have to be irish

priceless

“Miss, mi– miss?…” ….

“Miss?… Miss–”

HEY, BROAD.”

An ear perked, a young blonde man, streetwise and thiefwise, cast his gaze across the mostly-empty restaurant floor to  the leather-wrapped booth on the far wall.

The crowds had clearly avoided Chuck’s Chophouse tonight, a restaurant of spartan appearance but excellent reputation lounging on the south side of Boston’s inner harbor. The south side - the rough side. The sun hung lazy along a sky emerging from the gloom of a day-long rainstorm, the fingers of a pink-orange sunset cresting through a shroud of gray cast long across iron piers, rusty warehouses and a section of slums stinking with crime and rot. Chuck’s fit right in - its exterior of unembellished steel sheets, cracked wooden logs and dirt-crusted windows giving it the look of any of a dozen different crumbling repositories situated along the industrial shores of a region slowly forgetting its past.

Nothing screamed that nearly as loud as the fat man with the jet-black hair and the five-thousand-dollar suit in the far booth, his gruff voice and the hacking, throaty coughs that followed far less suited for the south side of Boston, and far more like something one would find milling about the streets of New York. The accent, the manner, and the unmistakable Italian screamed obnoxious out-of-towner, in with the right sort of people, the sort of people who fed his ego; the sort of ego that led this portly, mottle-skinned man bully waitresses with only a few days on the job.

Braden sat at a table just as spartan as the rest of the joint, glowering at the New Yorker, the only dim face at a table of drunken, raucous hoods. His blood-brothers since first grade, Bray knew these guys inside and out - Mouse, the redhead at the end, chortling quietly and anxiously, built like a skeleton wearing a man-suit, with big, round green eyes and uneven, bright white teeth, always borne in a sheepish grin. Tommy; the biggest, whiniest pussy you’d ever meet; couldn’t take even the threat of a punch without breaking down into tears, and if he had to run two blocks the poor fucker’d be huffing his lungs out, but he had the money, the mind and this magical something that helped me find damn near any tool, odd, end, or contact anywhere in town. Ripper - pretty ominously named, sure, but it wasn’t that he’d rip you so much as he’d rip you off. Cigarettes, fake checks, Italian suits - he’d steal his grandmother’s antique bicycle if there was a dime to be made on it. 

And then there was Kenny. Braden’s best friend, worst adversary. The loudest, most irritating, and most deadly young guy in all South Boston. Affable to his ‘troops’, but with a temper explosive enough to make a nuclear weapon jealous. He had connections, he had ambitions, he had family. The next generation of southie Irish mob royalty, Kenny Donnelly’d take Braden to the top with him - whether Bray wanted it or not.

Bray watched, and watched. While the gang at the table downed another round, exchanging ribald tales with reddened cheeks and boisterous laughs, Bray waited, reclining in his chair, smoothing a plain-white shirt against his muscles, tattoos spilling out from beneath the short sleeves. He knew the girl waiting on the fat, well-dressed New Yorker - Beth Tierney, one of his old school friends, Shauna’s, younger sister. Seventeen and sweet and far too nervous to be serving drinks to loudmouthed men and well-mannered trophy-dates, poor pretty Beth stood there and winced as a flurry of insults cracked at her composure. Watching her face, Bray could almost see the tears scraping at the corners of the girl’s eyes.

“This ain’t a hard job here, sister,” the out-of-towner barked, gesturing to the room - mostly empty, with only a few couples drinking a boring night away in the corners of the room. “Serve the fuckin’ drink, take the fuckin’ order, look fuckin’ pretty and shake your little ass while you walk away,” he sneered, his date crossing her arms in displeasure, staring silent daggers at the young waitress with the long, fiery-red hair. 

“Now where’s my screwdriver?” the suit-wearing man demanded.

“I-it’s– it’s right here, sir, fresh from the ba–” Beth offered the glass, snatched unceremoniously from her palm before she could finish speaking. With a deep swig of the mixture, the New Yorker - predictably - responded with disgust, his face curling at its edges. “The fuck’d you put in this? Rat piss?”

