Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

Being originally from working class, northside Dublin, I already know that Roddy Doyle writes about places I know, people I know and language I know, but I was stunned by how much this book resonated with me. Parts of it could have been ripped from my childhood. Long forgotten memories suddenly reappeared - wrapping copies in wallpaper, hiding in the hot press, words I hadn't heard in years (“eccer”, “milling” “sap”), trying to say something funny so the other lads would like you better, and unfortunately, listening to the fights.

It brought back to me just how terrible it was lying in bed and hearing shouting and doors slamming. Of course, I hadn't forgotten that my parents had fought, but I had forgotten that feeling of listening to it. Memories came flooding back of trying to cover it with my ears, or saying over and over again to myself “Stop. Please stop. Just stop” as the lump in my throat got harder. My dad didn't do the things mentioned in the book, it was just shouting, but it was awful. Grown up problems suddenly invaded a child's innocence. Patrick trying to make sense of it was just heartbreaking - “I loved him. He was my da. It didn't make sense. She was my ma.” I can't imagine subjecting my son to that. My wife and I tend to give each other the silent treatment. I've never raised my voice to her. I wonder if that's something I subconsciously learned from childhood.