Malachy recounts his days as a drunk. I suppose we’re all to think it’s charming because of the “Paddy talk,” but to me it’s just another sad story of a feckless Irishman sloshing away opportunities, ruining lives and disappointing others (leading to more reasons to drown sorrows). My own Irish relatives mostly drank their selves to death before I had the pleasure of being beguiled by their Cork County glibness so maybe this gives me the chance to see how lucky I was to have missed them. That’s the only reason I can think of for reading this list of continual benders and endless accounts of “the old dipping the stick in,” because otherwise I’m at a loss as to why this life is worth examining.

I was disappointed, as I loved "Angela's Ashes." And even "'Tis" and "Teacher Man," while drenched in their own spirits, were both written with more eloquence.

This was quite amusing to begin with. Typical Irish storyteller, doesn't let the facts get in the way of a good story. But after about the halfway point, it felt like an alcoholic uncle had dropped in and wouldn't leave and it became tedious.

Poor Malachy McCourt. When his book came out, the critics said, “He’s not Frank.” Goodreads reviewers echoed the same sentiment. But I don’t think there was much rivalry between them. They shared their fame the same way they pooled money to bring their younger brothers and mother over to the States. Their first writing project was a collaboration - a two-man play I haven’t read yet. And then came the books, which include some interesting overlaps. Malachy depicts Frank as a real gentleman, which comes across in Frank’s own books and the interviews available on Youtube. Frank depicts the child Malachy as a “dote” who could charm any roomful of people and the life of every party in adulthood. That outgoingness definitely comes across in this book, and also, in any interview with Malachy you might want to catch on Youtube.

So it’s true that this book does not have the literary grace of Frank’s books, but my gosh, it’s funny! It’s also a bit ribald; Malachy tells you all about “sampling the fleshpots” in his travels from India to Europe. For that reason, I should probably put it on my “Regrettable Reads” shelf, but I can’t regret anything that made me laugh that hard. Frank’s books also made me laugh hard, but not as much as this. The man who drives me to work wondered, “What are you reading back there?” So I’m definitely looking forward to the resolution of Malachy’s story with his next memoir: how he got sober and lived happily ever after.

I enjoyed most of this book but I found my interest dying in the last quarter. Malachy constantly got himself into all sorts of shenanigans; some amazing, some hilarious, some stupid and some just far-fetched ridiculous. I was starting to wonder just how good his recall to the facts was (considering the amount of alcohol he was consuming daily). His writing ability deserves 4stars, but, I'm not sure if I would have had the same understanding to his life had I not read his brother, Frank's book, "Angela's Ashes" about their childhood and growing up in Limerick. This background information helped me to relate to the flashbacks to his father he mentions throughout the book and gave me a little more perspective to his character and a little more empathy to the "why" and "how" he got himself into his predicaments.

"I had arrived as the East Side of Manhattan was beginning to pulsate with new life. The airlines now quartered their stewardesses there, the publishing houses had their share of prestigious-jobbed galley slaves, and aspiring actors thronged the acting schools." pg. 87

"Still, it's energetic and vital, and that year, 1958, was the year that the Irish Ambassador to the U.N. was elected president of the General Assembly. How proud were we Irish at this event! The exalted one was Freddie Boland, a genial and diplomatic man, with a great sense of humor and of the absurd. Ireland, this tiny nation, one-tenth the size of Texas, with one-sixth the population of California, was now the arbiter of disputes amongst first-, second-, and third-world countries." pg. 100

"The woman who bore me had this romantic fantasy that America was a permanent party land, a fairyland, a place where work was incidental to the business of having a good time. The fact that I was in the saloon biz hobbing and nobbing with the gentry and the quality only illuminated her fantasies to the point of the absurd. Nothing would do her, only to park her not-insubstantial body in the confines of Malachy's and have her highballs--whiskey and ginger ale--and chat with all and sundered. The erudite sophisticated polished witty me was a bit embarrassed at the presence of the peasant mother, who wouldn't know a fish knife from a scimitar, but then people began to say how charming she was and how wise she was, and she was never averse to singing a song after a few jorums, to the delight of all, so my bit of shame abated somewhat. But still she stayed too long; like a barnacle on the hull, she was hard to dislodge." pg. 150

"The drunken sot of a cousin heard he was back, and came looking for him. When he came in the cousin gave me a whack that sent me flying, and then punched my father--who made no attempt to defend himself or me--practically unconscious. After he was done with us, the swine left, like the king lion having downed his adversary, stolen his mate, and whacked his cub for good measure." pg. 185

"Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with Thee. Blessed art thou amongst women--or, as I misheard it as a child, and still say to this day on occasion, Blessed art thou, a monk swimming--Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the end. Amen." pg. 191

"I was saved from going completely bonkers by a stop in Beirut, where I discovered, to my delight, a copy of J.P. Donleavy's The Ginger Man, a book as dear to my beating heart as anything by P.G. Wodehouse. To make it better, it was being sold as pornography in a plain brown wrapper, from under the counter. At an airport shop, mind you." pg. 192

"Bombay, that ancient city-state, is spectacular, teeming with life and squalor and thoroughly polluted by industry. The American Civil war helped bring it to the fore, when it became the main supplier of cotton for the world; before that, Bombay was H.Q. for the British East India Company, a mob of Brit thugs, who polluted and perverted India with drugs and terrorism, with the blessings of the reigning monarch and House of Lords." pg. 197

