Halloween Means The Dagda Rides Again

Client Piece – Selling Blog

It’s Halloween. Oiche Shamhna back home. A time of dirty dark deeds done dirt cheap. TwoTon Murphy has a tale that will chill your soul, fill you with dread and sour your stout. The Dagda. Like the badass penny he is, turning up when you least expect him. Scaring the shit out of Banshees, goblins and the Devil himself.

If you need an arse kicked, ball pucked, maul rolled, or problem solved. Dagda’s your man. Some man for one man the Dagda. You never know where he might turn up, just when you need him.

When the mood seized him and the music moved him he’d hammer out a deadly beat on the cheeks of his own Arse. BallyFuckinShannon Coothill, BallyBastardinPoreen – places he trucked into, fucked about and left. Destruction, craic, women swooning, men shaking. You name it.

Five string banjo slung across his back, sittin’ low on his bike, huge club in hand. This man wreaks havoc and devastation wherever he goes. Lover fighter, hurler, scrumhalf, flanker and hooker all in one man. He can shift. By God he can. Honey words. Tinder? More like Firestarter.

Himself and herself. A yoke from Ballyhea direction that was fond of puckin in a few balls herself got it on, on the width of the bike seat. Feel the power between your thighs, he roared as they bucked and wheelied, before falling off backwards as the accelerator got her out of hand. That’s why I wear the leathers and the TwoTonMurphy, he chuckled roarin’ off up the road.

Major craic dealer, every pub, club, bar and restaurant he turns into a cauldron of mayhem. A funnel for sinking stout hidden in the environs of a voluminous leather jacket. In a few seconds he’d whip it out and lower a pile of pints in record quick time. A French hottie tried it standing on a seat on the bar. Downed a pint in six seconds she did, broke hearts when she sang the Marseillaise by popular demand. Five score men fell in love with her petite petiteness and the women – the better halves – they called her a Wee Bitch. Sex on stout. Dagda? Who’s next he’d roar, and a lad in a wheelchair drove thru the crowd. By jaysus he wanted some of that. He was last seen with the French Petite on his pillion heading for the N17 and a tank of Gas.

The place was rockin, he’d fire off a flurry of tunes on the banjo a – sliver gleamin black dream machine that offered deliverance to all who heard it. Next he’d roar c’mon te fuk, before ripping a bodhran from a bearded ceolteori in the corner to drum out a few hornpipes before tossing it back. That’s how you rattle that goatskin, he roared.

Sometimes he slept on the bike, others in the warm embrace of whoever took him home for a mattress-buster of a session. Last Saturday he booked into a hostel near Eyre square after a charge of John Jameson’s liquid gold. The snores of him could be heard in Howth and Hackballscross. What a fuckin hallion, complained an enforced inflicted roommate. That’s a fuckin gobshite.

Three Germans packed their stuff and left, one in terror as the top bunk sagged dangerously close to his face after a spring broke and shattered into shite, The Dagda Arse a huge and imposing edifice of evil dangling too close for comfort. Now that’s Halloween.

He hurled with a hurl with a huge bas and I mean fuckin huge. The grain was worn black with all the sliotars pucced in anger over the years. Over the bar and still rising like injected with Viagra, but he needed none of that bat shit to get them up. Hit the ball to me he roars I’m marking a midget, before crashing another point over the ball stop.

In the rugby he was like O’Connell, Gaillimh and Claw rolled into one big muscle of badassery. Ripping ball out of rucks, body parts flying the ball gripped in one hand and some man’s head in the other, tossed to one side as he strode for the line. If we’d had him last week. . . but sure.

Halloween’s coming, and it’s near that time. From Derry, to Dingle and Cross to Cork you’ll hear the roar when the craic begins. The Dagda Rides. There’s one in all of us.