The big joke in Ireland is that no one actually knows how to speak Irish (Gaelic), though they spend upwards of ten years learning it in school. Actually, the no-one-speaking-it part isn’t entirely true, as there are broad swathes of county out West that continue to use the Irish language in everyday interactions for reasons of pride, heritage and, ahem, tourism.
There’s also been a resurgence in past years of parents choosing traditional Irish names and spelling for their offspring. For the non-Irish among you, best of luck deciphering how to pronounce: Caoimhe (clue: there’s no “m” sound in it), Oisin, Daithi, Maebh (clue: there’s no “b” sound in it), Donncha, Eoghan (clue: there’s no “g” sound in it), Aoibheann, Naoise and on and on...
But the majority of Irish people I know would agree that their Irish language prowess is limited to reading road signs, however bad, (printed by law in both Irish and English), and recalling rote phrases from their schooldays -- “please sir, may I have...s’more?” Some cultures might be shamed, but the Irish are possessed of a total inability to take anything -- least of all themselves -- too seriously. Enter the genius Carlsberg beer ads from several years ago:
A group of Irish 20-something males are holidaying in Brazil(?), trying their luck in local nightclub. An intimidating, bald-by-choice bartender comments on their nationality as he serves them (a Carlsberg, obvs) and demands they “do something Irish.” The crowd around quickly chimes in, in vaguely menacing tones -- ”yes, something Irish -- a song, a dance.” Put on the spot, one of them finally offers up a recitation of Irish verse, which sounds fairly poetic:
An bhfuil cead agam dul amach go dtí an leithreas?
Agus madra rua! Is maith liom cáca milis.
Agus Sharon Ní Bheoláin.
Tá geansaí orm.
Tá scamaill sa spéir.
Tabhair dom an cáca milis!'
But is actually just a series of cobbled-together phrases, per below:
'May I have permission to go out to the toilet?
And fox! I like cake.
And Sharon Ní Bheoláin.
I'm wearing a jumper.
There are clouds in the sky.
Give me the cake!'
There is much murmuring of appreciation and applause as he finishes and launches himself, like a man dying of unquenchable thirst, at the awaiting Carlsberg pint. Cut to an hour or so later, where we see him grooving on the dancefloor with a Brazilian hottie, who asks coquettishly, “speak some more Irish.” To which he responds:
“Cúinas bóthar cailín bainne.” (Quiet road girl milk.)
Probably the best beer ad in the world.
Footnote: For the record, if ever my husband wants a good laugh, he asks me to read an unfamiliar phrase or sentence in Irish. Apparently, my accent is more “Hyderabad” than old-country charm. Here’s an excerpt:
“Hey -- read out what’s written on the top of that license plate over there, it's the Irish name for Dublin.”
I squint my eyes, making out the words “Baile atha Cliatha,” then stall, suspecting a trap.
“Erm, erm...hmmmm. Bye-lee a-th-a Clee-ah-tha?”
Cue hysterical laughter (not my own.)
“Well, what is in then? How would YOU say it?!”
“It’s boy-ee ah-ha clee-a...!” (Snorted through unmanly giggles.)
“So if I said it like I didn’t have any teeth, then it would be correct?”
“Hmmm, yeah. Pretty much.”
Well, THEN...
