Generation Emigration – Joe Clarkôvski

I always knew that I’d leave one day. There was a voice in my head, not the mad one, niggling away at me. Telling me to branch out. The mad voice tells me other things and has a strong Drawda accent. It’s gotten me into a lot of trouble.

Joe, go over and pull that woman’s skirt down. Joe, urinate into that man’s pocket when he’s not looking. Joe, impregnate that young one from the special school.

Sometimes I’d be confused about which voice was talking in my head because I have a Drawda accent too.

The first Tuesday of the month was when I’d get most action. I’d be up around the Post Office, lurking. But after a while it gets monotonous ploughing the same field, and expensive too if you fall out with the birds. The judge makes you pay them.

I emigrated to Parnell Street about eight years ago. I was growing unsatisfied with what the town had to offer.

Yeah, the move has been a good one romance wise. In Drogheda I was stigmatised by where I came from. Women would see me coming with a trolley and my killer smile and scatter.

Joe, go and wank in a bag of the frozen chips in Super Valu. Joe, frighten the lollipop lady at lunchtime. Joe, rob the bookies in Pearse Paak.

The women up on Parnell Street can’t understand me when I talk. The women in Drogheda could.

Now I’m living with a foreign woman and we have a good few little ones. I’m happy enough. I think she’s from China. She’s a chink anyway but I’m not fussy. They all have pussies.

I’ve changed my name. I felt stigmatised by my old one.  I can’t remember what it was even. The judge said I was on some sort of pest list. But I’ll never change my style.

Joe, offer to help that lady with her shopping with your pants pulled down. Joe, keep that Samurai sword in your pants. Joe, slip that Hubba Bubba in your pocket, they’ll never know.

Do I ever go back? I go back the odd time when the voice tells me that there’s nobody standing outside the town centre frightening people.

I like to hang around the board walk by the river. It reminds me of Drogheda.

I’ve gone to England a few times but I wouldn’t settle there. I’ve seen Irish lads go mad over there.

Joe, poo on that car bonnet.  Drive the ambulance faster Joe. Joe, try on that man’s pants.

Would I go back now Moneymore has joined Dundalk? Nah, hate them cunts. The accent is sneaky.

One thing that is the same here is that the gardaí are all pricks so they are.

I’ll always wear tracksuit bottoms and a shirt. Here I’m hipster. In Drogheda I’m just weird.

– As told to the Faa Side. Translated by locals.