“I– sir, the bartender makes–”

“Well give my regards to the fuckin’ bartender,” the New Yorker interrupted, flicking his wrist the girl’s way, sending a shower of vodka and orange juice at poor Beth’s black apron, a splash of the drink striking her pale-freckled face. “Now make it again,” he demanded, slamming the glass onto the table and swiping it with an open palm, sending it careening off the edge, shattering to shards on the rough brick floor.

Braden’s eyes narrowed.

“Ah hahah –aaah, what’s wrong with you?” Focus shaken, an arm slung along his shoulders, Braden glanced over to his crew. Having had too many as he always did, Tommy pushed a brown-glass bottle into Bray’s face. “Have a drink, you’ll live longer.”

“Live longer? You dumbass,” Kenny howled, the others joining in.

“I’m good,” Bray spoke flatly, eyes spying towards the booth. A quiet fell across the table. The crew housed a curious dynamic - they feared Kenny, but more than that, they feared that one day Kenny and Bray would argue about something and kill one another. That fear was, of course, completely valid; the two had scuffled about dozens of meaningless disagreements over the years. Bray had put Kenny into the hospital for talking about Gracie’s ass once, and Kenny had once picked a fight with Bray over the color of the car the two had planned to steal for a joyride back in high school. The two of them met in a playground brawl, for fuck sake. Whenever tension radiated from one of the two, Mouse and Tommy and Ripper sat still and placid and nervous about who was going to blow up first.

“Got your eye on the asshole in the booth, don’t you,” Kenny murmured, his tone stony and serious. A wave of relief washed over the rest of the crew, thankful another scuffle didn’t seem inevitable. Bray nodded slowly in response, eyes still locked on the fat man across the restaurant.

“Italian. Connected,” Tommy breathed an ominous whisper. “Cara family, one of their bigshots. Name’s No-Bones Bruno,” he continued, playing up the drama of his little tale, enjoying his inebriation a bit too much.

“Wh-what the hell’s h-he doing here?” Mouse chittered out.

“Pretty far from home,” Kenny growled. Bray could already hear ‘Deadly’ Kenny Donnelly cracking his knuckles and sharpening the knives.

“Flexing muscle, probably,” Ripper added, twisting his head to glare at the New Yorker.

“Big power struggle just ended for the Cara family,” Tommy explained in a whisper, guzzling another deep-swallow of beer before sighing contentedly and continuing. “My guess is, No-Bones over there sided with the crew that came out on top. Thinks he’s the king of the fucking world, now.”

“So he celebrates by tossing liquor at young waitresses,” Bray scowled.

“Ain’t that Shauna’s sister?” Mouse asked, twitching his nose; his face was always alive with little flicks, twitches and perks of his expression, more or less like his namesake.

“Yeah, Beth,” Kenny boomed, ready for a fight. Bray gazed down the table at his blood-brother, offering a faint and disapproving shake of his head. Kenny glared, knowing just what that look meant.

“We oughta fuckin’ brain him,” Ripper hissed.

“Yeah, we oughta,” Kenny echoed, pedantry in his voice as his glare bore a hole through Bray.

“Wait in the alley ‘till he comes outside?” Mouse’s words slithered, half-nervous and half-hopeful, from his lips. “We could–”

“No,” Bray spoke resoundingly. Kenny sighed, irritation streaking across his eyes.

“Every fuckin’ time with you, Braden,” he exclaimed. To Kenny, the solution to pretty much every problem was simple - punch it, until things get better. Not surprisingly, Kenny had spent more than half his life in-and-out of correctional facilities. 

Braden had a very different philosophy. He knew how to hit a man hard without lifting a fist in anger. And he knew how to leave bruises that’d last - financial bruises. Ego bruises. Reputation bruises.

“We’re thumping skulls tonight, Braden, and you’re either in or you’re out,” Kenny demanded.

“Bosses say we give a wide berth to any New York fuck that comes our way,” Braden advised. “We don’t want wars, Kenny.”

“Fuck you,” Kenny spoke simply. “We’re kicking his head in.”

“Shut up, Kenny,” Braden spoke just as simply back. That tension returned to the crew’s shoulders. “Tommy,” Bray said, “gotta be a lot of money in winning a mob war, am I right?”

