Brendan Nolan

Oil or gas??

2011-12-29T19:18:00.007Z

I am watching a television programme about two people competing against one another in buying old things and making a profit from re-selling them when the doorbell rings.
The show is about to announce a winner. I think my champion will win against the other person, neither of whom I know or care anything about.
There is a man in a short blue raincoat standing in the darkness outside my front door. He carries a clipboard and what appears to be an ID tag flapping across his breast on a string.
He hails me and asks: if I use oil or gas to heat my home? I ask why ? and he smiles and says not to worry, he is not selling anything.
He repeats the question with the breeziness of the totally programmed.
I ask his name; he says it does not matter, it is of no account.
I say, I have to close the door if he will not tell me who he is or what he wants.
But, he walks away into the night leaving me with an opened door and a confused mind.
The show is over when I sit down again and I don't know who won.
And I don't know what oil or gas wanted, either.
I ask around, but nobody else saw him.
I wonder if I dreamt him, this man with no name and nothing to sell who called to my home from the darkness when I least expected him.
Storytelling here

Christmas Pyjamas

2011-12-17T16:51:00.006Z

A man wants to know when the pyjamas will be in?
He is delaying the check-out queue at a discount supermarket.
His trolley has a number of groceries in it, sufficient unto the sustenance of an older man, which he is, and thin with it, a thinness that an east wind could pass by without too much interference.
He says he was told, two days ago, that a new stock of pyjamas would be in today. He is here now with an earlier unsatisfactory purchase to be attended to by someone, anyone.
That others are delayed by him is of no consequence to the pursuit of the perfect pyjamas.
The check-out girl is from a country where English is not the first language. Even if it was; she still could not understand his next comment.
"I need different pyjamas today," he tells everyone.
Some people nod in understanding. Pyjamas can be important to a contented life.
The girl says she does not know when new pyjamas will arrive and he may have his money back if he likes?
He accepts the offer for he says he needs a larger pair of pyjamas for two women.
One pair for two women?
He leaves then with refunded money in his pocket in his quest for right-sized pyjamas; leaving the check-out girl bewildered and the rest of us reviewing our own lifestyles.
Something is missing.
And he never even says Happy Christmas as he wanders out into the air.
Storytelling here

A Man called Brush

2011-10-21T16:23:00.007+01:00

A man I meet says he used to sit beside me in school.
I don’t know him.

I ask when this was, thinking it might be someone who had a beard in school and is now clean shaven and that is why I don't recognise him.

In junior infants, he says.

I say I can't remember; mainly because my own children have been through senior infants since then and their children after them.
It's a generational thing.
He says he will never forget me and the time I won that spelling competition for a new pencil.

I won by spelling brush, I recall with a chilling flashback.

I put my hand in my pocket to give him some loose change; but stop when he tells me he is now a bank manager.

This he says apologetically as if he was destined for better things and is left on a ledge by a falling tide.

He says he likes my book.
That he has followed my progress since junior infants.
Which book, I ask, I have three published, and another to be published come the springing of the new year, I say immodestly.
Brush, he says and walks away.
I never wrote about a brush in my life.
I still don't know who he is.
Storytelling here

Selling a bestseller

2011-09-05T16:23:00.010+01:00

I am in a bookshop. A mother and a daughter are wondering whether to buy my book as a present for an older man.

I wish to encourage them, so I take down a copy of the same book and make for the cash desk as if I am buying a copy myself.
This is a risky strategy for my picture is on the back cover of the book as the author.
My hope is that they will not recognise me for I believe I am a wiser and fuller person than I was when that picture was taken for money by a photographer in the city.
At the cash desk, I simply ask the cashier if the book that I have in my hand is selling well?

I tell her I wrote it. She says it's a bestseller, as far as she knows.
I sense she is lying and wondering how to call security.
I leave the book on a display table inside the door and leave.
I hope the man is happy with his copy of the bestseller. I hope they buy it for him.
He deserves no less.
If they do not, I hope their car gets a puncture on the way home with someone else's book.
Such are the thoughts of a venal author.
Storytelling here

Hen Lover

2011-08-02T18:56:00.005+01:00

A woman asks me if I like hens.
Hen whats I ask her, though I know I should not do so.
Hen chickens she replies in that language peculiar to madwomen that makes perfect sense at the time, but none at all when you try to explain what happened to someone else.

She means girl chickens, the ones that lay eggs that we eat for breakfast without concern for the egg-less chicken mother.
I say I don't know any hens personally so I could not venture an opinion, one way or another.
That should have been the end of the matter but the following morning I awake to the sound of a hen pecking her way around my front garden.
Around her neck, when I catch her, is a luggage label, loosely tied with a thin white cord, that says simply: "Enjoy."
I never see the woman again.
The chicken is still alive and lives in the back kitchen on her own where she causes no harm to anyone.
And I have fresh eggs everyday in lieu of rent.
For a hen can produce an egg but she cannot understand a rent book or date due payments.
I call her Elsie.
I like her.
Storytelling here

Seeking Myself

2011-07-12T08:19:00.012+01:00

I look up Google maps to find the venue for the Toastmasters meeting I am to attend as a guest storyteller.
Once found, I am frightened by the level of detail the man in the flying car has captured as he passed by my home.

The hedge is overgrown and the car is not parked properly; it was parked in a hurry that evening as I came in late and rushed to pretend it was really early when I came home from my storytelling evening.

Had I known that someone was going to drive past my house and take photographs when I was away I would have alerted the police to an invasion of my privacy.
As it stands, my overgrown hedge and clumsily parked car may have lowered the value of property in the area.
It is as well that I had hidden the broken down lawnmower under a tree in the back garden.
It doesn't work anymore; but it was part of my life for so long that I don't want to part with it, just yet. So, I parked it under the shelter of the apple tree in the south-west corner so it will not fade into a rusted memory.

Too many people just bury their lawnmowers when they come to the end of their working lives; it's not right.
Old lawnmowers deserve as much respect as do old boots.
So does my old privacy.
You see, at the moment I need a haircut, as well. I have been writing a new book and living like a hermit while I do so.
What if I had looked like this when the man from Google drove past and I had waved at him, or her, and had been immortalised as a man with a rough hedge, an abandoned car, a hidden dead lawnmower, and unkempt appearance?
Guilty as charged.
It's not right.
Storytelling here

Sleepwalking Lovers

2011-07-04T07:13:00.013+01:00

A man says I can have a 25 per cent discount on a bag I wish to buy.
I am to have a euro off the real price of four euro because I am wearing the badge of a participant in the 20th storytelling marathon in Guadalajara, Spain.

