Jack wonders why the Yanks make such a big deal out of a game of rounders.
Jack Cantillon
Spoofer-in-Chief
It’s all in the accent isn’t it? Women will go weak at the knees, opulent accommodation will be found and a job in Mayor Emmanuel’s office will be created just because of the fact I say “feck” instead of “fuck”, “grand” instead of “okay” and “craic” to describe all banter filled pursuits. I’ve a flat Kildare accent, it’s probably the most unattractive accent since accents were invented but it’s this bad boy I’m relying on to be my golden ticket in the USA. My iPod is full of the Dubliners, I’ve the bag stock-full of GAA jerseys and I’ve enough Barry’s Tea to do an army. God feckin’ help Chicago.
Accommodation is kinda key, so I meet Rab, one of my mates, at the airport and he ushers me straight to the train to head to The Big DOD’s. Dan O’Donnell is an almost mythical character within the Irish-Chicago J1 scene and I waited with bated breath to have my first encounter with the godfather. We hop off the train and head in the door of a dimly lit, disorganised, poorly stocked hardware store. It’s dodgy with a capital D. No words are exchanged with the cashier before he brings us to the back of the shop, down a creaky wooden flight of stairs into the basement. I kinda started to panic, if I’m honest.
There were far too may bamboozling looking apparatus in this shop for comfort. What kind of kinky shit had Rab got into in the two weeks before I arrived? Nothing could have prepared me for what was awaiting me. It was a hive of activity. There were three desks, one guy selling sim cards, one girl sorting out accommodation, another one sorting out jobs, each with 10 to 20 J1’ers hovering over the desk trying to get kitted out. Lording over it all was the great one, Dan O’Donnell. Before you could say “top of the morning”, himself and Rab had me all sorted. Sim card, accommodation, the lot. I bounded out of the unofficial J1 embassy. This J1 lark is easy.
Sadly, I may have spoken a tad too soon. I arrive at my accommodation in Humboldt Park, described as on the edge of the good area of Bucktown. Well if this is the edge I’d hate to see the middle. The apartment is nice. Ok, it’s a two bed with eight people in it but you half expect that. The problem is the area. My first night I was put to sleep by a lullaby of gunshots on the street. The other night I asked the taxi driver to leave me out at the intersection of my street, he turned off the meter and preceded to go around the block anyway. The reason? He said if I got out I have a 50/50 chance of being shot.
Leafy Ballsbridge this is not. Sandwiched between a crack house and a brothel. It’s got a cosy feel to it. In a cosy organized crime Al Capone would feel right at home here kind of way. A bit of organised crime never hurt anyone, right? I would want to at least pretend I’m tough, if I’m going to get out of this place alive.
As with any J1, going out is what it’s all about though. I’m only 19 so it’s like being 16 again and the trepidation of approaching the dreaded bouncer has returned once more. It’s kind of a buzz, but then again, it’s kinda shit. Before heading out, I was assured that I would get a fake ID of the finest quality from a friend of a friend. I shelled out €40 and was told I would be receiving bullet proof fake passports that were better quality then actual passports. What I actually received were rain dampened, fake driving licenses. As a result, I’ve really only got one trump card to play, Irish spoof. Irish spoof is such a powerful tool that I’ve yet to get rejected anywhere. I actually went into the local off license with my real passport the other day which said I was 19 and still walked out with the goods thanks to the almighty gift of the gab.
Spoof is good for bouncers but it’s taken to another level when you’re actually inside the bar. I’ve played centre for Ireland, I’ve been over to start up my homeless shelter in Chicago I founded in Ireland called “Amadáin” and I’ve been a Supreme Court attorney who dabbles in pro-bono heart surgery at night. The worst thing? They believed every word hook, line and sinker. Now the illusion would be somewhat broken if they saw my blow up air bed in the heart of Peruvian gangland, in a sitting room with six other people sleeping in it. But I spoof on nonetheless. Chatting up has become a bit of an art form out here. My friend Tommy (he’s from DCU but don’t hold that against him) and I have it down to a tee. Basically we don’t bother with the other J1 Irish, we concentrate all our efforts on the American girls. We do the same thing every time. It basically involves us dropping in as many Irish sayings as possible until they realize we’re Irish. Once they do, well, it’s plain sailing. The problem though is when we try this act on an Irish girl. Chicago is infested with Irish, so you never know when the next Naas local (I’ve met five so far) is lurking round the corner. When we do launch what we’ve named the “lucky charm leprechaun” approach to chatting up women on Irish girls, we’re usually laughed out the bar. To fix this, I’m currently working on a scéal for the Irish girls. The current draft revolves around me being an inter-county star for Kildare who’s just suffered a career threatening injury and who’s come to Chicago to rediscover the mojo that had Pat Spillane once deem me Kildare’s next superstar. Sadly, unlike the Americans, the Irish are world class spoof detectors and I haven’t got a single believer thus far.
