The 18-letter Irish Alphabet by Rene Mullins
Isn’t it time.
You learned YOUR alphabet?
Mark at Jam Art Prints, writes:
We’ve this lovely A3 print by Rene Mullins just back in stock of the Irish Alphabet As Gaeilge to giveaway.
For your chance to win, give us a story you’ve never told before from your school days…
Fess up!
Lines must close at 10.45pm.
The Jam Art Prints competition runs here every second Thursday.
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It’s better than trying to read Peig. Why don’t they allow W and Z in the Irish alphabet?
we already have digraphs for “W” – “bh”
also have digraphs for “V” – “bh”
Why do we need Z?
Does that mean I could say bhuel, bhuel, bhuel!?
so is V
by the looks of it
Wrote a song (to the tune of a well-known old playground rhyme) which illustrated the notorious school chaplain’s dirty, gropey antics when alone with the female students. It was pretty funny, as well as being a cleverly-disguised mid-1980s whistle-blow. It was confiscated by the nuns, who passed down the severe punishment of suspension for two weeks, as well as a lick of the leather. Chaplain continued with his antics.
This is one from primary school.
I was in 5th class at the time, at that time the school used to provide the choir to the local cathederal. Our 5th class teacher was in charge of the whole thing. Me and a handful of the boys only got to go to the weekly rehearsal once, after that we were deemed problematic and were left behind after lunch on Wednesdays or Thursdays.
I thought we had (and still have!) the voices of amgels, but alas the teacher disagreed. The school principal was supposed to be keeping an eye on us, but he was never there, so we would just be given some reading to do.
Earlier on in the year we were discussing Stone Age tools in class, the teacher got all us to make up some as a homework thing. I made up a spear with a stone on the end. I thought it was pretty good, however, one of the lads got his father to help him and came in with what only could be described as a compound bow, complete with a a few arrows.
So every week, those tools got put to full use. There was a couple of marks on some of the furniture and ceilings, but we got away with it!
When I was in 5th (or 6th) class in primary school we spent the first week of our school year picking rocks out of a field, this field was to be the schools sports pitch for generations to come, for our 3 days of hard labour we received a bag of crisps and a bottle of orange, this would have been 1993 or thereabouts.
About two or three weeks ago the Kildare Village shopping outlet opened their brand new extension on that very pitch!
Where’s our cut???
Our year heads, head boy/girl, prefects etc in our secondary school all had their own badges that would be handed back at the end of the year and given to the next set of students. These badges were fairly nice, good quality, ‘prefect’ cut out neatly, ‘head boy’ engraved, may have been made by a local metalworker in the town. They were a mark of responsibility as well as some of these badges were 10+ years old.
Some of them went missing. Missing from locker rooms, missing from on the backs of chairs, missing from bus rides. A quiet fuss was made about this, extra vigilance needed, lists of students who had badges made and referred to at meetings so any extra badges floating around could be rooted out and returned. Nothing came of it. I only heard about this second hand through a friend who was a prefect.
Never gave it a second thought until I was in collecting my Leaving Cert results a few years later, turned a corner in the school to open them in private and promptly tripped over a rug (one of these very long rugs, brown/black pattern on top, thick rubber water proof edges), pushing the edge of the rug under the raised edge of a row of lockers (uneven floor) and pushing the missing badges out from the other end of the lockers with a merry jingling as they rolled out. I froze, listened in case anyone else was nearby and then quickly kicked the badges back under the lockers. Two had rolled a bit further (a prefect badge and a year head badge) so I went for them but heard the staff room door opening around the corner. Lifted them from the ground, in the pocket and off I went.
Didn’t get great results but those two badges are in a box upstairs at home now. The school was refurbished the following year so they definitely found those badges.
From school days but the other side, first day of doing the dip, as they call it, teaching history in the same school I went to. Mother, being awful proud gave me a nice fountain pen. As you do. Being introduced to three other dips, one of the ones opposite me puts a fake hand up on the table. Ha ha, says I, being all smart to his joke, reached across and stuck the fountain pen in it.