I have the badge pinned to my shirt with pride for I told a story of my own at 2.30am that morning in the Palace of the Infantry in Guadalajara.
It seemed appropriate to tell the true story of the sleepwalking lovers to the hundreds and hundreds of faces that saw the cool Spanish night through as storytellers from all over Spain and the rest of Europe rose up to tell their stories in ten minute narrations.

In Guadalajara, they make a fuss of you when you come off the stage. And they pin a badge on your clothing to induct you into the storytelling community of the city.
I have travelled here with a coachful of other tellers from a storytelling conference in Toledo.
The organizers think it a good idea to schedule us to tell, one after another, from 1am until 6am, or so.
We all wait, when we have told our story, some wrapped in supplied blankets to stay warm in the chill of early morn, until the last teller of our group ends, at dawn, and we disperse to our beds throughout the city.

So many stories, so many styles, so many languages, so many mad tellers mixed in with the sane sounding voices.
Even the few sane ones sound insane to the ear, for want of sleep.
I walk through the lightening streets to the hotel wondering why I booked a bed at all.
I could have hired a taxi to drive me around the city while I slept in the back for a few hours.
Awake and moving again, I buy a lottery ticket from the bag seller with the euro I saved on my purchase of the bag.
The lottery is in aid of the first anniversary of the founding of a local youth-led environmental group, I am told with pride.
I stay because the draw is in five minutes, I discover the first prize is to be soap and the second prize is to be vinegar.
I win neither; but have had a discount on my new linen bag wherein I now carry my books to sell at storytelling events.
And I have my badge.
Neat.
All is well.

Haunted Storyteller

2011-06-27T13:20:00.037+01:00

They say the Toledo castle I am sleeping in is haunted.
What they don't know is that it is I that haunts the corridors.
I am seeking my allocated room of three snoring men and one quiet sleeper.
When they said it was shared quarters at the conference of the Federation for European Storytelling, FEST, I thought: another man, a stranger. Perhaps.
Instead, there are four of us breathing the same air in our sleep, waiting for the call to arms.
The corridors are lit by sensor lights that illuminate at your approach. I walk too fast, the lights don't know I am there.
So, the halls I pass through remain dark.
I am the unseen presence. I can see nothing.
I beam in like a bat on the cave of the snoring men; and I am safe.

When the work of the conference is over; I tell my workshop group a story from South Africa told to me in Dublin by a storyteller from Arizona, a year ago.
A rooster is trapped by a wolf who will eat him for lunch. The rooster persuades the wolf to pray and while his eyes are closed the rooster runs away to safety.
Each knows a version from their own country and we elect to tell the story in our own languages, though the lingua franca of FEST is English.
We will tell in Portuguese, Austrian, Irish, Italian and Spanish; no English at all.

Luís from Portugal plays melodeon while we tell our versions in the 200-seater baroque theatre in Toledo.
Luís tells first, then plays for us; then Birgit from Vienna, Brendan from Dublin and Giovanna from Italy.
Alfredo from Chile and Madrid sings a song instead and we all rise, bow, and go home to the haunted castle to find the barman has gone home and the bar is closed.

Drink is sent for and we laugh and talk and drink into the morning in a castle garden looking across the valley to the tiered city of Toledo with its yellow light spilling like gold over the quiet streets.

Over there we told our stories.

For now we are happy.

Storytellers all.
And the ghost smiles.

Storytelling here

In the air under the ground on the rails up a cliff

2011-06-19T17:21:00.004+01:00

I fly to Madrid. Well, I fly to the airport and cannot find the Metro which I know is underneath the airport somewhere.

Outside, in the air, I ask a man who speaks no English where it is hidden. I speak no Spanish so he puts me on a shuttle bus and with hand gestures tells me that I am to get off at the next stop.
The bus travels for twenty metres at speed to the stop and I alight. I see a sign for the metro. I ask where it is of a man under a sign that says he gives free directions; but only in Spanish in an international airport.
I find it on my own and am by now armed with a hand map of the entire system. I am to change lines to get to where I want to be, the railway station in Madrid to catch a train to Toledo.
I ask for assistance at every change and am soon connected to many people in camaraderie in transit that I will never meet again. They are all fellow passengers hurrying about under the ground to get to somewhere else that is over ground.

Arrived at the rail terminal I hear the train I want is full and I have to wait another two hours to catch the final train of the night.

I wait.

It is dark when I reach Toledo and I walk up a cliff with a suitcase full of stories in tow.

Roads are steep in Toledo. I will tell a story in a theatre here; but not this story.

Storytelling here

Talking Dogs

2011-06-05T10:24:00.003+01:00

A woman with a dog stops me to talk to me about her dog and about mine.
I don't mind that she coos over my dog and asks me her name and then speaks to my dog in a familiar way without having been first introduced to my free-running companion.
She tells me what her dog's name is and waits. So does her dog, who is on a lead with a little bell on it to remind him at every step that a human owns him.

I don't feel I can enthuse about a dog I have just met on the way to the river. Me and my dog are going for a swim. Well, she is, and I am going to stand there and try not to get wet when she shakes herself dry.

I don't say this to my dog's new best friend.

She may want to come with me and learn our secret way across the grass to the best place to swim.

We get away and I make a note to travel a different route for a year or so to avoid such an encounter being repeated.

People with dogs can be odd creatures if you meet them unexpectedly on the road, on a sunny morning.

Best avoided.
storytelling here

Beware the mad fairies

2011-05-30T19:15:00.010+01:00

A man emails me early in the morning following my folk tales presentation in a town several towns away from where I live.
I like best to tell stories of the hatchas that hang about the corners of the town where I live now, my mother's people's town. But last night I went foreign.
He is territorial, like many males in a historical society audience.
It's their history and their geography so agree with them, they say with their mind thoughts.
This can be hard when you don't know what's in their skull even when they eyeball you from the back of the room.

