and curls his hair
with hot iron tongs...
so that he’ll look gorgeous
at Mass on Sundays.
It’s no wonder
we played truant.
Chickens!
Of all the girls I’ve known
and I’ve known some
Until I first met you
I was lonesome
And when you came in sight
my heart grew light
And this old world
seemed new to me
You’re really swell
I have to admit you
Deserve expressions
that really fit you
Hurry up, Frankie.
I can’t hold them.
I’ve racked my brain hoping to explain
all the things that you do to me
Bei mir bist du schon,
please let me explain
Frankie, there’s
nothing in the world...
like a good feed of apples
and a drink of water...
and a good shit and plenty of grass
to wipe your arse with.
Paddy, quick, wipe your arse.
It’s milking time!
Will you wait for me?
Frankie, wait.
Frankie, you’re doing it wrong.
You’ve got to pull it down.
– You have to squeeze down.
– Shut up!
– Shut up!
– Frankie, don’t!
– Hey, clear off, you little bastards!
– Run, Paddy, run!
I’ll give you such a kick in the hole,
you won’t know what hit you.
Here, piggy.
Mikey Molloy persuaded
us to go to Peter Dooley’s house.
Peter Dooley has a hump like
the one Charles Laughton had...
in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
That’s why they call him
Quasimodo.
Oh, and he has these four sisters
with the enormous breasts.
Okay, it’s a shilling
for the three of you.
Climb up the spout, and each of youse
have a look, but no wankin’.
I’ve my own sisters. Why should I pay
to see your naked sisters?
’Cause looking at your own naked sisters
is the worst sin of all.
Not even a bishop in the world could
forgive you for it.
What can you see?
– Oh, it’s grand.
– Can you see their tits?
I said no wankin’.
There’s to be no wankin’ up the spout.
– Oh, it’s grand.
– I said no wankin’ up the spout!
– You perverted bunch of filth!
– Let go!
My daughters can’t even wash
themselves on a Friday night!
Poor Quasimodo. He was right.
Gawking at your own naked sisters
is the worst sin of all.
Except when you charge
a shilling for the pleasure.
That’s worse still.
Introibo adaltare Dei.
And then you say?
Ad Deum quila etificat
juventutem meam.
Right. Introibo adaltare Dei,
and then you say?
Ad Deum quila etificat
juventutem meam.
Very good. Again.
Introibo ad--
Ad Deum quila etificat
juventutem mean.
Hello. How are you?
This is my son, Francis.
He can recite the Latin,
and he’s ready to be an altar boy.
– Ad Deum--
– I’m sorry. We have no room.
Never mind, son.
Sacred Stan
said there was no room for him.
I’ll tell you
what it is.
’Tis class distinction.
They don’t want the boys
from the lanes at the altar.
They don’t want the ones
with the scabby knees...
and their arses hanging
out of their trousers.
They want the boys with the nice shoes
and the clean hair...
and the fathers
with the steady jobs.
Not useless like you.
That’s what it is.
And it’s hard to hang on
to your faith.
You buy pints for people you don’t know
who tell you you’re a grand man,
while your children are at home with
their bellies stuck to their backbones.
Aye, you’re right.
I’ll get a job.
I promise.
If you get a job,
you lose it the third week...
because you drink
all the wages...
and you miss the work.
We’ll get by, Angela.
I’ll change.
The dole is 19 shillings
and the rent is 6.
And that leaves 13 shillings
to feed and clothe 5 people.
God is good, you know.
God might be good
for someone somewhere,
but he hasn’t been seen lately
in the lanes of Limerick.
Oh, Angela.
You could go to hell
for saying that.
Aren’t I there already,
Malachy?
Come here.
Come here.
And then the angels
left another baby on the stairs again.
What are you going
to call him, Angela?
I like the name
Kevin or Sean.
If you called out the door,
“Kevin, Sean, come in for your tea,”
you’d have half of Limerick
running at you.
– I like the name Alphonsus.
– Alphonsus?
That’s a stupid name.
Ah, Jesus Christ!
–