“Plenty of money,” Tommy replied, drunken expression hectic.

“A date like that can’t be cheap,” Bray observed, eyeing the busty blonde giggling through a fake smile opposite the New Yorker. “I’m guessing he doesn’t go cheap on anything. That Brioni he’s wearing’s worth a few grand. He comes to Chuck’s and Chuck’s ain’t cheap. Y’know what else I bet he’s got that ain’t cheap?…”

Ripper grinned. Being thieves at heart, Ripper and Bray got along pretty damn well. Especially in moments like this.

“I bet I know, Bray.”

————–

There it was. Beautiful.

Sitting under a lone street light, the sun finally falling past the horizon and leaving this section of town so thick in the shadows Braden preferred, he saw just what he had hoped - an expensive car. A really expensive car. Even more expensive than Bray had expected. 


A brand-new Ferrari. A stunning piece of machinery, painted in an extraordinary coat of deep-red; rosso. All these exotics had ridiculous names for their paint colors. Just like an Italian to fork over money for this slick piece of Maranello-born engineering was way too nice for an asshole like that.

No-Bones Bruno hadn’t been completely dense. Having snuck out through the kitchen, the crew watched the New Yorker’s car from a steamy side-alley, spying two leather-jacket-wearing, slick-dressed, rotund mob goons standing like a pair of low-rent nightclub bouncers on either side of the sportscar. 

“This is what we’re gonna do,” Bray whispered. “Ripper. Floor jack, cement blocks, lug wrench - back of my car,” he spoke quick, “and I’d better see nothing else missing from my trunk when I get back to my car.” Bray tossed the jingling ring of keys to his prized ‘68 Mustang to his compatriot, who nodded quickly and skittered through the back alley towards the rear parking lot.

“Mouse, Kenny, you’re with me,” he beckoned them with a quick flick of his fingers. With a roll of his eyes Kenny begrudgingly sauntered close, Mouse following hesitantly.

“Tommy,” Bray said, and he could already feel the protest building in Tommy’s face. Tommy was a lazy bastard. Thankfully, most of his job - finding things - could be done from home, because that’s just how Tommy liked it. Having to do things, especially things that required.. effort, and talking, and walking, and.. anything, that was too much.

“It’s simple, Tommy, I promise,” Bray reassured him, irritation trilling in his words.

————

“Man I hate this fuckin’ town,” Vince growled, with all the street-sense in his voice of a pampered rich mob kid who hadn’t even taken a punch.

“When’s the last time you were ever even in this town?” Lou responded, leaning back lazily against the door of No-Bones’s sleek, Italian-built speedster.

“Man, watch the fucking car,” Vince bellowed; Lou perked up, straightening his jacket, glancing around to see if anyone had picked up on his faux pas.

“It ain’t hurtin’ nothing, Jesus,” Lou scoffed.

“This baby’s got a delicate suspension,” Vince hissed, “and you ain’t gonna fuck it up. Now that Ciarelli and his guys are outta the way, ain’t nowhere for us to go but up, Lou - and after a few months, boss is gonna love me so much he’s gonna buy me one of these babies. So keep your shit together.”

“Yeah, I’m sure boss is all about handing out Lamborghinis,” Lou seemed skeptical.

Ferrari, asshole,” Vince insisted. “It’s a Ferrari Italia, 458–”

“Help!  HELP! S-somebody, help! We need– SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!”

That, at least, seemed to grab the two goons’ attention. Slowly. 

Help! Jesus, won’t anybody– HELP!”

From the alley running alongside Chuck’s emerged a shrieking young man, portly around the waist, his hair black, his cheeks reddened with the pleasant burn of liquor. Heads turning, expressions rather dim, eyebrows lofted, Vince and Lou watched him emerge, howling into the street.

“You, there, pl– please! Do you  have cell phones?! A man’s having a heart attack?”

“Cell phones?” Vince asked, though whether the question was what is a cell phone? or something entirely different was anyone’s guess. “Do we have..”

“Yes, cell phones,” Tommy demanded, clearly a tad frustrated with the two slow-witted gentlemen.