This man says he has consulted official maps and it would appear that the location where the brother disappeared with the fairy gold is not marked thereon. This from a story I told, too well.
I already explained that a large housing estate now grows where once the little people danced. I add the news that the developer went mad as a result. He now digs up footpaths seeking buried treasure when nobody is about.

This man is mad in a different way. He wants the treasure of knowledge he thinks I possess. He wants to know where the fairy rath is located.
I say it is where it is and know then that I have made someone madder with a bad answer.
I could have told him where the rath now lies; but I am scared in a mild class of a way.
You see, it's the fairies you need to stay clear of.
For, they are nuts altogether.
storytelling here

Losing your audience to a dress

2011-05-23T12:20:00.015+01:00

I agree to talk about Phoenix Park in Dublin to an active retirement group. My first mistake is accepting an afternoon booking. The second is the fault of a rival attraction.
People would be interested in hearing the author of Phoenix Park: a History and Guidebook speak to them, I am told.
I agree, since I am that author.

The venue is within a complex at a church. I arrive early and see the bride sashay down the aisle to claim her new husband.
Back in my own area I stand on a platform to tell the people about the park. I determine to do well.
As gently as you could imagine, the first row falls asleep like nodding daffodils on a soft spring day. I push on with the second row.
The organiser whispers that I need to finish up soon because Michelle is due in to lead a gentle aerobics session.
Before that, they need to have tea. During the 19th century, the tea committee abandon the second row and leave the room to switch on the water boiler.
I have to shout to the back row when the bridal bells ring out at the conclusion of the wedding ceremony.

They stare at the door in case the groom wanders in seeking advice from the senior citizens on what he is to do next.

When he fails to appear, they rush out to see the bride as she poses for pictures.

I fall into conversation with the sole remaining listener.

When I look up the room is empty, tea is being had elsewhere, so I leave before Michelle arrives and includes me in her aerobics programme.
I am just in time to miss the departure of the active wedding party.
I wish them well and hope they never tire.
storytelling here

Home is where the scandal is

2011-05-16T12:39:00.011+01:00

I arrive to tell stories in my hometown pro bono as part of the local homecoming festival.
But nobody has come home for the festival, except me.

Those who never left are too busy watching ads on TV to turn up to hear me tell stories about them, lightly disguised.
The keyholder is nowhere to be seen though I strike the wooden door with my balled fist many times.
I wait outside the door wondering whether I should leave town again, and soon. I could always make a call to the organisers tomorrow and assure them I would be available at no cost in the future to tell no stories to no one outside a locked hall.

But then, a few people wander along and when the crowd waiting outside has swollen to three, including me, the keyholder leans out the top window and says she will be down now.

Seven seats fill up inside and I tell stories from here there and everywhere to my audience.

When the town gossip takes a seat she makes mental note as I tell a spare scurrilous tale adapted from 1001 Arabian Nights and bowlderised for local telling.
She goes away convinced she has heard the truth about her neighbours, which in a way she has --- though not in the way she thinks.
I finish, I accept the plaudits and go to where I live now.
Home may be home forever; but it is a hard place to play, without screaming.
storytelling here

Red lights and happy nights

2011-05-07T14:57:00.007+01:00

I am late leaving a meeting in a city hotel.
Outside while walking to my car another lategoer stops me to talk about nothing. He seems afraid to be alone, to go home.
Some people are like that. I grow even more vague in my answers and finally he leaves.

I get the car out of the parking area and drive up to the traffic lights a little way up the street. They go red. I stop.
Sitting in your car at a red light, late at night can be a lonely time, especially when you have just come from a meeting where conversation flowed like water from a burst main.
What happens, I tell myself afterwards was not my fault.

I am looking along the street when a lone woman comes along and nods at me. Being polite and thinking she knows me I nod back.
She smiles, I smile and wonder where I know her from.
Then she is sitting in the passenger seat sighing with her eyes closed like someone who has come a long journey and is just glad to be sitting down.

The light goes green and I drive off, with a woman I realise I do not know in my car. Techically, I have kidnapper her. I ask her what she wants and she asks me the same question.
It is then I realise I am dealing with a professional. The nods and the smiles were an offer to treat and to discuss terms.

I make an illegal U-turn and drive back towards the traffic lights all the while explaining to my companion that it was a mistake and I am tired.
She says she is also tired and as soon as I pay her the 100 per cent cancellation fee we can call it a night and will I give her a lift home?
Which is how I finally settle on a get-out-of-the-car fee just as the other lategoer drives up to the lights in his car.

It is too much to hope that he has not seen me paying off a night worker in my car at a red light.
I have a reputation as a party man ever since and sometimes get calls from men who ask me to say where action might be found.
I just tell them to drive around, it will find them.

Just don't stop for red lights, I say.

storytelling here

Place a bet

2011-04-13T19:00:00.005+01:00

A man stops me on the street outside the local bookies office.
Will you place a bet for me? he asks.
I say I have no change and try to walk past him.
He is not asking for charity. He wants to enrich me. I say what?
He is barred from the bookies he says because he wins too many times. He glances at the street surveillance camera on the shop as he speaks.
I think he looks too shabby to be a big winner; but think he may be in disguise, in working clothes.
What would I have to do I hear myself ask, though I fear I should know better.
Just place this five euro bet for me and add your own bet to it; we can divide the spoils later.
In my hand is a five euro note and two scrawled numbers I take to be the fifth horse in the sixth race.
I add €100 of my own money to the five and place the bet.
The horse loses the race, I lose my money and my sense of justice.
I never see the man again; some say he is the mad son of the country's ruler; others that he does not understand horses; I say he is a teacher of men.
storytelling here

Accordion stories

2011-03-21T17:49:00.002Z

I agree to tell stories in a day-ward.
Only then do I ask what age they are, the listeners.
Not old, the youngest is 84 years old.
I arrive to find six patients matched with six minders.
The minders do not have much English and I tell local stories to listeners who are locals grown old who will recognise the references.
One man mistakes me for a country and western accordion player with the same first name. He asks me to sing his/my greatest hits.
When I say I am a storyteller he goes into a huff until I finish telling a story to a 90-year-old who thinks she is in nursery school and who would rather be outside playing in the rain.
When I don't sing requests, the man goes off to bed in the middle of my finale and the woman throws a plastic cup at a rival across the room before I leave.
The booker says they had a great time and will I come again?
Not until I learn to play the accordion I say as I step out into the real world.
storytelling here

