Bless Me, Father, For I Have Sinned,

I'm More Interested In Writing Than In Performing.

I Appealed To My Mother. I Told Her It Wasn't Fair The Way The Whole Family Was Invading My Dreams And She Said, Arrah, For The Love O' God, Drink Your Tea And Go To School And Stop Tormenting Us With Your Dreams.

People Everywhere Brag And Whimper About The Woes Of Their Early Years, But Nothing Can Compare With The Irish Version: The Poverty; The Shiftless Loquacious Father; The Pious Defeated Mother Moaning By The Fire; Pompous Priests; Bullying School Masters; The English And The Terrible Things They Did To Us For Eight Hundred Long Years. Above All -- We Were Wet.

We Never Really Had Any Kind Of A Christmas. This Is One Part Where My Memory Fails Me Completely.

Shakespeare Is Like Mashed Potatoes, You Can Never Get Enough Of Him.