"It is my belief that all island peoples are cuckoo, and while it is yet to be resolved which of the many theories advanced explain this phenom, it remains a fact that I was able to fit right into the island life. It helped that Brendan Behan had preceded me, because the lunacy of any peripatetic Mick thereafter was measured against his doings, and if his antics had set the mark at 100 percent, then the rest of us were safe, as it was hard to hit even 75 on the scale." pg. 247 [on Ibiza]

"After one last night with cheerful Constance, and no vows of keeping in touch, I nipped over to Limerick--irresistible Limerick, object of affectionate memory and maniacal hatred." pg. 263

"My erstwhile employer in Zurich was a little perturbed at not hearing from me in such a long time, but I charmed him out of his querulousness with the usual avalanche of Paddy talk and fake concern for his welfare, all the while assuring him we were on the way to more fortunes." pg. 269

"The sight of a curly-headed, ma-faced mick, standing in the sacred precincts of a Limerick pub, tearfully and in an affected Cockney accent singing Rule Brittania, penetrated the whiskey mists wafting around my brain. Not a soul objected, as all politely listened 'til he warbled to the end: "Britons never, never shall be slaves."
It was that same Irish politeness allowed the fuckers to stay for eight hundred years. No one could figure out how to tell 'em they'd o'ersayed ye olde welcome and 'twas time to fuck off, except, sadly enough, for a few of the lads who took up the gun.
As nobody else felt called upon to explain the situation to this traitorous Gaelic Gunga Din, I took him outside and did so myself." pg. 276

"The marvelous sun began its descent in the sky, and all around us the natives of nature began the rustling and settling for the evening's rest. My dad told me that all creatures had one thing in common: They all knew how to pray. That's what they were doing now--thanking God for another blessed and wonderful day, and we should go now and leave them to their devotions." pg. 290

I’ll not review his lifestyle choices, hard as that can be to do, beyond saying they are selfish and hedonistic, much like those of his father. In fact, I think he intended to draw comparisons between his dad’s alcoholism and his own. As a memoir, the prose is never flat. Many inspired turns of phrase. He’s brutally honest, often funny, and occasionally poignant. He gets some nice jabs in at the British and colonialism more generally.

Although it came highly recommend by my boyfriend who has good taste, this must be a guy thing. However witty, Malachy spends the entirety of the book avoiding responsibility, chasing women and glorifying drunkenness. He seems like someone I would enjoy spending time with but reading this book made me feel like I should have spent my time more wisely. Future readers be warned, he never learns any enduring lessons and there are no take-always from his experiences whatsoever.

Page 191 reveals the mystery of the books title. A penance he recited. Hail Mary,full of grace, The Lord is with Thee. Blessed art thou amongst women. Or as he misheard it as a child Blessed art thou, a monk swimming. With that being said, McCourts memoir is entertaining enough. Intentionally butchering the English language while reliving his younger years. Sidebar, I purchased this book at a eclectic bookstore in Duluth while on our first vacation as a family. Book is a memory.

I have called this memoir fiction because who knows how much of it is true and how much is embroidered to tell a good story. I really enjoyed the writing style and command of language that this man has, given his early departure from schooling, and his sense of humour is very entertaining. From about half way through I did get a bit tired of hearing about yet another episode of drinking too much, "wick dipping" and general self-destructive behaviour. Ok, so this stems from his terrible role model, childhood poverty and probable inherited tendancy to alcoholism but I really hope for his sake that later in life this pattern didn't continue.
On a side note I had wondered where the book title came from: of course!

A very witty self-biography about a man from Ireland who loved to drink. Haunted by his father's abandonment in his childhood, the author plays rugby as a young man and makes a living bartending, acting and gold smuggling. His success and overall well-being is impaired by his drinking, but the story is told in a very funny way and his amazing vocabulary causes the reader to want to look up a lot of words in the dictionary.

When I read Frank McCourt's book "Angela's Ashes" I cried so much that pretty soon I didn't even have to read it, I would pick it up and start sobbing. I never cried so much in my life.
Malachy McCourt is Frank's younger brother. He is the wild one to his older brother's more responsible and measured nature. Malachy has a wonderful voice, he is very funny, but this book is so painful. I didn't cry like I did with Angela's Ashes but I felt the pain. All of Malachy's drinking and antics and rages and jokes...just pain and more pain.
If you are not familiar with either brother or book; they grew up in dire poverty in Limerick, Ireland. Real poverty, not the kind of poverty that has a T.V. and an indoor toilet. Their upbringing was more than tragic. Their Dad was an alcoholic, Malachy is as well. Whatever hope the family might have had was destroyed with the drinking.
This book is not the classic that Angela's Ashes is, but I think it gives a lot of insight to what happens in an alcoholic and desperately poor family who suffer various abuses. Malachy was not a likeable person much of the time, but my heart always went out to him anyway. And like I said he does possess a wonderful wit and an amusing way with words.

A second memoir from the McCourt family. A completely different personality from his brother, a candidate for AA for sure. He hates the British and writes like a very angry man, which can be strenuous. But the language, if not poetic, is vivid. He liked PG Wodehouse and you can see traces of his style from time to time, though there's more Blarney than elegance. But he's a character you remember.