Wild Times in Phoenix Park

2011-03-15T11:39:00.003Z

I am on a radio station. Actually, I am on the national radio station at peak listening time.
It is a Monday at the beginning of a year when the Sunday is the public holiday and everyone is on a day off in lieu the following day, even if they are not.
Lots of people are travelling home in their cars and listening to radio when they would usually be doing something else.
I am being interviewed on my book: Phoenix Park: a History and Guidebook.
The interview goes well and I say there is a part of the national park in Dublin that is allowed to run a little wild.
When a branch falls or an old tree topples over it is left there if safe to do so. Natural woodland growth goes on around the fallen tree.
Next day, a listener rings me to ask where this wilderness area is located and is it safe to bring her children there while they are on school holiday?
I say it's wild in the sense that vegetation is allowed grow wild in a controlled way to create natural woodland.
She asks if there are many wild animals there that might attack her kids.
I say no and we finish the call.
Afterwards, I wonder if what she really wants is to find a place where wild animals can eat her school holiday children and she can get some peace.
A little knowledge for wild people is a dangerous thing and I wonder what she did with what I said.
Are there now feral kids in that area and would they attack me if I discover them?
park website

Stop that Barking

2011-03-07T18:36:00.009Z

It seems like a good idea to self-sell my collection of original stories at fairs and exhibitions.
I decide a good name for the humorous nearly-true stories should be Barking Mad: Tales of Liars, Lovers, Loonies and Layabouts.
A fat man ask if it's a training manual for dogs?
No, it's a book of stories about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, I add in anticipation of a sale.
I need to train my dog, says my huffing customer.
Another wants to know if it will stop his neighbour's dog from barking. Only if you throw it at him, I say beneath my breath as he wanders away.
Who owns the dog a squinting woman asks of the cover model. I do, I lie wondering if that will make a difference?
I don't want to buy a picture of your dog, she says firmly.
Two lovers buy matching copies. I sign for both of them. The gorgeous girl can hardly breathe with excitement in the presence of her lover.
I sell the rest as gifts for your own true love.
I sell a dozen in a full day of blathering and re-load the remainder into my car breathless from hauling books to people who don't understand high literature.
Next time I'll call the book Tales of Mystery and Longing and print with a blank cover.
It might help.
buy the book yourself as a download

Mister Mister

2011-02-28T20:34:00.009Z

I am crossing between lines of stalled buses and cars on Dame Street when I hear someone shout "Mister, Mister."
I wonder who the Mister is and why he is being called.

The student on the bike with no working brakes comes down the hill between the buses and catches me on the side and over I go in a short sleeved shirt.

The rider comes over the handlebars on top of me and slams my bare arm into the tarmac once more breaking a bone that is attached to other bones and disrupting the lines of communication to my hand as it snaps.
Nonetheless, I pick him and his bike up off the Dublin street and carry the bike with my working hand to place it beneath the Olympia Theatre canopy. I ask if he is alright and he says he shouted Mister to warn me. It seems he thinks it's my fault he ran into me.

I make my way to a busy city post office public phone.
I ring emergency to find where the nearest hospital is and he says he'll send an ambulance.

I say I only want directions. I'll walk, it's my arm that hurts like hell. My feet are working still.

But he insists and I am to wait.
There is nobody with me, I tell him when he asks.

While I wait for the unwanted ambulance I am dizzy and I prop myself against a wall in case I lose consciousness. That way they'll be able to see me, unconscious but upright, when they rush in.

The perplexed paramedic asks me where my bike is? I say a bike hit me, not me it.
He says I look alright and he can't take me in the ambulance for that.

I say I only wanted directions and to take it up with his dispatcher. I have been waiting too long for them and am now somewhat testy.

He says you better get in the ambulance then. I try to get in beside the driver but they insist I get in the back and be strapped into a stretcher.

The siren clears the streets of people.
I try to apologise to the people for the fuss; but they can't hear me inside the ambulance.

In the hospital, a nurse takes my jacket and tells me I am bleeding profusely and there is dried blood on the inside of my jacket.

I say it is a floral motif that is faded and she agrees and we wonder what the flowers were before they faded.

A doctor comes in and says I have a bad sprain to my elbow and to go home and take a warm bath.

I ask if I should stand on my head in the bath since it is my elbow that is hurting even more now and the bath water won't come up that high, unless I submerge and swim for it.
He pretends not to understand English and goes off looking for more polite excitement.

I leave without the promised aspirin for the headache.

I walk back down the street, against the wall, for the ambulance is gone for there is nothing wrong with me, according to medically qualified observers.

I take a bus to my home in suburbia. It is full with commuters.

I have to stand and hold on to the overhead bar with my good hand.

The other arm swings loosely on every corner like a demented scarecrow in a storm.

The next day I go to a different hospital and say I was knocked down and have a sore arm.

They say it's not sore, it's broken.

I knew that already.

Mister.

storytelling here

Walking in the city

2011-02-20T12:59:00.006Z

A man sliding along on an icy city footpath puts out his hand to stop me passing by.
He has an unlit cigarette in his smoking hand and asks what does "sensible footwear" mean? On radio they say he is to wear sensible shoes for snowy conditions.
There is a parallel strip of grass beside us.
I say you could walk on the grass and not slip.
The non-smoker says he does not want to walk on grass; he is in a city. He wants to walk on the path. What are sensible shoes? He places the unlit cigarette between his lips and waits for an answer.
Well, you need shoes with ridges on them to grip the ice, I say.
I haven't got shoes with ridges, says the cigarette man. He waves a lighter in the other hand without sparking it.
I edge away and say you could wear rubber boots like farmer's boots. Ideal for anything.
The cigarette man walks away; I'm not a farmer. I live in a city. I still don't know what sensible footwear is.

storytelling here

Finding self with story

2011-02-12T09:41:00.002Z

At a party a 78-year-old inhales and gets so high she staggers across the room to flop into a chair like a rag doll; all arms and legs and disassociated head.
She is a graduate of my Tell your Own Story programme and has taken a hit of snuff for the first time in her life.
In the first session I go home hoarse; having spent two hours telling stories to them and trying to loosen up their inhibitions to tell their own.
Come the final session ten weeks on I can barley raise my voice above the babble. They all want to tell their story and now. Listen.
We discuss "like snuff at a wake" one week but nobody in the group has ever taken snuff.
At the farewell party the senior teller produces a silver snuffbox and invites everyone to take a line of it. No.
She taps a small dormant volcano onto her hand and it almost takes her head off.
"My sinuses have never been as clear as they are now," she tells the wondering others.

