SONG CHALLENGE WINNER!

What A Fella Will Do For A Good Irish Stew! . . . A house burglar in South London ignored a video recorder, mobile phones and other valuables – but stole a pan of Irish stew.  Clare Wilson, from Mitcham, made the dish for the next day's dinner, then left it on her oven and went to bed.  The next morning it had vanished, but nothing else had been taken.  Ms. Wilson, a mum of four, told The Sun: "I know my cooking is good but this is ridiculous.  It's unbelievable someone would just take a stew when all that stuff was lying about the place.  I'm considering putting out reward posters asking people if they've seen my stew pot.  I've been making stew for over 20 years in that pot, and I'm a bit annoyed.  I've got several others, but it was my favourite.  It's just the right size for all the family.  The thief must have tasted the food first because I found dollops of it around the top of the stove."  Ms. Wilson's sons, Brian, 20, and Scott, 19, swear they did not eat the stew after getting in from the pub – they had a kebab on the way home.  The back door had been forced open, so Ms. Wilson reported the crime to Mitcham police.  She said: "The thief should have just knocked on the door.  I'd have invited them along for dinner.  There would have been enough for everyone."


The Boul' Irish Stew by derrymacash
(To the tune of Nell Flaherty's Drake and very obviously inspired by the same . . .)

Oh me name it is Clare, me soul now I'll bare
I'm tearing me hair, I am left in a spot
For some dirty clart, has near broke me heart
And caused me to part with me oul' cookin' pot
It had come down the line of this family of mine
From the dawning of time when the world it was new
And all of our breed have had mighty feeds
They've been nourished indeed on the boul' Irish stew

There's mountainy sheep, carrots in heaps
And I wail and I weep as the onions I chop
As I wash the mud off the lashings of spuds
I know she'll be good to the very last drop
This oul' recipe was given to me
On my mammy's knee when I was just two
But I hope that it chokes and causes to boke
The ignorant yoke that made off with me stew

The ingredients got, I boiled up a pot
It was steamin' and hot and smelt too good to eat
And me being tired, to bed I retired
What I required was eight hours in the sheets
In the dead of the night some despicable shite
Without an invite or a how-do-you-do
Slipped in the back door, the miserable hoor,
And never-no-more'd with me fresh pot of stew

I grinded me teeth and I stamped both me feet
And the wall I did beat with the prow of me head
How I'd like to grapple with his Adam's apple
I'd squeeze his oul' thrapple until he was dead
I wish his oul' eyes were afflicted by styes
The colour and size of fluorescent golf balls
I'd kick his backside from morning till night
Till he'd lose all his pride and for mercy he'd call

May he suffer a crash, may he get the whiplash
And his oul noggin bash off his motor's windscreen
May he fall in a drain that's been swollen with rain
Or suffer the pain of a haemorrhaged spleen
May he lose his oul' roof, get a hole in his tooth
Or a nail in his hoof, may his fart follow through
A dose of the gout, of shingles – a bout
To be his look-out for stealin' me stew

My bad wishes extend to a lingering end
Where he'll have to contend with his burden of guilt
With Oul' Nick standing by to roast and to fry
His pitchfork to pry right up to the hilt
His cries of remorse will be useless of course
Nick's heard such discourse from a felon or two
The wages of vice are not very nice
When you're playing the price for the stealin' of stew

Back to Top