For every dose there’s a tonic

WordSmith

Gerard Smith

I was in Dunnes queue waiting to pay for a portion of chicken wings, when a man tapped me on the shoulder and drew me in with a conspiratorial nod, “C’mere,” he said. When I saw concern in his face, I asked, “What is it?”

He looked around and, sure no one else was within earshot, he continued, “I was walking up the street there, didn’t a foreign fella come up to me and ask, ‘Is there a B&Q in Cavan?’ I said, ‘No,’ but there’s 2Ds in Dundalk!”

I’ve heard it before; but the way he reeled me in and his delivery of an old joke made me chuckle like I’d heard it for the first time. There is something in the Cavan accent that lends itself perfectly to joke telling. It’s the pace with which the words are delivered, the drawling canter that lends an extra slurp of mirth to the punchline.

This happened on Monday morning, a time when I always have a mild case of the blues, something I attribute to a lingering trauma from double-maths at the start of my school week; yet the man’s cheer and innate comedic talent helped to shake them off and I walked away with a smile on my face.

I needed that smile. Now we’re in November with its short dark days, we must take our smiles wherever we find them. And whilst a smile can’t deliver our Vitamin D, it can give us sunshine when the real thing is in short supply.

I got to thinking about the queue man. It was my first encounter with him, but I suspect he’s a regular joke teller on what I call the Unofficial-Cavan-Comedy-Circuit. These are folk who have power, they can lift even the most downtrodden of spirits with their comedic timing.

Like recently, at a celebratory event, I wasn’t feeling in the party spirit. People began arriving and milling around in that pre-party way. I was sitting with an older relative whose eye-sight isn’t what it used to be, she nudged me, “Who’s that fella standing over there?”

I was surprised she didn’t recognise him given it was her nephew. When I told her who it was she exclaimed, “He’s gone fierce-grey!” Quick as a flash, a similarly silver-topped man turned around and announced with mock indignation, “He’s gone arctic-blonde!” The resultant laughter lifted my spirits and the party started.

Cavan is full of characters like that. You all know them, those people you refer to as, “A tonic.” Even the smallest dose of them can be the greatest pick-me-up. Which brings me on to their characterful counterpart, “The dose!”

The dose is most often described sandwiched between an accompanying adjective and adverb, “He’s an awful dose, altogether.” But the reality is, we need, “The dose,” as much as we need, “The tonic.” Because it’s the combination of both that give our life colour and character, which help to create a community.

The tonic and the dose, lead me onto something else that gives us our sense of place, dialect.

Dialect – that language within a language unique to a region. The way in which Cavan people use ‘dose’ and ‘tonic’ would probably be misunderstood beyond Ireland.

Since my return to Cavan I’ve become acutely aware of this dialect, it’s the language of my youth. And what really strikes me is when I hear it being adopted. Like the other day when I was asked by a man, “How is the craic,” in his polish phonetic, and the Lithuanian lady who explained the reason for her sore head, “We had a good lock-a-drink last night.”

You don’t need me to tell you how much Cavan has changed; but it’s only when you’ve been away that you see how much it remains the same. And it’s that combination of change and same, that makes me smile warmly.

Now, back to those chicken wings. I took a picture of them and posted them to Twitter X along with the man’s B&Q quip. It wasn’t long before someone noticed the price and quipped – “I can’t believe a Cavan man would pay €3.05 for a few chicken wings.”