Lord of the Fingers

         ‘How are you anyway?’

         ‘Not too bad. Things gone a bit weird around here, though.’

         ‘How so?’

         ‘There was big shit there last week. Cops all over the place.’

         ‘What was goin on?’

         ‘Some fella runnin around with a knife or a machete or somethin…’

         ‘Where was he goin with that?’

         ‘I think he was chasin some other fella, and then the other fella’s fingers were cut off. Did you not see it on the paper?’


         ‘The cops were goin around lookin in all the bins?’

         ‘For what? The machete?’

         ‘No. The fingers.’


         ‘I know.’

         ‘Are you still writing Plays?’

         ‘I am.’

         ‘Did you see when the government got in they didn’t quote an Irish artist? I thought that was weird.’


         ‘The most patriotic time in Irish history since the war of Independence.’


         ‘And every artist in the country couldn’t work.’

         ‘They quoted Shakespeare, did they not?’

         ‘They did. And that’s what I didn’t like.’

         ‘Why? Because he’s English?’

         ‘No. Because If you walk down the street of any dead Irish town and ask the people – how’s your Shakespeare? What’ll they say?’

         ‘I don’t know.’

         ‘They’ll say – who cares? My pub’s closed, my shop’s out of business, my house is getting repossessed, who’s got the time to talk about Shakespeare? Unless you’re in Government.’

         ‘So if they quoted an Irish Playwright they’d be doing much better?’

         ‘It means that in all the time they had to organise, and talk about speeches, that somebody, somewhere must have said: Should we quote an Irish artist? And somebody else said: “No, fuck it. Let’s go with Shakespeare.” They don’t know their audience.’

         ‘They were voted in.’

         ‘They were. Would they be voted in today?’


         ‘Exactly. There’s lads goin around here getting their fingers cut off and the government are quoting Playwrights that died six hundred years ago. I don’t see the connection.’

         ‘Me neither.’

         ‘They’ll be gone by Christmas.’

         ‘Brought down?’

         ‘Fucked out.’

         ‘What then?’

         ‘Hopefully, the next crowd will listen. Are you writing anythin lately?’

         ‘I’m sending out a new novel?’

         ‘Any bites?’

         ‘Not a thing yet.’

         ‘Is it shite?’

         ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know.’

         ‘Rejection is usually a good sign.’

         ‘Except when it’s your bank card gettin rejected.’

         ‘There’s that too. How’s the other books sellin?’

         ‘Alright. Hard to know with Amazon.’

         ‘Sure every daft bastard is writing a book these days.’

         ‘Stiff competition.’

         ‘You should write about a fella getting his fingers cut off with a machete.’

         ‘I might.’

         ‘And the fingers get ate by a dog and they have to wait for the dog to have a shite to get them back.’

         ‘Sounds like a bestseller.’

         ‘I’m tellin ya. Who needs JK Rowling, boy? Lord of the Fingers…’


         ‘I better go.’

         ‘Sound. G’luck.’


Buy Mick Donnellan’s novels by clicking here.

Mick Donnellan awarded Westmeath Bursary Arts Grant for theatrical development of Play- “Nally”

Thanks to the Arts Office at Westmeath County Council I have been awarded funding to pursue my theatre project titled – Nally.

There will be a public reading of the script in the coming months and, based on audience reaction and feedback, I will be pursuing a full production.

You can read more about the Arts in the Midlands and supports offered at http://www.westmeathcoco.ie

You can also like their Facebook page here: http://www.facebook.com/westmeath.arts

Once again, I would like to acknowledge the invaluable support of the Arts office and the many other Arts organisations in the Midlands such as Scripts Ireland, Midlands Radio Arts Show, Athlone Community Radio and AIT Athlone.

See you all in a full house soon,


*Want to check out Mick Donnellan’s Novels? Click here.





Notes on the real artist.

He works in a small town and decides he’s got a voice and wants to be an artist. Things the kid wants to do, things the kid wants to say. Most nights he drinks to stop him thinking and hopes to sleep but can never quite get there. Some voice, some emotional turmoil, something wrong with the way things are. A distant hum in the ether of reality, a curve in the emotional space time. A door to be unlocked and the key is somewhere out there. Just needs to be found. Friends laugh, family don’t agree. Hey, what about your job, another recession coming. Gotta get that house, build on that site, settle down with that nice girl. S’all the same, no matter where you go. Gotta do that engine Tuesday. Gearbox gone in that Toyota. NCT due on the Opel. We know what that guy’s like, real particular. Real cheap too, finds something wrong, he won’t pay. Thinks we’re all animals here. Thinks we’re all dumb mechanics. Always on the phone, doing some job, some kinda Wall Street, clean shoes and that expensive suit and those rings. Educated type, uses big words, asks if we got a website, asks if we do e-mail. Ain’t no e-mail here. Had an e-mail once, lost the password, waste of time anyway. Gotta spray that transit, guy wants to sell it, make it look good, springs coming up through the boards, let’s nail them down, pass me the drill. Keep it going for a while, same with all these English cars. Salt on the road, see. Comes right up and causes rust and then they sell them over here when they’re about to fall apart. Let’s get a drink tonight. I can’t drink tonight. Our hero’s working on something, some story, some play, some book. He’s thinking about a film, that song he heard the other day. He was changing the oil filter on the Insignia and it came on, moved him somehow, meant something. Would look good in a movie. That collection at home. DVD’s up to the ceiling. S’all Netflix now but the broadband around here is too bad. Good thing too, he thinks, more substance, less choice. You gotta watch what you got and watch it right and learn. Learn what a story is, learn how to add a song, learn how to write what people say. That girl with the Ford Focus, smelled nice, in some college somewhere, studying something. Something to do with points, forms, applications and those damn e-mails. Maybe could ask her. Ask her how. Ask her where. Ask her when. Where does a guy start, telling that story, putting those thoughts in order. Breaking through. Here’s the girl with the focus now, speak of the devil, she knows all about it, says there’s that big festival on in the city. here, you want a brochure, I got one last week. He takes it off her, brings it home. Reads it that night. Too many big words, too many big ideas. Culture, diversity, inclusion, stability of the organic societal perspective from an artistic standpoint. Man just wants to tell a story. Doesn’t want to send e-mails, drink the wine or wear the good coats. Just heard the song when doing the Insignia, can see the scene, just like the stack of DVD’s that all came before. Man’s got ideas but he’s tired now. Too tired for culture, and diversity and artistic standpoints. Needs to finish that Passat in the morning and the Peugeot’s back with a rattle in the bearing. And that guy with the suit, they say he’s some kind of director, on some board, film board maybe, what’s the film board, who knows, probably more inclusion, and e-mails and metaphors and big words like archetypal and fostering the rural imperative in the Post Celtic Tiger era. Here, pass the WD40, there’s a squeak in the window, Almera nice car. Doesn’t let you down. Japanese. Great culture there I bet. Supposed to check out that festival tonight, what’s the point, won’t fit in. Can’t understand a damn thing they got going on. Let’s get that drink instead. Six cans in Tesco and a binge of Scorsese.