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Fantasy And Reality

I am considering entering the digital world, publishing digitally, the real world having failed me miserably. I view the digital world with some revulsion for not being the real thing. I am real and live in reality, literally and metaphorically.   Those who live in the digital world wouldn’t know reality if it bit them in the you know where.   Fantasy addicts everyone. Clinics for their treatment have been set up in South Korea, or try Lourdes.

So why enter this fantastical phantasmagoria, the enemy of flesh and blood, mania itself, home of addicts, fantasists and deluded self- made fools, to coin a phrase?   To rescue them from their delusion and myself from misery.   Bring sanity to the mad house.   Set my people free.

In the real world books are made of paper, see them, feel them, smell them, drop them on your toe and know they’re there. Not so in the virtual world.   The Library of Congress in your hand but nothing in reality.   Suppose a power failure, what then? Does madness ensue? Lost without your phone.   Curl up with a book, a real book. Kiss a real girl.

So I too enter the mad house for I hope a short stay.   To visit those who fly from reality, fear it, hate it, ignore it and treat it as not existing. I know the feeling, c’est la grande illusion.   Brush up your French.

My purpose is nothing less than to bring reality to life.   The virtual world is a stepping stone to the real thing, a stone’s throw away as you might say, not to put words in your mouth.   Step one: the virtual world. Step two: the real world. When I find the key to the virtual world. So I must approach the drug peddlers.

Everyone and his aunt describes themself as a writer or author today because they live in the virtual world publishing their work there, but who buys? Almost no one. Who gets rich? The digital media barons, the drug peddlers.   You might as well scrawl on a wall.

So I will enter the world of the deluded, the fantasists, because I have nowhere else to go. The real world does not want me or my wares. It having been taken over by fantasy.   I enter your world in a reverse take over bid.   When? When I get around to it. I act the madman with an aching heart so as to conform but it is only an act. I hate myself for doing it.   But do it I will.

I am no conceptual artist. I believe in the realisation of concepts and many other things which appear to have been forgotten in this age of fantasy. Fantasy is fake reality.   Ideally I exist in both worlds, I and my work. Until the real thing comes along.

So I shall be coming soon to a device near you.  Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Tich Ennis

19th January, 2018


Sinn Fein

Sinn Fein revealed for the sectarian murderers they are.

When will they find their guiding star?

Whatever happened to live and let live, to love means to give.

As for the Unionists why don’t you learn Scots Gaelic, its more or less the same.

Why play the hate game?

We’re all the same.

I’d like a borderless world, the Earth has none.

May we smile under the Sun.

Must I make it absolutely clear, borders are man made, creating fear.

Lets have no borders here.

Maybe next year.

When will tomorrow come, never, people say.

The IRA have not gone away.

Allow the children play.

That’s all I have to say.

Forever and a day.

A child waves at everyone passing by, even me.

They see.

When will truth be?

A child believes in friendliness, do not betray their trust.

We are made from the same dust.

Okay, Sinn Fein, you had your say.

Help make hate go away.

I have not joined the haters.

I am one of the waiters.

I don’t mean in a hotel.

What the Hell!

Tich Ennis

16th January, 2018


Patient Patient

6th January, 2017


Michael O’Brien,

Intensive Care Unit,

Vincent’s Hospital,

Dublin 4.


Some recent writing of mine, which I may list if I get around to it. Not read to you for reasons we both know, get a mobile phone!

I rang yesterday and was told you are much better. I said to tell you David Ennis rang, maybe they did.

What to say? I was at the Bridge Hotel yesterday chatting with the barman, whose name I am uncertain of as of much else.   Possibly Brendan, although I think he’s the bearded one.

We had an interesting if somewhat onesided conversation.   I asked him had he outgrown being ten years old, he said he didn’t think so.   I told him interesting things ten year olds said, such as that Columbus circumcised the Earth. Also, about Egypt, the inhabitants all lived somewhere else. This in their essays.   As recounted to my by my niece.

I said according to opinion polls the independents are losing popularity. We tried them, it didn’t work. Is Shane Ross always stupid or only mostly, I asked? He said he thinks always.

When they were going to go to North Korea to tell Kim  Jung il not to be stupid he could have cleared up their traffic problems. Remember our traffic minister who was caught driving the wrong way down a dual carriageway while drunk? He would make as much difference.