“Heart attack?” Lou asked, piecing words together like a brain-trauma victim.

“A man’s having a heart attack, Jesus!” Tommy screeched angrily.

“A man..”

Vince murmured the words, and it slowly, slooowly dawned on him.

“Oh, fuck,” Vince’s slackjawed expression stumbled over the words.

“You think it’s the boss?..” Lou asked, concerned, though his concern felt less like genuine well-being concern and more like a ‘fuck, I’ve gotta do something?..’ sorta concern.

Tommy, meanwhile, had clearly had enough of trying to distract these two idiots.

“Do either of you know a– a Mr. Bruno? He needs help!”

“Mr. Bruno? Who’s…”

“Wait, isn’t that..” Vince and Lou appeared to be doing difficult calculus for a moment, before..

“Oh, fuck, uhh.. shit, call- call 911, and get your ass..” like a circus-act under the world’s cloudiest big top, Vince and Lou took off across the street, rushing through the doors to Chuck’s, Lou frantically jamming ‘9-1-1′ on his phone.

“Welcome to Chuck’s, how many in your party?”

“Where the fuck is the boss?!” Vince demanded of the young, bright-eyed hostess, who blinked twice at the two men charging through the door.

“Did… you want to speak with the manager, sir?..” she asked, confused.

“Not your boss, our fuckin’ boss,” Vince howled. “Where’s he at?!”

“I’m.. sorry, sir?..”

“The guy havin’ the fuckin’ heart attack!” Lou interrupted, pressing his phone to his ear. “Yeah, 911? What’s my emerge– get your asses over here! Where’s.. where’s here? Uh..”

“Someone’s.. I’m not.. sure, anyone’s having a heart attack, sirs,” the hostess raised a brow, almost amused.

“Where the fuck is this place?!” Lou demanded.

“Where’s.. this.. place?..” still perplexed, the hostess took a step back. “Wh–”

“THE ADDRESS, THEY WANT THE FUCKIN’ ADDRESS!”

“Who’s on the phone? Give it to me!” Vince roared, snatching it from Lou’s hand. “Yeah, is this 911? We need an ambulance to– well, no, he’s my partner, I’m trying to talk for– what? No, I’m not– THIS ISN’T A DOMESTIC ABUSE CALL, WE’VE GOT A FAT FUCK HAVIN’ A CORONARY HERE–”

“What the fuck’s goin’ on over here?” A loud, obnoxious New Yorker tone interrupted the circus of a scene, the portly, greasy-black-haired man’s arm looped with his fake-busted date’s, his expression dangerously angry. “Fat fuck havin’ a coronary?”

“OH, uhh, shit, boss– wait,” Vince blinked, throwing the phone across the room.

“Hey, asshole, that was my phone!” Lou protested.

“Boss, you’re not– you’re okay?..” Vince played innocent.

“You’re not havin’ a heart attack?” Lou echoed.

“Fat fuck havin’ a coronary, huh?” No-Bones Bruno’s lip twitched.

“Oh, uhhh– we were.. somebody out in the alley, they said that, y’know, and I was just– I was wondering, y’know, something..” Vince mumbled.

“What the fuck are you two doing in here anyway? Didn’t I tell you to watch the car?”

“…Oh. The car. The–”

Fear gripping the two boneheads suddenly they burst through the door with the same aplomb with which they had entered, hearts skipping a beat and eyes blinking in shock as they found No-Bones Bruno’s brand-new Ferrari Italia 458 - cement blocks stuffed under its side panels, holding it aloft just far enough for a gang of well-equipped thieves to wrench off the lug nuts and steal the expensive, gleaming silver wheels.

“…Shit,” Vince mouthed.

“What was that about.. boss buyin’ you a Lamborghini?” Lou asked, recalcitrant.

“..Fuck you.”

————–

“You know, we’re not gonna get dick on the aftermarket for these things,” Ripper huffed up to Braden, breath taken from him as he hurriedly rolled the freshly-stolen Ferrari wheels along the filth-crusted back alley through which the gang had made their escape. Like a well-coordinated train of hoodlums four of them dashed, rolling tires along in front of them; at the rear Tommy heaved and puffed, dragging a floor jack along behind him.

