enough to drink the dole or the wages,
but a man who drinks the money for a new baby has gone beyond the beyonds.
Mam.
I couldn’t find him.
Go to bed, Frankie.
With Confirmation,
you will become true soldiers of the Church.
That entitles you to die a martyr...
in the event we’re invaded by Protestants...
or Mohammedans or any other class of heathen.
You will have the gifts...
of the Holy Ghost. wisdom...
understanding, counsel.
What is the Third Station of the Cross, my child?
When Jesus falls for the first time.
What is the Fourth Commandment, my child?
Honor thy father and thy mother.
Are you all right, Frankie?
Father Gorey is touching me with oil and praying,
and that means I’m going to die.
But I don’t care.
And then Dr. Campbell came in and held my hand.
It was then that I knew I was going to get better.
Because a doctor would never fart...
in the presence of a dying boy.
They gave me a whole new body full of blood.
Sister Rita said it came from a soldier at Sarsfield Barracks.
Oh, son.
You’re a grand old soldier.
What’s wrong with me?
You’ve had the typhoid.
Don’t go.
Hey, you’re a big boy now.
And don’t forget you got soldier’s blood in you.
You’re over the worst of it.
Soon be home to Sorrento.
That was the first time my dad ever kissed me.
I felt so happy I could have floated out of the bed.