Neil McCarthy


Peter God


From the off, let me state for the record his name was James.

–       How are you today, James?

–       Ah sure I´m fine, thanks Peter God.

(Nicknames were nailed to your back where I come from) 

James commanded the far corner of the bar like a general

surveying his infantry. Customers came and went, saluting.

Fuckle was another favourite of his.

One day my father took him a live lobster as a thank you for

a job he’d done on a car we had – a death trap. Held together

by bailing twine and Hail Marys.

–   Fuckle I do with that? said James furrowing his brow.

Apparently, he waited until we’d driven off, thwacked it

with a block of wood and lobbed it over the sea wall, RIP.

Took us all a few months of James telling us he didn’t have

a Toyota until some tower of hope suggested he meant iota.

Those who laughed weren’t sure who they were laughing at –

Tom Thumb, pint-from-halfway-down-the-barrel, tulip glass;

Cidona Willy, Carlsberg Steve, Noel 5-Day-Forecast;

Mary Brandy-and-ginger-no-fuckin’-ice.

–   Twill be fine and dry for the week, James, offered Noel.

–       Oh, it will indeed, thanks Peter God!

The unbaptized slipped under the radar, only the click of the

door closing itself alerting us to their departure.

The loud ones, the no-homes-to-go-to crew, patted

themselves down religiously before leaving – sang goodbye a

dozen times, holding onto the door like a windsurfer to his boom –

an invitation to twist their arm, to buy a pint of their company.

–   Is it coming or going you are, James?

–   I don’t have a Toyota, Mary.

So, will you have one more?-   Sure, I will. I will, sure. I will.


Neil McCarthy is a poet from West Cork. His first collection – Stopgap Grace – was published by Salmon Poetry in 2018 and subsequently shortlisted for the Shine Strong Award. He now lives in California.