“Can we.. stop now.. jeez,” Tommy gasped.

“We’re far enough,” Kenny said, rolling his tire to a slowing stop, his heavy breathing giving way to an indulgent shout of satisfaction. “Stupid fuck didn’t even see it coming!”

“Where are we gonna offload these things?” Ripper asked, leaning against a wall, letting tire come to rest at his feet. “Your average junkyard doesn’t exactly deal in many Ferraris most days.”

“I know,” Braden responded, wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead. Bray knew ahead of time he wasn’t going to be making a killing off these wheels. One could count the number of Ferraris in Boston on one hand, and still have a few fingers to spare. Not even Ralphy’s place, the yard Bray usually fenced car parts to, would take these things, and Ralphy had about as many morals as a nun had boyfriends.

“So.. then, what’s the plan?” Kenny asked.

“We keep ‘em,” Bray shrugged. “Decorations. Souvenirs. Hang one up in your garage.”

“So this wasn’t about making a score,” Ripper’s expression shriveled up; he had certainly wanted to rip somebody off for a good penny, tonight.

“Some stuff is priceless,” Bray responded, hoisting his plunder up onto his shoulder.

“Nothing in this world’s priceless,” Kenny rebuffed him.

“That asshole went from trophy girlfriends and throwing drinks at poor Beth, to a sexless night spent hitching rides in taxis around Boston. That’s pretty priceless,” Bray disagreed. After a tense staring match, Kenny finally cracked a little smile.

“Yeah, you’re right, it is pretty priceless,” he laughed.

Got pregnant on a date (Irish drinkng song)
  • Emma: I once went with a guy.
  • Cristina: I took hit to the movies.
  • Mark: Things got out of hand.
  • Julian: It really was quite groovies.
  • Emma: We went back to my place.
  • Cristina: And then it got intense.
  • Mark: Boy, we had a lot of fun.
  • Julian: I had to put up a fence.
  • All: *sing the Irish part of the song, pretending to have beer in their hands*
  • Cristina: I didn't have what I needed.
  • Mark: Boy, I had some fun.
  • Julian: Boy, we did m-make a mistake.
  • Emma: I was the lucky one.
  • Cristina: When I got home that night.
  • Mark: My ovaries did swell.
  • Julian: I puffed up like Jiffy Pop.
  • Emma: I'm a dude, WHAT THE HELL?!
  • All: *doing the thing from before*
  • Mark: I started getting fatter.
  • Julian: I dialated there.
  • Emma: I had me baby.
  • Cristina: Right in me underwear.
  • Mark: Boy, it was painful.
  • Julian: The head started to crown.
  • Emma: He turned around and said ''DAD!''
  • Cristina: I am Mark Blackthorn.
  • All: *irish part of the song*
  • Julian: I slapped him on the butt there.
  • Emma: And then I slapped his head.
  • Cristina: And when I slapped his bottom
  • Mark: I slapped the doctor instead.
  • Julian: I called my boy Kit.
  • Emma: He looked good.
  • Cristina: And when I got him home that night.
  • Mark: You can get poo from food.

anonymous asked:

What are the 4 hw doing in this town?

Becky runs the local bar/pub with Sheamus. What better people to have run it than the Irish? At least, that’s her way of thinking.
Bayley is a kindergarden teacher. She likes making sure her students see a big smile and get a hug first thing in the morning. Hugs make everything better.
Charlotte is from the town but moved away to follow in her father’s footsteps. She’s now a big time actress, but comes back every once in a while to remind everyone that her family lineage is better than theirs.
Sasha works at the bank. She’s the head of the town’s branch, and keeps a tight ship. The town bank is the most effective bank in the entire state. Or at least, that’s what the awards hanging all over her office walls say

🌊 Types of Mermaids 🌊

please be respectful of cultural boundaries when working with mermaids from various cultures and traditions, and be mindful not to intrude.

🌊 Rusalkas - slavic in origin, disturbed spirits of the “unclean dead”, ghosts of women who died violent deaths, with a penchant for drowning young men. they live only in rivers and lakes, and are known to have green hair like aquatic plants, only appearing in the night. 