They decided not to go. If they had gone we would have spent years trying to get them out of jail. I’d leave them there, said Brendan (or whoever).   Shane Ross said he doesn’t agree with politicians doing things for their constituency and the first thing he did was get a Garda Station put there.   Then the crime rate rose.   Could you make it up?

I paid for my pint and had a sandwich. I said put the change in the poorbox, I’ll collect it next week when I’m poor.   There appeared to be no other customers in the bar, it was morning.   Then I went to Centra and paid for some cigarettes I got on tick.

My life so far, or some of it.   I spoke with John White on the phone, who told me ICU means ‘intensive care unit’.   He said you must be bad. Or have been so.   I said you are reportedly better. You’re a bad lad. Morally, spiritually and financially you are showing signs of improvement.

George is, as ever, giving all my stuff away and has a lot of letters to post, today, Saturday, I to address the envelopes because my writing is legible.   I am a good writer, my handwriting has been praised.   Possibly better than the great Russians. Who, as someone said, possessed greatness of soul. I’m not there yet.

John White said he doesn’t like serious stuff, only funny stuff. And him a physicist!   What’s so funny about splitting atoms?   Not to speak of splitting hairs.

Are you going to tunnel your way out of hospital?   I was told you will be there for a few days so I send you this to that address.   Pray for a miracle.   I have holy well water given to me by a local guy, but you refused it.   In a plastic bottle I am unable to open.   Labelled by me in case anyone thinks I’m a secret gin drinker.   On my mantelpiece, I might give it to my sister if she would take it.   I mean the religious one, not the pagan.

People sometimes call me by my brother’s name, I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment. They say it’s a compliment.

I have ordered 40 of the inserts for the CD cover for my CD which would mean I have enough for all 50 CD’s I got duplicated. From Blueprint, the printers here.   When you get home you’ll have that CD jewel case complete with inserts, posted to you there while you were in Dalkey.

The souvenir stroke tourist shop, Power’s, on the main street here may or may not sell my CD, I don’t know. They have my CD, not yet played, they sell no CD’s as of now.   Also, Easons in the shopping centre here, the Bridgewater, are in the same boat, but seem more likely.   Easons are nationwide distributors, as well as having their own shops. Who knows?   I’m used to having doors slammed in my face, that’s why my nose is flat.

Expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed. I’ve got plenty of nothing. Hope springs eternal in the human breast. Think Marilyn Monroe. Diana Dors. Brigitte Bardot. Jayne Mansfield.

Just something to be going on with, Michael.   I told you that joke about the do-it-yourself job, which I won’t repeat here. You don’t have to look your best. Too late now.

I met Billy O’Brien of the Woodenbridge hotel who said they will sell my book Reasonable Rhymes on their reception desk, as they did before with Pub Talk, my last book. I said nothing about my CD, but why not? They could play it over their sound system, if they would and if it didn’t drive the customers out.   The Arklow Bay Hotel seem like a dead loss, like trying to get into Fort Knox. Some cement company own that hotel now and they have all that charm.   Personally speaking.

Festina lente, hasten slowly. This seems to be turning into a long letter.

Most of the people George meets seem to be dishonest crooks, are there any other kind?   Promising much, delivering nothing. George says its publicity, giving my stuff away free. I say people don’t value what they get for nothing.   He disagrees. Not even any feedback, no thank you, that’s out of fashion.   My stuff is cheap, but not free!   Not to my way of thinking, anyway.

Am I to be a rich communist? That’s not Ireland, that’s China. Did people pay for chairman Mao’s little red book? Now regarded as kitsch in that country. Or was it free?   You have to pay for the bullet they kill you with in China.   Nothing for nothing.

It could be worse. I could be you, a year older.   John White is even older and there’s nothing wrong with him a bottle of whisky wouldn’t cure.   John doesn’t drink, he’s a wise man. He thinks people only talk rubbish in pubs. He is academic.   Which does not mean useless and pointless, contrary to popular opinion.

What everyone knows is wrong. Do a person’s thinking for them and they love you, make them think and they hate you. A bureaucrat thinks rules are more important than people. We’re Irish, we don’t do rules. Sayings of an ancient Irish guru.

This letter is already on its third page and I try to keep within one page, not successfully, as you see.   Oh yes, and the man who made time made plenty of it.   That goes without saying.   Einstein said time is an illusion. Did he wear a watch?

