the green eyed yellow snurdface
Driving Miss Lily through the heartland of South Kildare.
As is its wont my mind betakes itself to rambling.
"You know," sez I, "I think I have a very actorly voice. I could be one of the great reciting actors like Richard Burton or Peter O'Toole. You can just imagine me declaiming poetry to stunned audiences around the world. They'd be hanging on my every word."
Whereupon I began to declaim The Green Eyed Yellow Idol in rumbustiously classical tones.
"There's a green eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu.
There's a sort of a cross roads type thing below the town.
And a broken hearted woman tends the grave of mad Carew.
With the idol forever looking down."
The Mammy shot me a suspicious look.
"Are you sure those are the words?" quoth she.
I shook my head.
"Us classical actors can't be worrying about things like the words," I told her. "Whenever I get stuck I just make things up."
The car swerved as I avoided a farmer. When I'd gathered my wits again, the recital continued.
"He was known as mad Carew,
To the men At Kathmandu,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.
Like an idiot she was.
Grinning all the time.
Obviously intensely repressed."
My passenger released a long and weary sigh.
"Please stop," sez she.
"Okay," sez I, "How about this:
He was known as Heeler the Peeler
To all the wheeler dealers
And some Hindu babes smiled on him as well..."
"I doubt it," said the Mammy pointedly.
This reaction did not discourage me as much as you might expect. And it was a pleasant drive we made of it. Me declaiming madly a la Peter O'Toole all the way from old Kilcullen to sweet Athy.
As is its wont my mind betakes itself to rambling.
"You know," sez I, "I think I have a very actorly voice. I could be one of the great reciting actors like Richard Burton or Peter O'Toole. You can just imagine me declaiming poetry to stunned audiences around the world. They'd be hanging on my every word."
Whereupon I began to declaim The Green Eyed Yellow Idol in rumbustiously classical tones.
"There's a green eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu.
There's a sort of a cross roads type thing below the town.
And a broken hearted woman tends the grave of mad Carew.
With the idol forever looking down."
The Mammy shot me a suspicious look.
"Are you sure those are the words?" quoth she.
I shook my head.
"Us classical actors can't be worrying about things like the words," I told her. "Whenever I get stuck I just make things up."
The car swerved as I avoided a farmer. When I'd gathered my wits again, the recital continued.
"He was known as mad Carew,
To the men At Kathmandu,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.
Like an idiot she was.
Grinning all the time.
Obviously intensely repressed."
My passenger released a long and weary sigh.
"Please stop," sez she.
"Okay," sez I, "How about this:
He was known as Heeler the Peeler
To all the wheeler dealers
And some Hindu babes smiled on him as well..."
"I doubt it," said the Mammy pointedly.
This reaction did not discourage me as much as you might expect. And it was a pleasant drive we made of it. Me declaiming madly a la Peter O'Toole all the way from old Kilcullen to sweet Athy.
posted by heelers | 10:56 PM
4 Comments:
James, I have driven some of these Irish roads, well, not the exact ones you mention here, but quite possibly similar ones, and in my experience, there are some....quirky drivers on those roads. You should take care declaiming while driving.
But you do have a wonderful acTORly voice, tis true.
Schnee, my dahling.
Chamki, my dahhhhling.
j
I've always said, if you can't have fun with your own family, whom can you have fun with?!
Gen, I'm only smiling on the outside.
J
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