🌊 Melusina - a mermaid that walks among humans, but returns to their two-tailed form during baths and when they bathe their children. often a water spirit of a nearby lake or river. french origin. 

🌊 Siren - greek mythology. servants and companions of persephone, whom searched for her when she was abducted. they are known to sometimes have the body of a bird, and for their song, which lured sailors to their doom. cannibalism implied folklore. have the power of prophecy. 

🌊 Merrow - irish mermaid. known to have green hair and webbed fingers. particular noted love of music and their red cap, which when stolen, they will live with the thief until they find it, and then return to the water, leaving even a whole family behind. 

🌊 Ben-varrey - from the isle of man, known to bless those that are kind to them with prosperity, gifts, and even the location of treasure. 

🌊 Aicaya -  Caribbean mermaid, humans who become mermaids when they are shunned from their community and go to live in the sea. 

🌊 Amabie - japanese merpeople, with birdlike torsos and three legs and scales. they are gifted with prophecy, usually foretelling abundant harvests or epidemics 

🌊 Ningyo - “human faced fish” known to have golden scales, that brings bad weather and misfortune when caught, but when their flesh is eaten the consumer is granted youth and beauty, even agelessness. 

🌊 Finman / Finwife - magical shapeshifters that disguise themselves as sea creatures or plants to lure humans, unlike most mermaids they kidnap people from the shores to be their spouses or servants. they have a greed for jewelry and coins, particularly silver, and prefer humans over other finfolk. 

🌊 Sirena Chilota - considered the more friendly mermaids, caring for all fish life and rescuing drowned sailors to restore life to them. known for their human-like beauty and youth, according to legend they are the child of a human and a “king of seas”, tears are a powerful substance. from chilote mythology. 

🌊 Cecealia - sometimes known as “sea witches”, they are half human and half octopus. origins in native american and japanese mythology. 

🌊 Sirena / Siyokoy - the philippine version of mermaid and merman respectively. also called “magindara”, they are known to protect the waters from raiders, and protect the boy moon from sea monsters. Siyokoys can sometimes have legs however, covered with scales and webbed feet

🌊 Sea Mither - scottish/orcadian mythology, a spirit that personifies the sea during spring and summer, battles along scottish isles using storms to bring the summer about. a mother figure to all aquatic life. 

🌊 Ceasg - a fresh-water mermaid, specifically half-salmon, said to grant three wishes if captured. sometimes called maighdean na tuinne (maid of the wave) or maighdean mhara (maid of the sea). scottish. 

🌊 Selkie - though somewhat different from the typical mermaid, as they are not cold-blooded, have the body of a seal in the water and are human on land. in legends their skins are often stolen and they are kept by fishermen as spouses, or become lovers to fishermen’s wives who shed tears into the sea.  

6

So this has been the news of Ireland for the past day. 796 remains of children where discarded and hidden away by the Bon Secours nuns in a septic tank on the grounds of an old “mother and babies” home in Tuam Co. Galway from sometime in the 1920s until the 1960s. These homes were common in Ireland to where unmarried mothers were sent to because they’ve brought shame on their family in the eyes of their religion.

I’d appreciate it if this was spread around on tumblr because many people don’t realise that this was what happened in this country. The General reaction from Irish folk was dismay and disgust and most importantly many were “not surprised” when this report’s findings were released. And The Catholic Church still has a stronghold on the country today.

And in unsurprising news the Irish pro-life groups and infamous spokespeople have been silent so far in condemning the actions and atrocities of the Catholic Church.

I would like for y'all to meet my little 2 week old Irish Wolfhound puppy… Prompto! He’s the runt of the litter and a very sweet boy. He might be smaller than the rest, but he’s a tough guy!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone!! If ya didn’t know, I have a ton of Irish heritage and today, I’m reminiscing back on my trip to Ireland. Such a beautiful country!! Remember to wear green! ☘️💚☘️

Made with Instagram

dramallama201  asked:

Are you worried that you'll lose your Irish accent now that you will be surrounded by English, as I've heard you say before that it's already become more neutral but it's currently still there so just wondering 😂

naaahhh haha I have a pretty neutral accent already anyway. If you heard regular Irish people talk you’d realise I don’t really sound THAT Irish at all.

