"MICKEY SLABDABBER,
A Limerick Odyssey"
by Michael Quinlan
Copyright © Michael Quinlan 2005. All rights reserved.
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Set in the period 1935 -1953, Mickey Slabdabber is another amazing slice of Irish life adding balance to the Limerick of "Angela's Ashes". Michael Quinlan's hometown is not as bleak as Frank McCourt's, although there is still hardship aplenty. Handicapped by a severe stammer, Mickey is yet a survivor with artistic leanings. He's supported by a mentally strong, insightful mother and an indulgent uncle, but this is a family divided in its entrails by the recent Civil War and the long tragedy of Irish politics.
Despite alcohol-assisted poverty, Mickey's father is a proud tradesman and conscientious worker, but a chilling family secret eats at his soul and fuels his drinking past the point of no return. By the end of this autobiographical volume young Mickey has learnt the bitter truth enshrouding his own name, and a great deal more besides.
Linguistic flair & Celtic originality, intriguing anecdotes and the drama of an unseen IRA distorting the life of a growing child, all help flesh out our understanding of the Ireland of the day. Yet there is also art & enchantment, music, theatre & humour in this true story of the childhood & youth of a Vize's Field lane boy who wants to be a painter. As such Mickey Slabdabber should appeal not only to all who have read Angela's Ashes and anyone interested in the Irish soul, it will also engage those concerned with the triumphs and despairs of the human condition in general.
Some Reviews
"Michael Quinlan (is) a gifted raconteur…A heart wrenching and heart warming story…compulsive reading" - Rev. Dr Stuart Barton Babbage (author of " Memoirs of a Loose Canon")
"Absolutely fascinating…little snippets of folk memory…scattered so liberally throughout"... "Truly brilliant observations of Limerick City life…" - Clare County Express
"An odyssey of fun" - the Limerick Leader
About the author: Michael Quinlan is now 71 years old, and left Ireland for Australia many years ago. He lives in Newtown, Sydney, where he paints and writes.
Michael Quinlan
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Slabdabber
or read paragraph extracts below
The People's Park Limerick, by Michael
Quinlan. Copyright image, all rights reserved
Some paragraph extracts from Michael Quinlan's book "Mickey Slabdabber"
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I never begrudge him a single morsel. But God, I think, that must taste good. I know when he is cutting the bacon by the sound of the knife on the plate. By the silence I can tell when he is reading the paper, somehow able to concentrate on written words when the good food sits directly in front of him. What willpower!
****
Sometimes I had two glorious pennies to my name but no more, just half the price to get in. Then I would promise McGurk or Ger Downey twelve guilty sweets if he would open the door inside first chance he ran into. While the boys who were rich with the entrance money queued up in a proper and decent manner, I skipped across the street to Enright's little kiosk and splurged all of my two pence to buy twenty-four wanton wrapped toffees.
****
Then Mama said, it was a great pity what happened to George after that. What happened to him Mama? Some men all covered in black came to his house one night in 1921, and shot him dead. I remember it well, it was in the springtime; early March as I recall. Was it the boogieman Mama? Who knows Mick, Mama sounds very sad now, who knows.
****
Then up Brother Sheehan rises, still nursing his groin with one hand. His face is a vivid red now and his eyes are moist with pain. He glowers at me with a silent fury. That blackjack is still in his hand, and he starts to swing it towards me, catching me high on the arm with the end of it. A second swing misses me by a yard, because I have swerved out of range already, panicked by the murder in his eyes.
****
Mama had me transfixed. Was she about to criticise the leader of our country, the Taoiseach himself, the man spoken of with reverence and awe by nearly everyone I knew? I hardly dared whisper it - De Valera, Mama? What had he to do with this?
****
What the hell would I be doing in Connemarra anyway? And licking the backside of a stamp behind a post office counter is definitely not me either. As for fancying myself a politician, imagine swanking around up there in Dail Eireann in Dublin, stuttering my way through a speech in Gaelic! I can't even say Fianna Fail without making it sound as if I'm going to swear, and Sinn Fein comes out even worse. We ourselves they say, meaning not you at all, and bugger the rest of them too, as far as I can get their meaning.
****
Inside the place I was addressed like an adult, sit down Mr. Quinlan please. It got better still, as Mr. Skinny pointed me to a big brown leather chair in front of a large polished table, and contented himself with just a smaller chair opposite. Mr. Quinlan, may I ask how old you are? I'm fourteen, sir, I exaggerated. Oh I see. Well you're the youngest applicant we have ever had at the Institute.
****
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