s'craic brudr?
I've long wanted to start a personal blog—more importantly, I've long wanted to maintain a personal blog. The former is an easy achievement for me; buy yet another domain, set up Ghost. Maintaining a blog has always been the challenging part.
Historically, the time I got away from my day job was time I didn't wish to spend writing. Recently though, it's become obvious that I need a creative outlet. While there's a smidgeen of creativity involved in my job as a technical writer, it's mostly an uncreative, dry, formal affair.
So, why the name Rebel Sahn? It's simple. I'm a blow-in to Cork, originally from Wexford. It's common enough in Wexford Town to use "sahn" as a way of addressing each other, and Cork is the rebel county. Out of all the names I've generated for projects, Rebel Sahn is one of the more straightforward ones.
Every city has their characters, and Cork is no exception.
It was a tepid 10pm at the bottom of Shandon St. I was outside enjoying a couple of pints in the company of close friends. A man approached us from the direction of the funeral home, walking with a swagger that screamed "d'ye have a cigarette?" Confident, calculated.
My pattern recognition was a bit askew however, and calculated really wasn't the right assessment. He hoisted a rucksack to his front.
"Would you like some meat?"
Inside the bag, packets of beef mince and green-tinted steak that only Dr. Seuss could be proud of. A unique hustle—I'll give him that—but not for me as a vegan, putting aside the food hygiene concerns. And certainly not outside a pub at 10pm.
Our table unanimously expressed our disinterest.
After attempting to flog his wares at every other table, and with no takers in sight, the man made the pilgrimage up Shandon St. Not on the footpath, though. With a Godzilla-esque gait, Meat Man (as I've lovingly nicknamed him) stumbled his way up the middle of the left lane. A growing back-up of cars and vans edged slowly behind, not a single driver daring to beep out of fear of mould-laden animal carcass being chucked at their vehicle.
Now comes the real unusual sight. The guards. In short succession, a van came down the hill opposite Meat Man's chosen lane, two uniformed peelers emerge. Perfectly synchronized, the luminous law enforcers grab each side of the Meat Man and drag him towards the double doors. Unbeknownst to them, Dr. Seuss's long-lost relative didn't zip his bag.
His product spills out onto the street. Neon steak stays static, protected from the chaos in plastic. Containers of mince meat, capable of more volatile movement due to their size and texture, begin tumbling down towards the line of cars still waiting to progress upwards.
This story ends with a moment that warranted the Benny Hill theme, but I was far too busy laughing at the scene to pull out my phone. One of the guards relinquishes his grip of the man after clocking the litter of rotting flesh on the road. He zooms down the hill to collect the past use-by date meat before it reaches the queued cars exhaust.
After collecting the man and his meat, they shut the doors, hop back in the van, and zoom off towards Blackpool. Meat Man hasn't been seen since.
I'm not too sure what my point was with this post. I'm not too sure what my point of with this blog is.
One thing I've noticed about Ghost (and platforms like Substack) is they emphasize finding a niche and writing to that audience. Technically, the niche here is me, which isn't likely to be broadly appealing—and that's just fine.
If you're fine with erratic pieces about whatever comes to my mind, your subscription is always welcome.