Listen to a story now

Barking Mad goes e

2011-02-06T11:08:00.001Z

Barking Mad, Tales of Lovers, Liars, Loonies and Layaouts my book of funny radio tales is now a kindle ebook on Amazon.
You can download it now to read and laugh from either Amazon.com or Amazon.uk whichever you prefer.
It is a selection of 34 of the most popular stories from my Telling Tales, my radio programme.
You see, with 34 stories you have one a night to read for the longest month and three spare stories for those nights when you cannot sleep. Deadly.
You can also order a signed hard copy directly from the author.
Can I do more for you !!!!
The rest is up to you.

The Miracle of the Holy Coal

2010-12-07T08:19:00.002Z

A new story, The Miracle of the Holy Coal, has been posted to the website to read. here

Have you ever been so cold that you slept with your coat over you?
Have you ever taken a wrong turning in the dark?
Well here’s what happened when a coalman's apprentice took a wrong turning.

While a new video, The Haunting of a Ballplayer has been posted to the YouTube Channel to view. here

Have you ever dreaded being haunted?
Did you ever hear noises in the night?
Well here's what happened when a ballplayer believed a dead woman had returned to visit him.
And a hand scratched on a windowpane in the still of night.

You are Rich when someone says you are valuable to them

2010-11-29T12:15:00.003Z

When someone says: you’re hired they have decided you can bring something to the table.
Few people in the world of business hire someone they like but who is not up to the task.
For your part, you are enriched for you offered your best and it was accepted.
Jack works as a wedding singer. He’s happy when he’s hired.
He’s even happier when he’s hired again by a guest at the wedding.
He has enriched an important even in his client’s life and is richer himself for the effort.
more

You are rich when the test you worried about turns out to be clear

2010-11-22T11:23:00.003Z

Do you know you are rich when the test you worried about turns out to be clear after all?

Human beings are mortal and the thought of mortal life ending fills many with dread.

So much so that they cease to enjoy the days they have left, whether many or few.

Anthony believed his days were numbered while he awaited his test results; so he decided to make peace with everyone he knew.

He tidied up his affairs and made ready for his closing down day.

Except, this time he was wrong in his hunch and the test was clear.

He told his friends and his former adversaries that he would be around for a while yet.

Almost all were happy to share the good news for Anthony had found richness in his new life.
more

When you find the tune you thought was lost.

2010-08-06T09:47:00.001+01:00

Do you know you are rich when you find the song you thought you had lost, forever?

It might be a tune to words that swirl about in your head and that you cannot pin down.

It might be tunes on a CD or one lost on your player.

If you can carry a tune you are blessed for there are people who are tone deaf; but worse still don’t know that they are.

Eddie loved to sing songs at weddings and at funerals, if allowed to do so.

That he couldn’t sing was a cross people bore with a smile for Eddie thought he was a wonderful singer.

Then one day at the funeral of a dear friend Eddie finally matched the words to the tune and sang magnificently.

That he never gave up what was made him rich.
more

You are Rich when your dog meets you with a wagging tail

2010-08-05T10:41:00.000+01:00

You know you are rich when your dog comes to meet you with a wagging tail.

How strange then that some people shoot at their own dogs to teach them discipline.

Molly was a young spaniel who barked with excitement on the hunt in the hills.
But, her owner shot at her with a light pellet whenever she barked, to teach her silence.

One day, he shot too much too close.
Molly almost died.
So he left her on a remote road to expire on her own.

Tom an old shepherd saw and took the wounded Molly home. Tom nursed Molly back to life and took her on the hills with him.

They still walk the hills, waiting for the hunter to return so they can spoil the hunt on him.

The hunter is poor-minded.
Tom and Molly are rich in one another.
more

You are Rich when you bury demons

2010-08-04T10:54:00.010+01:00

Do you know you are rich when you forgive?

Holding onto a grievance affects only you.
The cause will have moved on and most likely forgotten all about what happened; while you are permanently blocked in the past.

Yesterday is gone and tomorrow has not yet arrived. So where are you? In some neverland of your own making?

Or, you could be dancing your way around the situation to be free.

Peter is a professional public speaker, well used to handling hecklers, from time to time. His advice?

“I stand to when someone throws vitriol at me. I know it’s not at me they are aiming; but at some demon in their head. I don’t respond; but I do move slightly as if avoiding something physically thrown. It soon stops.”

Stepping away from demons makes you stronger and richer.
more

You are Rich when you live for now

2010-08-03T10:40:00.005+01:00

Do you know you are rich when you live in the present?

Today is the best day of your life.
The disappointment of yesterday is past and tomorrow’s challenge has not yet arrived.

Living in the present means you rely on yourself, not on promise or on history.

Willy, on the other hand, has short term memory loss. It means he has to write down what’s important to him to remember and to act on.

Willy doesn’t mind that he can’t remember much of what passes for everyday affairs. So long as he is in familiar surroundings and with people he can recognise, he doesn’t bother about small things.

Sometimes, in a private declaration of independence: Willy throws away the notebook. And life begins anew.

Throwing away the notebook can make you rich with possibility.
more

Summer Loving

2010-07-30T20:26:00.001+01:00

Summer Loving

Brendan Nolan tells his original story of what happened when a smiling man called to the door of a lonely woman.
Have you ever contributed to a good cause?
But, what do you do if the good bits go bad?
Well here’s what happened when Maria opened the door to a stranger.

You are Rich when cards tumble though your letterbox on your birthday

2010-07-30T07:24:00.005+01:00

Do you know you are rich when someone remembers when you were born?
Better still, if that person is the one that gave you life.
Still, anyone will do when all you want to hear is: “Happy Birthday.”

Molly lives alone; she was an only child who became the carer for her parents.
When they died; she was on her own.
Birthdays came and went in silence.

Molly began sending herself a nice birthday card; one she liked to receive.
She said the card was from an admirer.
It was never signed.

That started people talking; for everyone loves a mystery admirer.

Then someone else sent Molly a card.
Others sent Molly cards.
People began reminding one another that Molly’s birthday was on the way.