My bro has lived in France for years and he still has a thick accent so I think I’ll be fine :D

i never thought i’d say this but even moriarty deserved a better ending??? like people in the cinema literally cheered when he came on screen, people enjoy watching him and he’s so Extra and weird and they had so much potential for him but in the end the one who defeated the main villain was himself?? like what villain just gives up at a minor inconvenience and kills himself?? it’s so anti-climatic. and he was literally their main marketing point for s4. “i know exactly what he’s going to do next” at the end of tab and all the “miss me?” hype got people so excited for more of this psychotic manic and then he did.. absolutely nothing?? anyway pour one out for jimothy, another victim of s4

Fun fact: in Ireland one of our Irish stories that we have to study is about this woman reading a dirty novel on the train and some blind fella with asthma sits in front of her and starts yapping and she’s kinda like “mate ur ruining me buzz” and he starts eating a cake really messily it’s pure disgusting so she tricks him into thinking there’s a worm in the cake and he starts freaking out and has an asthma attack and she just pushes the inhaler out of his reach and he dies. I have a link if you want a visual

Quick and Simple Spells

Maybe we have not the energy or psychic resources to complete something complex. Maybe we cannot wait for the full moon. Maybe we need something in the moment. Simple spells can give us a boost or help us through trying moments.

Ease Anxiety
With a small object in your hand (exempli gratia: a pen, a small stone, a charm, an eraser). Run your thumb lightly over the surface of the object either away from you or in a diurnal (anti-clockwise) motion. Repeat slowly in your mind calma anois síos (now calm down).


Confidence Boost
Using your compact or standing in front of the mirror say the following three times: Tá mé neart (I am strength).


Beauty Charm
Hold a necklace, ring, earrings, or bracelet you can comfortably wear in your left hand and place your right hand over them. Repeat three times: áilleacht agus cairde (beauty and grace). Move through your day with confidence.


Notes
If you have trouble pronouncing the Irish, the English will work just as well.

thedarkknightascendant  asked:

Why the change from Tragowan to Magowan?

Tregowan is a Cornish name. (The Tre- is a Cornish prefix. “By Tre Pol and Pen / Shall ye know all Cornishmen.” ) When the showrunners told me they wanted to to do Essie’s story, but replace the piskie in the story with our leprechaun, I told them they would need to begin the story 200-odd miles northwest, in Ireland, not in Cornwall, and no, you couldn’t have a leprechaun showing up in Cornwall.

MacGowan is an Irish name. (According to its wikipedia page, the name translates from the Gaelic as “Smith”.) An Irish Essie would be a MacGowan. So that’s why the change…

Someone come talk to me about Seamus and Luna speaking as Gaeilge to each other, & Seamus speaks in the wesht dialect obviously & Luna’s is more standardised/East cause that’s where Evana is from, and sometimes they just recite the “An bhuil cead agam…” cause maybe they’re not both fluent but they know the basics from primary school, and they’ve got the daitheanna and the “Is/Ni maith liom..” stuff and okay I can see them going out to bars and Luna pointing out guys to Seamus like “Buachaill deas?” “Seá, buachaill deas.”
& Yeah just these two Irish cuties keeping the Gaeilge alive and confusing the Sasnachs

I Was Made For Loving You

Happy early Birthday @levins18 this Bartender!James AU is for you after all our talks about boy problems. I adore you! 

(Please note this is NSFW at the end because my fingers slipped.)

Read on FF Net 

He was over the one-time shags and loveless relationships the town offered. He was happy with his life and content with his success but she was sharper than tequila, sweeter than wine, and had more of a kick than a shot of fireball. 

Keep reading

I’m disappointed to not find a scrap of information here about the Strike4Repeal event happening tomorrow in Dublin and beyond. As part of the women’s strike, there’s a massive wave of us demanding abortion rights (again) because in Ireland it is considered a crime worth 14 years in jail (still) - no exceptions. Seven women a day travel from Ireland to the UK to access abortions, and all of them are at risk of arrest if they’re “caught”. The estimated monetary cost is about €600, and takes about 14 hours from start to finish if travelling direct from Dublin to London or Liverpool. It’s a twenty minute procedure.