It’s a sad truth that you can’t go out if you don’t have any money, so the next thing on the to-do list was to get a job. Now, in my head I already had a job lined up. I had a contact inside a top Chicago hotel and basically I thought it was just a matter of turning up, flashing my best Colgate smile and away I went. How wrong I was? It’s two weeks later and I’ve yet to earn a penny in income. I’ve applied to be a be a rickshaw driver, a seed seller at a farming expo and even flirted with the idea of doing some modelling for a local gay magazine which specified straight boys with accents. Why they wanted an accent for a modelling job, I don’t know. Also I doubt they would be too impressed with the beer belly I’ve carefully crafted after a year of tireless work in the Pav. I had to come up with a plan to make a few quid otherwise I was on the next reasonably priced economy ticket out of here. It had to be a speciality of mine in times of trouble. A trip to Arlington Park and a day at the races.
At home I’m pretty good at the ol’ horses but America is different ball game altogether. I brought a group of about eight of us out to the races, desperate for some gambling-filled respite from our financial woes. I started well with a $150 win (half a month’s rent) but, well, the inevitable happened. I got cocky, really cocky. In Ireland, we have seven races a meeting but in the states it’s ten. I thought I was fecking untouchable at this American racing, easy pickin’, so I was having a right crack at every race. I had visions of paying for the whole J1 by the end of the day. Dear God I was wrong. By the last race I was down $450 and was staring an extra month and a half of rent in the face, just for a trip to the races. Plain and simple, I had to back to winner. I stared at the card longing for this four-legged pegasus to appear. And then he did. Hogy, 5/1, this was my only way out. I put everything I had left in my pocket down on the nose, $103 in total. Guess what? Hogy hosed up and the kid was back in front. I could have married that horse. My days of eating cornflakes with water are finally behind me and I’m moving on up in the world with luxurious milk. Although the way my finances are going, it’ll take a lot more than one race if I’m to survive this finical crisis. God feckin’ help me.
It’s all in the accent isn’t it? Women will go weak at the knees, opulent accommodation will be found and a job in Mayor Emmanuel’s office will be created just because of the fact I say “feck” instead of “fuck”, “grand” instead of “okay” and “craic” to describe all banter filled pursuits. I’ve a flat Kildare accent, it’s probably the most unattractive accent since accents were invented but it’s this bad boy I’m relying on to be my golden ticket in the USA. My iPod is full of the Dubliners, I’ve the bag stock-full of GAA jerseys and I’ve enough Barry’s Tea to do an army. God feckin’ help Chicago.
Accommodation is kinda key, so I meet Rab, one of my mates, at the airport and he ushers me straight to the train to head to The Big DOD’s. Dan O’Donnell is an almost mythical character within the Irish-Chicago J1 scene and I waited with bated breath to have my first encounter with the godfather. We hop off the train and head in the door of a dimly lit, disorganised, poorly stocked hardware store. It’s dodgy with a capital D. No words are exchanged with the cashier before he brings us to the back of the shop, down a creaky wooden flight of stairs into the basement. I kinda started to panic, if I’m honest.
There were far too may bamboozling looking apparatus in this shop for comfort. What kind of kinky shit had Rab got into in the two weeks before I arrived? Nothing could have prepared me for what was awaiting me. It was a hive of activity. There were three desks, one guy selling sim cards, one girl sorting out accommodation, another one sorting out jobs, each with 10 to 20 J1’ers hovering over the desk trying to get kitted out. Lording over it all was the great one, Dan O’Donnell. Before you could say “top of the morning”, himself and Rab had me all sorted. Sim card, accommodation, the lot. I bounded out of the unofficial J1 embassy. This J1 lark is easy.
Sadly, I may have spoken a tad too soon. I arrive at my accommodation in Humboldt Park, described as on the edge of the good area of Bucktown. Well if this is the edge I’d hate to see the middle. The apartment is nice. Ok, it’s a two bed with eight people in it but you half expect that. The problem is the area. My first night I was put to sleep by a lullaby of gunshots on the street. The other night I asked the taxi driver to leave me out at the intersection of my street, he turned off the meter and preceded to go around the block anyway. The reason? He said if I got out I have a 50/50 chance of being shot.