Now, cards tumble though the letterbox on the day.
Molly has many, many, birthday card friends and she’s rich.
Send a card, be rich.
more

You are Rich when a child says I love you.

2010-07-29T08:46:00.004+01:00

Do you know you are rich when someone tells you that they love you?

Well, of course you do.
We all like validation.
And what better validation is there than being told you are loved?

How much better then when your lover is your child?

There is a purity to the love of a child for they have yet to learn artifice.

When your child says: “I love you,” they mean it in the most uncomplicated way possible. For the most part.

That is except when they have bested you and you have given in to a harmless demand wrapped in childish artifice.

Even then the love is real; for you are the giver and you give in love even if you sigh and say “never again,” until the next time.
more

You are Rich when you see beyond your fears

2010-07-28T11:57:00.004+01:00

Do you know that the person who can see beyond her fears is rich?

We are all prey to human doubts.
Most times, our adrenalin takes us beyond the immediate fear.
The reaction is fight or flight; we face danger or we flee.

In any society, our received stories are of the hero who faced down danger and came through.

Rose was not a hero in that traditional sense. She was an ordinary person who was terrified to leave an abusive situation for fear of the unknown.

One day, in terror, she walked out and asked a stranger for help.
She was terrified of staying, terrified of leaving.
Terrified of the unknown.

In the end, she faced the fear and left.

She saw the riches of an ordinary life, beyond.
A life with no more terrors.
more

You are Rich when peope dress like you

2010-07-27T08:40:00.002+01:00

Do you know you are rich when people begin to imitate you?

They say you should never buy anything from a rich man for if he is selling, the profit is all his.
The astute buyer buys whatever the rich man is buying when he is in the market.

Appearances are everything.
People believe what they see.
If they can see it, then it must be so.
From the stage, to the screen, to the street.

So, if you think you are rich, carry yourself as if you carry the wealth of the world with you.

People will find you and they will follow you.
They will imitate you and they will dress like you.

For everyone values a good turnout.
Only you know the real secret.

You are rich in more ways than can be counted.
You are you.
more

You are Rich when they know your name

2010-07-26T10:42:00.005+01:00

Do you know you are rich when the bank manager hails you by name?

Not just by any name.

If you are addressed by your first name you have arrived; for the manager sees currency signs twittering about your head in the sparkling light and is happy indeed to see you.

On the other hand, if you have a title placed before your surname as in Mr, Mrs, MS, or even Miss, the twittering lights may be dimming or going out in the financial purview. A stern expression flitting across the manager’s face could mean a managerial bellyache or a remembrance of your pertinent account balance.

Then you may not be rich, according to the manager’s lights.

But; come day, go day, you are you and you are rich for being you, no matter how you are hailed by a professional acquaintance.

You are Rich when you smile

2010-07-23T10:56:00.002+01:00

Do you know you are rich when you smile?

There are days when we just don’t feel like smiling.
Just as there are times when we don’t feel like doing much else with the day.

Davy was a boy who never stopped smiling; in fact he smiled and laughed so much that he was nicknamed the Giggler by local people.

One day, Davy stopped laughing as much for he thought it not quite right that people should expect him to laugh every time he turned up.

But, then he saw the funny side of it all and started to laugh all over again.
People smiled, when they heard him.
Some of them wished they could be like Davy, a smiler with a fond nickname.

They could have been if they had smiled.
For you are rich when you smile.

You know that.
more

You are Rich when you laugh with pals

2010-07-22T09:06:00.007+01:00

Do you know you are rich when you have pals that make you laugh?

There are some people who can tell jokes and make people laugh.
There are others who could not tell a joke to save a laugh.

Jess can’t tell a joke at all; but he does see black squares on a white chessboard when everyone else sees white squares on a black background.
Some days he sees both at the same time.

Jess lives his life in the tradition of the court jester who makes people laugh by observation.
He keeps going until he at least makes you smile.
Some days people feel ill when he makes them laugh too much.

Everyone’s sense of humour is different.
Why not follow Jess and see the funny side of life and make everyone rich with laughter.

It will make you rich.
more

You are Rich when your feet are dry

2010-07-21T07:33:00.008+01:00

Do you know you are rich when your feet are dry?
Dry feet are not important when your shoes are intact; but when they fall asunder, life changes.

Charley was a solicitor whose main job in life was to ensure ownership of property properly passed over between a seller and a buyer. Then came the financial tsunami and there were few sellers and even less buyers about.

Being a proud man he refused to let anyone know he had no income and pretty soon no cash to spend.

Then he found a hole in his shoe and it rained. His feet got soggy wet and he left a trail of leaky puddles in a prospective client’s office. The client hired someone else.

Charley gave up and admitted to a pal that he was broke. The pal gave him a small roll of banknotes. Charley bought a pair of shoes.

He’s rich again.
more

You are Rich when your garden grows

2010-07-20T08:02:00.001+01:00

Have you ever planted a seed and watched it grow into something that was beautiful and that had a purpose either in nature or on your family’s kitchen table?

Tommy’s father planted an apple tree in the garden when Tommy was an inquisitive and growing boy.
Last week, Tommy’s son Josh brought an apple from that tree into school to his teacher.
Josh told the teacher his daddy grew the apple for her.
She smiled and said thank you.

So, who made the apple glow?
Tommy’s dad who planted the seed that became the tree; Tommy who watched over the tree and sprayed it for bugs, or Josh who just knew it was an apple from his garden?

They are all rich.
We are all rich when our garden grows.
more

You are Rich when you marry someone for love.

2010-07-19T08:58:00.004+01:00

Alice married Barry because she loved him with a passion that consumed her.

When they went shopping she made sure she lost him in the aisles so she could find him once more and start her heart running all over again at the sight of him.

Barry loved Alice so much that he quit his job and took another one closer to home so he could go home for lunch each day and see Alice again, as a treat.

Barry was cash rich when they married; but was wiped out in the recession.

Alice knows she is wealthier than he ever was before they met.
She has her heart’s desire.
And she is rich.

And so is he.
more

You are Rich when you find a lost fifty in a pocket

2010-07-16T09:10:00.006+01:00

Do you know you are rich?

Well, maybe you are.

Like so many really rich people you might not know where all your money is at any given time.
It depends, on what you call rich.