All this could have been said on the telephone if you were up to it and had a working phone.   I hope you and your phone make a full recovery soon so that normal service may be restored.   Having been an almost daily communicant, with you, I miss our conversations.

The rambling English drunkard made the rambling English road. I ramble on.   Drunkards of the world unite!   You have nothing to lose but your consciousness. A utopia called oblivion. It is better to travel than arrive. British Rail slogan, someone said. The Irish and English have features in common. I’ll drink to that!

Here I am in the middle of the night or early morning writing to you, killing time, see Einstein. How do you kill what doesn’t exist? See Nietsche on God.   And God on Nietsche. They both say each other is dead. Pot. Kettle. Black.

Dialogue of the deaf. Unlike when you and I speak. I look forward to that happenstance. Le bon mot, le mot juste, must you always elude my grasp?   Mot is French for word, ask Macron. Next time you meet him.   Elysee Palace or Folies Bergere.

I better leave some space for the signature on this letter so will now conclude inconclusively.   That’s all there is to say then, in a manner of speaking.   Wishing you well in every sense of the word and in every way, your constant correspondent correspondingly yours, David (Tich) Ennis, with all best wishes…..

Tich Ennis

6th January, 2018

Sarcastic Teachers

Me: When I was fifteen a teacher was explaining the meaning of the word latent, unrealised, as in talents.   You boys all have latent talents, he said. Your talents are all latent. He smiled to himself. No one said anything.

I could have stood up and said on behalf of my colleagues may I object in the strongest possible terms to your condescending tone.   Then I could have let loose with a string of bad language.   That would be the strongest possible terms, wouldn’t it?

He: I suppose it would be.

Me: Teachers have a name for being sarcastic.

He: It goes with the territory.

Me: Teachers have a new audience every year to tell their jokes to and perfect their put downs and sarcastic remarks on.

She: That’s not the way its supposed to be.

Me: Since when have things been they way they’re supposed to be?

Tich Ennis

26th December, 2017


Unknown Man

I am the world famous unknown man.

If this is rubbish then it is God’s plan.

Why does my brother give everything away?

Everything I sing or do or say.

Is it possible to live without money?

What comedian is not funny?

Okay bee, make honey.

Tich Ennis

24th December, 2017

CD Jewel Case

23rd December, 2017


I am suffering from Michael O’Brien deprivation, us not having spoken for about a week. So I have no idea of what you think or thought of the book I sent you and my CD with its printing on it and all the other CD’s and my letter and so on and on.   I await a full review.

Here is my CD jewel case complete with inserts designed by me, printed by Blueprint here in Arklow, to go with my CD, Great Irish Songs.   I am sending this to your home because I expect and hope you are back there by now from the hospital in Dalkey.

I have rung you many times without success over the last several days, get your phone fixed whatever is wrong with it or ring me. I also tried your landline to your apartment, no luck there either. And you an engineer!

I gave three of my CD’s to James at Beat That to sell in his oldie record and book store here, no comment from him, he’s like that. He opened it and looked at it in all its glory. You get the Vale of Avoca free with it, I said. (Picture on the inside cover).

The latest design of CD cover is called digi-pack, made of cardboard and less fragile than a jewel case. Seems better all round, although I have never seen one in real life. Could be posted in an ordinary envelope, not a bubble type one. I can’t afford those at the moment (this moment in time) for financial reasons.

Duplicated CD’s and covers fall in price a lot the higher the quantity ordered, I got the minimum quantity, fifty. My brother is having a good time giving them away.   I got them without covers, of course, for reasons you can infer from the last paragraph, reading between the lines.

Anyway I haven’t got much more to say except that Christmas comes but once a year, so do our birthdays. We wouldn’t have it otherwise.   Unless I am wrong Shane McGowan and Martin Luther share a birthday with Jesus Christ, so only one present each for them. Dual purpose, birthday and Christmas.   They don’t make Jews like Jesus anymore, song by Kinky Friedman and his Texas Jewboys. Unheard by me, but I like the title.

Kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life. Parents of teenage daughters get down on your knees and pray. I brought my harp to the party and nobody asked me to play. I’ve got tears in my beer from crying over you. Song titles of which you may or may not be aware. Its all before you.

Anyway, enjoy my CD cover, David (Tich) Ennis, ring me!

Poster Boy

Poster designed by me not printed yet.

CD not duplicated yet.

Its coming, like Christmas.

Book ready in small quantities.

We can but try, Tich Ennis, 9th December, 2017