Unfortunately this is still a Catholic State, even though there’s horrifying evidence of every type of abuse, neglect, and murder inflicted on vulnerable women and babies by the Irish Catholic Church coming to surface now. (Google Tuam babies/ the Magdeline Inquiries if you’ve a strong stomach. It is literally the stuff of nightmares, and only one small part of it all.)

So, I don’t know, there’s a LOT happening here right now. We need support. I get that Tumblr is basically a hub for Americans, but I thought there might be a little more talk going. So I figured I’d bring some information to you, instead.

There are Strike4Repeal marches happening all over the country and in several others, too. Use the tag #strikeforrepeal or #repealtheeighth to find info about local marches, or to show your support.

Women have died over this. It’s time for change.

Shiro Headcanons
  • Watched Inuyasha as a kid. And Naruto. Lots of 90s/00s shonen anime, actually, which is a good seven decades old to him.
    • Really misses coffee.
    • May or may not have a soft spot for Irish Coffee.
    • Don’t tell Commander Holt, he’d be disappointed 
  • Once set a pot of water on fire in the Castle’s kitchen and then blamed it on Keith when Hunk asked for an explanation.
    • “The Red Lion is pretty well-aligned to fire, so it might give its paladin some abilities in that regard.”
    • Keith has never felt so betrayed.
  • He can waltz, but that’s about it for ballroom dances. Every time he tries something faster, or with even a hint of syncopation, he trips over his own feet.
    • Allura thinks it’s funny.
    • He can somehow breakdance, though? Everyone is very ??? about this.
      • “HOW?”
        “I mean, it’s not choreographed, so…”
        “That doesn’t exactly explain anything!”
  • One time, Coran caught him just standing in an empty room and screaming while holding his head between his hands. Not because of a flashback of anything, just screaming wordlessly at a wall for stress release. They don’t talk about it.
  • Can do a catwalk strut. In five-inch heels. He’s proven it to the team but still hasn’t explained why, when, or how he learned to do it.
  • Can flirt extraordinarily well for a mission. Cannot flirt with someone he’s actually interested in to save his life, unless it’s literally to save his life.
  • Almost instituted a swear jar out of sheer annoyance with the paladins deliberately misusing curse words, but relented when Keith suggested they also make an ‘unnecessary death jokes’ jar.
    • “It was one time, Keith. I don’t make that many jokes.”
    • “The last time Hunk asked if you were craving something, both you and Lance said ‘the sweet release of death.’ You make so many morbid jokes that you’ve infected Lance! Lance! He’s, like, the peppiest guy in existence!”
  • Has considered trying to challenge Hunk to an arm-wrestling contest.
    • Hasn’t actually gone through with it.
  • Once mistook Pidge for Matt while super dazed right after coming out of a cryopod. They haven’t talked about it.
  • Had to bargain with Coran for shaving supplies. Coran thinks that Shiro should be growing out his facial hair. Shiro vehemently disagrees.

I know we all have a thousand questions for Moffat and Gatiss, but I just can’t get over Janine’s last name change in The Abominable Bride.

Why change it unexpectedly to “Donlevy” if not to pay respects to “Donleavy”, the female relative of Moriarty in the Mary Russell Sherlock Holmes novels? Why have that prominent newspaper clipping missing an “A” if not to draw attention to it? Why have Arwel tweet during TAB setlock a sentence with a capital “A” randomly in the center? Why frame Janine with the bison horns? Why have her Irish, like Moriarty? Why cast an actress who looks exactly like Andrew Scott? Why have her be Mary’s #1 go-to gal but not worth anything in the end? Why have her go to Sussex Downs like Holmes and Donleavy? Come on, hardly any people are thinking about this. Out of the millions of viewers, I bet only a few people in the world have noticed these parallels and are still mulling them over. There’s a carefully foreshadowed villain reveal with Janine (and Mary) but we haven’t seen it. “Donlevy” cannot be a coincidence. If there is no Lost Special I will go to my grave wondering about this.