Leafy Ballsbridge this is not. Sandwiched between a crack house and a brothel. It’s got a cosy feel to it. In a cosy organized crime Al Capone would feel right at home here kind of way. A bit of organised crime never hurt anyone, right? I would want to at least pretend I’m tough, if I’m going to get out of this place alive.
As with any J1, going out is what it’s all about though. I’m only 19 so it’s like being 16 again and the trepidation of approaching the dreaded bouncer has returned once more. It’s kind of a buzz, but then again, it’s kinda shit. Before heading out, I was assured that I would get a fake ID of the finest quality from a friend of a friend. I shelled out €40 and was told I would be receiving bullet proof fake passports that were better quality then actual passports. What I actually received were rain dampened, fake driving licenses. As a result, I’ve really only got one trump card to play, Irish spoof. Irish spoof is such a powerful tool that I’ve yet to get rejected anywhere. I actually went into the local off license with my real passport the other day which said I was 19 and still walked out with the goods thanks to the almighty gift of the gab.
Spoof is good for bouncers but it’s taken to another level when you’re actually inside the bar. I’ve played centre for Ireland, I’ve been over to start up my homeless shelter in Chicago I founded in Ireland called “Amadáin” and I’ve been a Supreme Court attorney who dabbles in pro-bono heart surgery at night. The worst thing? They believed every word hook, line and sinker. Now the illusion would be somewhat broken if they saw my blow up air bed in the heart of Peruvian gangland, in a sitting room with six other people sleeping in it. But I spoof on nonetheless. Chatting up has become a bit of an art form out here. My friend Tommy (he’s from DCU but don’t hold that against him) and I have it down to a tee. Basically we don’t bother with the other J1 Irish, we concentrate all our efforts on the American girls. We do the same thing every time. It basically involves us dropping in as many Irish sayings as possible until they realize we’re Irish. Once they do, well, it’s plain sailing. The problem though is when we try this act on an Irish girl. Chicago is infested with Irish, so you never know when the next Naas local (I’ve met five so far) is lurking round the corner. When we do launch what we’ve named the “lucky charm leprechaun” approach to chatting up women on Irish girls, we’re usually laughed out the bar. To fix this, I’m currently working on a scéal for the Irish girls. The current draft revolves around me being an inter-county star for Kildare who’s just suffered a career threatening injury and who’s come to Chicago to rediscover the mojo that had Pat Spillane once deem me Kildare’s next superstar. Sadly, unlike the Americans, the Irish are world class spoof detectors and I haven’t got a single believer thus far.
It’s a sad truth that you can’t go out if you don’t have any money, so the next thing on the to-do list was to get a job. Now, in my head I already had a job lined up. I had a contact inside a top Chicago hotel and basically I thought it was just a matter of turning up, flashing my best Colgate smile and away I went. How wrong I was? It’s two weeks later and I’ve yet to earn a penny in income. I’ve applied to be a be a rickshaw driver, a seed seller at a farming expo and even flirted with the idea of doing some modelling for a local gay magazine which specified straight boys with accents. Why they wanted an accent for a modelling job, I don’t know. Also I doubt they would be too impressed with the beer belly I’ve carefully crafted after a year of tireless work in the Pav. I had to come up with a plan to make a few quid otherwise I was on the next reasonably priced economy ticket out of here. It had to be a speciality of mine in times of trouble. A trip to Arlington Park and a day at the races.
At home I’m pretty good at the ol’ horses but America is different ball game altogether. I brought a group of about eight of us out to the races, desperate for some gambling-filled respite from our financial woes. I started well with a $150 win (half a month’s rent) but, well, the inevitable happened. I got cocky, really cocky. In Ireland, we have seven races a meeting but in the states it’s ten. I thought I was fecking untouchable at this American racing, easy pickin’, so I was having a right crack at every race. I had visions of paying for the whole J1 by the end of the day. Dear God I was wrong. By the last race I was down $450 and was staring an extra month and a half of rent in the face, just for a trip to the races. Plain and simple, I had to back to winner. I stared at the card longing for this four-legged pegasus to appear. And then he did. Hogy, 5/1, this was my only way out. I put everything I had left in my pocket down on the nose, $103 in total. Guess what? Hogy hosed up and the kid was back in front. I could have married that horse. My days of eating cornflakes with water are finally behind me and I’m moving on up in the world with luxurious milk. Although the way my finances are going, it’ll take a lot more than one race if I’m to survive this finical crisis. God feckin’ help me.
