Want to lower your risk of heart disease and stroke?

The answer is to have more sex,

At least two orgasms a week.

This will reduce your risk of a cardiovascular event,

But only if you are a man.

For women – well, you have to take your chances!

Eating chocolate can also reduce your risk

As does listening to music

Though Nessum Dorma might be more beneficial than Taylor Swift.

Moving out of the city, living with others, having a good boss

Also helps;

But men with a high orgasmic frequency do best of all.

So forget about Statins;

Chocolates, Vivaldi, and bashing the bishop

Are much more beneficial

And a lot more enjoyable.


Picture of Pecker Dunne

Poem For The Pecker Dunne

Gather round this cold night by the campfire,and i’ll tell you a Tinkermans’ tale,
All about a great singer of Ireland,who triumphed where many have failed.
Born into a nomadic lifestyle,a horse drawn trailer it was his abode,
And he travelled the lanes of ould Ireland,and he travelled the dusty old roads.

“Sullivans John” to the road you have gone,Pecker Dunne wrote at eleven years young
And that was the dawn of his music career,and his wonderful story begun.
For he travelled the byways and highways,and could be found on a bright sunny day,
Playing songs down at Croke of the travelling folk,at the games of the old G.A.A

Well he sang of the Myxomatosis and he told of the ould Morris van,
And the tale of the Thirty foot trailer,and the songs of the travelling man.
And he gave us the songs of his people,where others had feared for to speak,
And he spoke out ‘gainst discrimination,and equal rights for his people did seek.

Well you’d find him not far from O’Callaghans Mills,in the famed banner county of Clare,
Down among all the horses and trailers at the world famous Spancil Hill fair.
And you’d find him out west into Galway and on the road up to Ballinasloe,
With his banjo and fiddle always close by at hand,for he always would put on a show.

Pecker drank with the great Richard Harris,a world renowned actor and drinker,
And starred in “The Good,Bad & Ugly”,not bad for an old Wexford Tinker!!
And he knew Eli Wallach and Oliver Reed,and he acted with the man Stephen Rea,
But he never denied that great traveller pride,on the open road Peckers’ heart lay.

Christy Moore never met with Bob Dylan,but he sang with the great Pecker Dunne,
So won’t you come now to me little daughter,won’t you come now to me little son.
For Pecker played with those brothers The Fureys,and Luke Kellys’ own Dubliners’ band,
With his own unique style that old banjo he played,and the greatest respect did command.

So always remember his music,and never then forget his face,
For he brought such joy unto his people,and he brought such pride unto his race.
For we are the Romany people,and in that we should suffer no shame,
Dunne,Barrett,Ward or other,travelling sister or brother,you should always take pride in your name.

So farewell to the tent and the trailer,and farewell to the old caravan,
And join me in praise of the great Pecker Dunne,of the Legend,Musician and Man.
For he shall be forever remembered,and his name it shall always live long,
Carried on by the travellers of Ireland,in their poems and in story and song.

(C)ProvoRhino. 9th June 2010.All Rights Reserved.


My  play PECKER DUNNE – LAST OF THE TRAVELERS, is a musical biography of one of Ireland’s last great travelling musicians.

A play with music about the travelling musicians of Ireland, mostly concentrating on Pecker Dunne and Margaret Barry. They were both from travelling families, Tinkers, and were marginalised by Irish society. Looked down on, indeed persecuted for their way of life. Both were great singers and musicians, and along with the great Johnny Doran, did more to promote Irish traditional music than almost any other person of our times. Both are dead now and the play is set in a kind of imaginary ‘halting site’, where departed souls are temporarily resident while awaiting transport to somewhere permanent.


'So senseless and tragic. When will young people learn?'


Bass players are gross

Bass players give you a dose

They usually have long hair

And they’re always scratching down there

They just stand around looking dopey

And their voices are usually ropey

Then they pluck on them string…things

And the sound…omg…my head just whings

And then I look at the lead guitarist play

And I think, he can tickle my frets any old day

So to find myself waking up next to a bass-playing dope

Makes it kinda hard for a girl to cope

‘Cos nobody sleeps with the bass player innit?

Fuck it, I’ll do the drummer in the next bed in a minute!


02-01-2014 19;16;31the-poet-recompensed-19561halfhd

This is a poem about my father.


He lay in the box quite comfortably
His waxen face staring into infinity
Looking much better in death
Than he ever had in life.
It was all that I could do to peer
At him through slatted fingers
From the back of the room;
The ever-present smell of tanning
And leather aprons absent now;
More than forty seeping years of it
Scrubbed away one last time

His moped – a natural progression from pedal power
When his legs gave out –
Lay discarded in the coal shed
At the back of the house.
(No driver you see, and mother still had the shopping to do)
He dug turf, cut down young Sally trees,
And turned over his bit of stony ground endlessly.
In summer he clipped sheep slowly
With a machine bought by post from Clerys,
Carefully stowing it away in its box
When the shearing was done.

The clay pipes he sucked on – their broken stems
Held together with blood pricked from his thumb –
Were redundant now
And his three bottles of Sunday-night Guinness
Would stand corked under the counter evermore.
Who would dance half-sets with her now?
My mother enquired of no one in particular,
The smoky saloon bar stunned that the music had felled him
Knocked him to the floor in the middle of the tune.
He lay there with a smile on his face
Knowing it was over
And I never got to know what was on his mind.

We put him in the ground
And sadness trickled through me
Like a handful of sand through my fingers.
Later, everyone stood around
Eating sparse ham sandwiches
While I stood there, dry-eyed;
He was a great man they all said
Slapping the back of my overcoat;
Sure he gave forty years to that tannery

And what did it give him?
I wanted to shout to the throng;
A gold watch and a tin tray
And both had his name spelled wrong


19-01-2014 11;22;17
A wonderful coming-of-age story set in the Ireland of the late fifties and early sixties,The Shiny Red Honda evokes images of a more innocent time, when life was lived at a more gentle pace and people were stoical in the face of hardship, taking the bad with the good as simply part of life’s cycle. Tom O’Brien’s writing is stark and vivid and straight to the point, but always tempered with a wry humour, never taking himself too seriously. We travel with him through his upbringing on a small-holding in County Waterford, sometimes hard, but mostly carefree, and then his emergence from fumbling adolescent to a young working man who played guitar in his spare time in the newly emerging pop/rock band scene of that era. Tom describes everything so beautifully that I found myself re-reading some pages, just for the sheer joy of it. This is one of the best autobiographical books I’ve read in ages, if not THE best, and I can’t wait to read more of Tom O’Brien’s work.
› Go to to see the review 5.0 out of 5 stars