If you have enough to get by and, if like Noah, you can put something aside for the rainy day then who will argue your riches with you?

Although, you could be like Tommy and wear a smile all day long.
You see, Tommy bought a used jacket at a car boot sale and when he brought it home and put it on; the jacket fitted Tommy like a glove.
He was even happier when he put his hand into the inside pocket and pulled out a fifty.

Some days are for birds and some days are for people and that’s for sure.
more

You are rich when you can do it for yourself

2010-07-15T09:32:00.005+01:00

Doing things for yourself brings its own reward.

There is the law of charity where you do unto others as you would they do unto you.

And you do it first.

Or, to each according to need; from each according to ability.

But, how nice is it when you do something for yourself?

Sometimes, without quite knowing how, we allow other people to take control of our lives in so many small ways that we become creatures of other people’s habits.

It’s nice sometimes then to turn left when the expectation is that you will turn right. While people wonder if you have taken leave of your senses, you follow your own path.

Head for the beach, kick off your shoes and feel the sand between your toes.

You are rich when you do it for yourself.

You are rich when a child asks you a question

2010-07-14T08:54:00.009+01:00

Inside you is a child overflowing with treasures gathered when the world was innocent.

In a sense you never grow up.

For your memory remembers what is important.

So, when a child asks you a question as an adult, you answer from a private store of knowledge.

Passing on experience and understanding is one of the great gifts of our lives.

It costs us nothing to give.

Asking a question of an adult and trusting that the response is truthful is one of the great strengths of childhood. When else do you trust so completely?

However, beware as an adult of the never-ending “why ?” of the inquisitive child spinning the conversation out.

The answer to the persistent questioner?
You say: “Because... Now go to bed."
more

You are rich when a friend calls to say whassup

2010-07-13T11:43:00.001+01:00

Do you know you are rich when you have a friend who rings to ask how you are?

Lisa had many friends when she was younger.
She was attractive, was invited everywhere.
She was seen in lots of places.

She was so popular that people stopped inviting her to their home.

They thought she was too busy.

Then, Lisa wasn’t seen around so much.
People got married, bought houses, had kids, took up new jobs.

So Lisa stayed home alone.
She quit her job.

One night, she’d had enough of empty rooms and endless days and decided to end her life.

But the silent phone rang first.
It was Katy her pal from long ago ringing to say hello.
Lisa asked Katy to come to dinner next week.

Katy said yes.

Lisa put the phone down.
Make the call.

Be a friend

more

You are Rich when you earn 10 and need 9

2010-07-12T09:47:00.006+01:00

Say you start out a day and you can't pay your bills, for instance.
What if someone asked you to do a job in a day that paid ten anything.
And say your most pressing bill was for nine somethings.
You would be rich at the end of the day.
It is a good day when you earn more than you need.
Have a good day.
Peace.

2010-06-21T13:12:00.007+01:00

Editor Oscar Duggan is interviewed on publication of the Irish Writers, Authors and Poets Handbook on programme forty-five of Telling Tales the online radio programme for writers and storytellers. here

The story of Patti the Painter is told by Brendan Nolan. here

Did you ever wonder what makes real art?

Have you ever wondered if a snapped photograph is more art than a painted portrait?

Well here’s what happened when one artist exhibited a naked cardinal.

Listen to online storytelling. here
Interview without fear. here

Real men have fathers too

2010-06-16T15:49:00.003+01:00

Storyteller Sarah Griffin is interviewed on programme forty-three of Telling Tales the online radio programme for writers and storytellers.

The story of Fathers of Real Men is told by Brendan Nolan. here

Did you ever wonder what makes a real man?
Have you ever wondered what people think of the modern man?
Well here’s what happened when one man went to a meeting for new men.

Listen to online storytelling. here
Interview without fear. here

Wanna know a secret?

2010-05-20T10:52:00.000+01:00

Poet Ross Hattaway author of The Gentle Art of Rotting is interviewed on programme forty-two of Telling Tales the online radio programme for writers and storytellers.

The story of Conker's apparitions is told by Brendan Nolan. here

Did you ever had an apparition?

Have you ever wondered what you would do?

Well here’s what happened when a man began to see things.

Listen to online storytelling here

Girl gets work. here

The Dog is dead Long live the licence

2010-05-14T08:22:00.000+01:00

Storyteller and writer Richard Marsh author of Spanish and Basque legends is interviewed on programme forty-one of Telling Tales the online radio programme for writers and storytellers.

The story of the Licence for a Dead Dog is told by Brendan Nolan.

Did you ever wonder what happens to a licence when a dog dies?
Have you ever wondered what you would do?
Well, here’s what happened when a license man wanted to see a licence for a dead dog. here

Listen to online storytelling here
Girl gets work. here

The Magic of Illusion

2010-05-06T09:37:00.000+01:00

Writer Jennifer Farrell author of The Girl in the Wardrobe is interviewed on programme forty of Telling Tales the online radio programme for writers.

The story of Mandrake and the lamp is told by Brendan Nolan.

Did you ever wonder about the world of magic?
Have you ever wondered how it's done?
Well here’s what happened when Mandrake the magician faced a dilemma.

Listen to online storytelling here
This is my story here

Mixed signals confuse

2010-05-04T15:46:00.000+01:00

Writer Ciara Geraghty author of Becoming Scarlett is interviewed on programme thirty-nine.

The story of the Tunnel of Love is told by Brendan Nolan.

Did you ever wonder about your neighbour?
Have you ever wondered what makes their train run?
Well here’s what happened when Ned stepped across the threshold while Harry was away.

Listen to online storytelling here
Woman tells story for work here

All that glisters may not be gold

2010-04-27T09:17:00.000+01:00

Programme thirty-seven in our online radio series features an interview with folklorist and storyteller Michael Ross.

The story of the Easter medal is told by Brendan Nolan.

Did you ever find a medal on the ground?

Have you ever uncovered a hidden story?

Well here’s what happened when a binman saw something gleaming in the sunshine.

Listen to online storytelling here
Man tells story to get a job here

Falling in love again

2010-03-31T15:51:00.000+01:00

Programme thirty-five in our online radio series features an interview with writer Brendan Foley on his book The Yin Yang Complex.

The story of Alan's Valentine is told by Brendan Nolan.