Not. A . Sound.
I remove the pen, leaving a nice blue little tattoo, from the prosthetic arm of the lad who had said arm pulled off in a tractor accident as a child.
First day of a full year and I never spoke to the chap again.
From school days but the other side, first day of doing the dip, as they call it, teaching history in the same school I went to. Mother, being awful proud gave me a nice fountain pen. As you do. Being introduced to three other dips, one of the ones opposite me puts a fake hand up on the table. Ha ha, says I, being all smart to his joke, reached across and stuck the fountain pen in it.
Not. A . Sound.
I remove the pen, leaving a nice blue little tattoo, from the prosthetic arm of the prospective maths teacher who had said arm pulled off in a tractor accident as a child.
First day of a full year and I never spoke to the chap again.
Thought through some happier school memories and this one is untold;
A particular sweet but completely batty nun named Rosario (Rosy), taught Religion to a class of 16-17 year old girls who’s thoughts were well and truly on the forthcoming ‘Social’ with the nearby (but far enough) Christian Brothers at the Parish Hall that Friday night and who was shiftable.
Rosy brought in her 2-in-1 radio/cassette player and played ‘We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off (To Have a Good Time)’ by Jermaine Stewart, 1986. When the dire song was finally over and eyes finished rolling, she unplugged her hit machine, winked, nodded and left the room. That was it. She believed in the ear worm of that song as effective contraception.
One more…
Cookery class in primary school was with an ageing Sister Columbus. When she turned her back during the mixing of the customary ‘drop scones’, we would defy gravity on that recipe and flick our sticky batter with force upwards to the ceiling. It meant less drop scones at surface level and many dedicated to the lord, but all was good until a hot day in May when uncooked scone dough fell naturally and unannounced on the Sister. Maybe it spurred her on.
One final one in the spirit of the poster…
Irish was the first class of the day at 08:45 hours, and some of us were occasionally late and had to explain why as gaeilge.
Us in unison: ‘Bhí an bus deanach’
Sister C: ‘ You, come closer to me and say that’
Me: ‘Bhí an bus deanach, tá súil agam’
Sister C: ‘An bhfuil tú ag caith tabac?’
Me: ‘Níl mé ag caith tobac’
Later on a school trip to Italy, Sister C is photographed clutching a pack of Major and smoking her head off.
I need it,
I went to a proddy primary that only have a cursory nod to the language, leaving me at sea with the nuns after that without a sail or a breeze …it’s the pity vote, I was robbed.
I want it too!! I went to a seminary!!!!
Papi the theologist !
It did not end well, I can tell you.
One endearing memory untold (why would one raise it?) about anti-British sentiment in Irish schools…
Born in England of Irish parents and raised in Irish traditions, landing in a Dublin school aged 9 in the Eighties with an English accent and excellent vocabulary and Irish history knowledge wasn’t easy. Placed in a ‘special’ Irish class in order to ‘catch up’ with the natives, it was soon apparent that the natives were far from fluent as gaeilge, but they were very fluent at writing ‘Brits Out’ on your school bag and spouting it to your face in the yard. That was the time.
That would be the same time that ‘No Irish Allowed’ was an acceptable form of discrimination in the greatest of the great, Great Britain.
60s and 70s maybe, hardly the 80s.
I made my point.
We had a similar kid join our class in primary school and he was regularly called an English pig by a few not-so-bright sparks. He lost his accent in double-quick time.
“English pig” is not a term I’ve come across – in my lifetime – not on this island, anyway?
I’ve no problem with an English accent – just as long as I’m not referred to by the horrible word ‘mate’.
Yep. I’m not keen on ‘we’re sat here’ for we’re sitting here either.
Some the most influential and important leaders in the IRA,were from middle class areas Belfast,who had been burnt or shot out their own homes as kids,by their neighbors then rehoused in the ghettos.