I’m famous for being fat.

(Well, I used to weigh thirty five stone)

I realized that I was different

When a taxi driver

Suggested I hire a crane

To get myself home.


Fame comes packaged in every shape and size

I can’t walk down the street now

Without being recognized

People stopping to stare,

There goes that…that



But fame has its downside, let me tell you

And not least the ‘reality’ the TV men want to sell you

Up at the crack, feeding the camera till noon

Then a trip to the trick-cyclist

(And meet others who howl at the moon)

It’s all in the mind apparently, this eating lark

Then off for more fun with the TV men

Nibbling grass in the park.


Alas, now I’m smaller, the adulation has gone

Not half the man he was… All skin and bone

Nineteen stone men are ten a penny, it seems

When it comes to newsworthiness on our TV screens.

But if you weighed half a ton, said the last one,

We could make you bigger than Andy Fordham!



Do the clothes I wear

Make you feel scared?

Hoods and baseball caps

Are for chaps

With no good on their minds

Aren’t they?

Well, so they say…


But I remember when

Drainpipe trousers sent

Shivers through the establishment

And winklepickers were for kickers

As mods and rockers

Put the mockers

On each other

And the flick knives came out

As brother fought brother


When bovver boots were prized by skinheads

(just as leather jackets were by Teds)

And flares worn wider than a mile

Put an expensive cut to the latest style

And then there was Flower power

and minis and midis and maxis

And Maharajas and Yogis and baldys with bells

And Mohicans sometimes appearing in taxis


So, when you look around

There’s little change on the old merry-go-round

‘Cos nothing’s new but it stays the same

It’s boys and girls playing a different game

That’s all!



sweet comeragh


the English lyrics to SWEET COMERAGH

My heartfelt blessings
On your valleys and mountains
Sweet Comeragh
And on your cheeful people
So naturally kind
Sweet Comeragh
On your shining streams
And your leafy woodlands
Your honeyed slopes
And your gleaming meadows
My heart fills with love
For all of them surely
Sweet Comeragh

Your rugged peaks
Are a handsome sight
Sweet Comeragh
As the rising sun
Sets them aflame
Sweet Comeragh
Cliffs and steep slopes
In every direction
Like a satin weave
From a magic loom
As the dew falls
From the heavens high
Sweet Comeragh

I was a while away
From your beauty
Sweet Comeragh
Slaving so hard
In a foreign land
Sweet Comeragh
Base work it was
Just making a living
Far from my home
‘Neath the shade of your mountains
So I came back to you
The flower of the Déise
Sweet Comeragh



I will live in Ringsend

With a red-headed whore,

And the fan-light gone in

Where it lights the hall-door;

And listen each night

For her querulous shout,

As at last she streels in

And the pubs empty out.

To soothe that wild breast

With my old-fangled songs,

Till she feels it redressed

From inordinate wrongs,

Imagined, outrageous,

Preposterous wrongs,

Till peace at last comes,

Shall be all I will do,

Where the little lamp blooms

Like a rose in the stew;

And up the back-garden

The sound comes to me

Of the lapsing, unsoilable,

Whispering sea.

my car now talks to me


Raising the lights like a stage curtain
Playing little movies
Serenading me with melodies
The welcome – farewell experience
They call it
“An emotionally resonant experience”
And that digital note of appreciation
“Thank you for driving a hybrid”
As if it was something…well
Unconnected with this thing on four wheels.
And those door handles
Illuminating when they sense my presence
The needles on the instruments
Snapping to attention as I open the door
There’s a welcoming theme
Part Hollywood soundtrack
Part plane swoosh
And that puddle lamp!
A welcome mat of light.
My car is a robot I think
With a personality not just in its body
But also in its behaviour.
“How can I help you?”
It asks now
As I prepare for take-off.
I really feel like telling it
To shut the fuck up
But I don’t want to hurt its feelings.


An entertainment by Tom O’Brien and Tom Power WARTS AN’ ALL is a combination of fact and fiction. But what is fact and what is fiction – that is the question. There are tall tales and fairtytales, wanders up hills and down dales, and a song or a poem when all else fails.

Is it a play? Possibly. Is it fiction? Probably. Is it fact? Indubitably. Well, some of it!

Warts_An_All_Cover_for_Kindle (1)




extract from Lucretius’ poem ON THE NATURE OF THINGS

And yet it is hard to believe that anything
in nature could stand revealed as solid matter.
The lightning of heaven goes through the walls of houses,
like shouts and speech; iron glows white in fire;
red-hot rocks are shattered by savage steam;
hard gold is softened and melted down by heat;
chilly brass, defeated by heat, turns liquid;
heat seeps through silver, so does piercing cold;
by custom raising the cup, we feel them both
as water is poured in, drop by drop, above.