Did you ever fall in love by accident?Have you ever received an anonymous love letter?
Well here’s what happened when Alan decided to take a hand in St Valentine’s romance.

Listen to online storytelling here
We can help you write your non-fiction book more

Summer time loving in Pembroke Street

2010-03-22T14:28:00.000Z

Barking Mad Tour

We are on tour.
You've seen the dog, now meet the taleteller.
Hear Brendan tell stories live including
Summer Time Loving
and
Tunnel of Love
and
more

on Thursday March 25, 2010 @ 7pm

LitJam

Centre for Creative Practices

15 Lower Pembroke Street
Dublin 2.

Listen to online storytelling here

Conchita's hot coffee

2010-03-13T14:22:00.000Z

Programme thirty-four in the online Telling Tales series features an interview with newspaper owner David Kennedy.

The story of Conchita's Coffee is told by Brendan Nolan.

Listen to online storytelling here

Have you ever been without a job?
Have you ever been invited to coffee by an attractive person?
Well here’s what happened when Timmy stepped in to speak to Conchita.

Psychic Dog and other tales at Dublin Yarnspinners

2010-03-06T15:21:00.000Z

This is the official announcement about which to be honest I am slightly dizzy and amazed to be invited to fill such a high profile spot.
It must have been something I said. Anyway, see you there on the night.
Brendan
Dublin Yarnspinners Fifteenth Year
8 pm Thursday, March 11, 2010 at the Teachers Club, 36 Parnell Square, Dublin 1
We’re delighted to announce that our special guest for Thursday March 11th will be Brendan Nolan.
Brendan is no stranger to the Yarnspinners and his original and humorous stories always go down a treat.
His book, “Barking Mad” is a firm favourite.
He has also written a history of Dublin’s Phoenix Park and broadcasts a weekly storytelling spot every week on the community radio station WDAR 96FM West Dublin Access Radio.

Listen to my radio storytelling online here

Smoking Momma

2010-02-11T10:17:00.000Z

Programme thirty-three in the online Telling Tales series features an interview with writer Clare Mulvany.

The story of The Smoking Momma is told by Brendan Nolan.

Listen to online storytelling here
Do you ever try to give up a bad habit?
Have you ever tried to encourage an abstainer?
Well here’s what happened when Hughie fell in love with a smoking Momma.

We can help you tell your family story or ghostwrite it for you myfamilyhistorylink

A Loose Wheel

2010-01-28T14:36:00.000Z

Programme thirty-two in the online Telling Tales series features an interview with writer Jack Kelly.

The story of When Paddy met Sally is told by Brendan Nolan.

Listen to online storytelling here

Do you ever have an accident when you were learning to drive?
Have you ever tried to make amends?
Well here’s what happened when a part of Paddy’s car ran into a part of Sally’s car.

We can help you tell your family story or ghostwrite it for you myfamilyhistorylink

Selling books

2010-01-23T09:01:00.000Z

Programme thirty-one in the online Telling Tales series features an interview with independent bookshop owner Bob Johnston.

The story of the Re-cycled Christmas Tree is told by Brendan Nolan.
Listen to online storytelling here

Do you prefer a real tree or an artificial one?
Have you ever tried to re-cycle an artifical tree to save the planet?
Well, here's what happened when Martina mistook one for another.

We can help you tell your family story or ghostwrite it for you myfamilyhistorylink

Turkey Feathers

2009-12-22T10:44:00.000Z

Programme thirty in the online Telling Tales series features an interview with publisher James G. Ryan on tracing your ancestors.

The story of the Turkey Feathers is told by Brendan Nolan.

Listen to online storytelling here
Have you ever plucked a turkey?

Have you ever pretended not to see something?

Well, this is the story of what happened when the cat got to the turkeys.

We can help you tell your family story or ghostwrite it for you myfamilyhistorylink

Leave a comment for all to read if you so wish

We won money in Australia

2009-12-09T11:32:00.000Z

My lastest storytelling of the Australian Lottery Win may be heard online here
Also on that Telling Tales online radio programme is an interview with writer Brian Fleming.

We can help you tell your family story or ghostwrite it for you myfamilyhistorylink
Leave a comment for all to read if you so wish

Last Christmas Wreath

2009-12-02T11:57:00.000Z

My lastest storytelling of the Last Christmas Wreath may be heard online here

Also on that Telling Tales online radio programme is an interview with Sarah Quigley co-founder of Milk & Cookies storytelling sessions in the Exchange House in Temple Bar Dublin 2. Next Milk & Cookies session is to be on January 12, 2010 at 6.30pm.

Don't forget, Dublin Yarnspinners has its December session in the Teachers' Club, Parnell Square, Dublin 2 on December 10 starting at 8pm.

Tellers and listeners are welcome to both sessions.

We can help you tell your family story or ghostwrite it for you myfamilyhistorylink

Leave a comment for all to read if you so wish

Score your own goals in writing

2009-12-01T09:17:00.000Z

Climbing a mountain begins with a single step.

In fact, achieving anything requires some action on your part.

The more you attempt, the more you will achieve; but especially in writing.

For to be a writer, is to write.

If a tree in a deep forest does not fall if nobody hears the sound; then writing is not complete until it appears on the page and is read by a reader. read more
Start writing your own book today with the online assistance of a professional writer. info

Leave a comment if you so wish for all to read

So you want to be remembered

2009-11-03T15:15:00.000Z

Every person on the planet is important. But you knew that already. As a species we live and prosper by the accumulated knowledge of our times and of those that have gone before.

We know what happened to earlier people for they wrote it down, or someone else did, on their behalf, or over their objections.
Writing a family history can be a pleasant experience full of hidden treasures and revealed astonishment as we discover a more human side to our forebears. more
Start writing your own book today with the online assistance of a professional writer. info

Write your own family history

2009-10-30T09:56:00.000Z

Write your family's story NOW

Your family history is precious

Yes. Learn to write their story and yours.
We show how to record your loved ones' stories in their own words.

Their memoir, thoughts and recollections are priceless and will be even more precious in the years ahead.

It's time to tell their story for now and for generations to come.
We will help and guide you to publication standard.
When our loved ones pass on their voice is stilled.

Their story has come to a close.

Take this opportunity to hear and record the true story.
Don't you owe it to yourself, and your family?

Start on Your Family Writing Programme. Now.

myfamilyhistorylink