I’ve never been good at “putting on accents”—a personal failing, considering I was born in the northeast of England and started life with the distinct Geordie dialect. That said, there are exceptions when I still try—one being when I attempt my best Irish accent to recount the story you told me during our flight.
You plonked yourself into the middle seat of the row where I was already settled on the aisle, on the flight from Dublin to Reykjavik. I had just completed two weeks of solo travel around Ireland and was stopping in Iceland for five days before heading home to Nova Scotia. It was your final destination, too. You were travelling from your hometown of Tipperary with your wife, two daughters, and granddaughter, who were scattered throughout the plane.
As my grandmother would say, “you had the gift of the gab”—perhaps a lifelong side effect of kissing the Blarney Stone? And really, that you were from Tipperary—could there be a more quintessentially Irish place? The name alone evokes leprechauns, fairies, and forty shades of green. You looked the part too—like a wee leprechaun yourself: sprightly, with twinkly, expressive eyes and a lyrical voice clearly shaped by years of storytelling.
From the moment you sat down, our conversation was non-stop. Whatever the subject, you had a story—each one more hilarious than the last. We discovered a mutual love of music, especially live music. We shared stories of performers we’d seen, wished we had seen, or still hoped to catch—both of us naming Leonard Cohen. That led to a more tender exchange, one about Cohen’s poetry and the recent death of his beloved Marianne. You recited the words from his letter to her—“...know that I am so close behind you that if you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine.” We both went quiet, letting the weight of those words settle in our hearts.
Ironically, just weeks after our conversation, Leonard died—five months after Marianne. Did you think of our conversation then? I thought of you.
I guess I wasn’t roaring with laughter the whole time.
Eventually, we drifted back to concerts, and I told you the last big one I’d attended: Sting and Paul Simon, on stage together. That’s when you launched into the story—one told to you by your sister back in the mid-1960s, when Paul Simon happened to be living in England. You told it in her words, narrating it like it had happened to you.
Your sister, you said, had a seasonal job at a petrol station near your home in Ireland. Back then, the stations were full-service. Drivers would pull up, and attendants would step out of a booth to pump petrol and handle the payment.
The story involved a wonderfully full use of the word feck. For the unfamiliar, feck is a mild Irish expletive that exists somewhere between “flip” and “fuck.” It’s typically more expressive than offensive—used with frustration, exasperation, or flair: “Ah, feck it, the feckin’ feckers.”
I’ve told your story—well, your sister’s—countless times. I always tell it like you did, like it happened to my sister. And in my worst-best Irish accent, I tell it exactly like this:
It wus a cold, miserable, windy, grey day. De sky 'ad opened an' it wus pissin' down from de 'eavens in al' direcshuns. De rain wus splatterin' down, bein' blown sideways an' 'ittin' de groun' so 'ard it wus also bouncin' back up. That’s whaen de car pulled into de petrol stashun. Two attendants were occupyin' de space in de booth—ye sister an' a male attendant. De lad put de 'ud up on 'is raincoat an' 'eaded outside ter de car. Naw sooner than yer man lef de booth an' 'ad a queck ward wi' de driver, he returned an' said ter ye sister, “Thought yer might fancy pumpin' de petrol, 'e’s lookin' for a fill-up. It’s Paul Simon in de car.”
She wus thrilled an' promptly pulled up 'er 'ud ter venture into de torrential rain ter git a glimpse av Paul whilst fillin' 'is car wi' petrol. De rain wus relentless, lashin' down an' soakin' her. But as cars were smaller den, a fill-up didn’t take too long. Soon enoof de tank wus full. After returnin' de nozzle, she approached de driver’s side av de car an', through de crack av de window, wus given cash for de fill-up dat exceeded de amount owed. She tuk de money an' reached into de loose bills in her raincoat ter git de requisite change. Dis wus murder wi' de wind an' rain flappin' de money an' soakin' it in de short path from 'er rain jacket back through de open window ter Paul. It wus then dat dis conversashun occurred:
Paul: “You haven’t provided me the correct change.”
Ye Sister: “Waaat ye blatherin' about?”
Paul: “You are short changing me. You still owe me two pounds.”
Ye Sister: “I’ve given yer al' de roi change.”
Paul: “No, you’re short. Is it because you know who I am? You think you can keep some of my money?”
Ye Sister: “Oi never! Never in me life 'av oi nicked from anyone. I gave yee what I owed.”
Paul: “You know I’m Paul Simon, and you think because I’m successful you can rip me off—and if I squabble over a couple of pounds, people will think I’m cheap. But it doesn’t make it right.”
Ye Sister: “Feck yee, Paul Simon. Yisser a fecker. Who de feck d’ye think ye are? Feck aff, feck aff witcha!”
She was livid. Standing there in the rain, yelling at Paul Simon through a half-open window, practically merging with the grey day swirling around her. She stomped back to the booth, muttering under her breath, “Feck yer, feck yer, Paul Simon. Never in me life...”
Once inside, her male colleague nodded toward her soaked rain jacket. And there, stuck to the bottom of her coat, were two one-pound notes.
Oh, how I laughed. I still laugh when I tell it—at the absurdity, the accent, the stubborn pride. And yes, at my own terrible attempt at sounding Irish.
Dear Storyteller at 30,000 Feet, you’re welcome on any flight to share my armrest, my stories, and my laughter. Thank you for yours.
With warmth,
Louise
(And in case my accent butchering makes it unclear, here’s the gist:)
On a stormy day in rural Ireland, your sister filled up Paul Simon’s car at a petrol station. When he accused her of short-changing him, she erupted into a rain-soaked fury—only to discover, after a tirade of feck-laced insults, that the missing bills had been stuck to the bottom of her coat the whole time.