Dangerous Dan McHugh

This poem was based on a famous poem that my father used to recite – ‘The Shooting of Dan McGrew’, by Robert Service. It is a tale of the Klondike Gold Rush of the 1890s – Dangerous Dan is sitting with his ‘light of love, the ‘lady that’s known as Lou’ in the saloon, when a stranger staggers in from the freezing Arctic night. He plays a terrible, sad tune on the saloon piano, and then pulls a gun, and he and Dan blaze away at each other, as the lights go out. When the light comes back on, both are dead, but ‘the lady that’s known as Lou’ is with the stranger, (stealing his poke of gold dust) rather than with Dan, hinting at the possible reason for the gunfight.

I moved this terrible tale to Portadown, and made Dan a Buckfast Delivery man!

Seventy percent of all the Buckfast Tonic Wine sold in N. Ireland is reputed to be drunk in the Portadown/Lurgan area, and it is possible to ring up certain Taxi firms, and get a bottle delivered to your door – wrapped in a brown paper bag, of course, as discretion is all part of the service! In fact, even the door is not necessary – your squat, or your current location in the park, or the old tow-path under the bridge at the river Bann will do equally well, provided cash is rendered on delivery!

I re-wrote this one, adding more insults, for the 2012 Bard finals.

Dangerous Dan McHugh

1

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up,

in a Portadown saloon,

Some kid was feeding the jukebox,

to put on an Emimem tune.

The smokers were all standing out on the street,

trying to stay out of bother,

And a wheen’o’young drunks in band uniforms

were kicking the dung out of other!

A couple of oul farts, were up playing darts –

301 (start and end on a double)

Not the sort of a night you expected a fight,

or anyone looking for trouble

Now down by the band, with a pint in his hand,

sat Dangerous Dan McHugh

And sat by his side, was his blushing bride,

Big Patricia that works in the ‘broo.

Well, I’m telling Yis now, she was one ugly cow,

with a face that would scare Simon Cowell

Lipstick and mascara, wheeled in by the barra,

and slapped on with a plastering trowel

Her bra, it was said, was size 84Z,

with reinforced steel in the hook

She was twenty-five stone of muscle and bone,

with more chins than a Chinese phone book

Her arse was that wide, that viewed from the side,
she looked like Rugby scrum flanker,
And when seen from behind, sure it just brought to mind,
a giant Redrock slurry tanker.

She’d teeth like Red Rum, and with thon massive bum,

all she needed was blinkers and reins

 And her jeans were that tight, that in a good light,

you could count all her varicose veins

Now Dangerous Dan was a skinny wee man,

and his coupon was covered in spots,

So his face had the look, of a wee childer’s book,

where the wean has to join up the dots.

He wore great big glasses, like beer-bottle asses

So he looked like a Volkswagen dashboard

He was quite highly strung, ‘cos when he was young,

His Ma used his ribs for a washboard.

He had Doc Martin boots, laced up to the roots

‘Cos his feet were so damnably smelly

And his legs were that bowed, that everyone knowed,

He could never cap a pig in an alley

2

 He’d a look on his mug, like a broke Toby Jug,

And his nose had a drip that hung downwards,

In fact if our dog, had such an ugly phizog,

we’d shave his arse and make him walk backwards

But no matter where you’re at, in mansion or squat,

depressed or having a bad day,

One phonecall to Dan, and his flying white van,

Your troubles will all float away.

For if you are stuck, or just down on your luck,

And your life’s just a big heap of slag

He’d arrive at full throttle, and deliver a bottle,

of Buckfast, in a brown paper bag!

He was known from Drumcree, out to Tandragee,

and from Lurgan to Killycomaine,

And by the Bann bank, where the skinheads all . . . . drink,

they’d erected a shrine to his name

But Dan was a man, who would deal cash in hand,

no drink till you coughed up the wonga

He’d a big hurley stick, which he use bloody quick,

And your knees wouldn’t work any longa!

It was coming half nine, and was all going fine,

When the door was slammed open right back

And a man staggered in, smelling strongly of gin,

looking rougher than oul’ Father Jack!

No one knew his name, or from where he came,

But his eyes had a crazy mad glow,

Buttoned up to his throat, was an old overcoat

That OXFAM would not put on show

But Dan he turned pale, and his heart it did quail,

for he knew that the stranger meant trouble,

And beneath her mascara, Big Patricia looked ‘tarra’,

and her chins all started to wobble!

Well, he made for the bar, but he spied a guitar,

and he grabbed it and started a song,

It spoke of a heart, that was broken apart,

of a love that went terribly wrong.

But that awful sad song, brought a tear to the throng,

who sat round that old bar room floor

For his voice was so shit, that he should have been hit,

with the stone outside Dan Murphy’s door

3

Well, he hit the last note, and he threw off his coat,

and a dung graip was stuck in his belt

He says “Boys, I have come, for to kill a wee scum,

and to bury this graip in his pelt.

For I was the man, who invented the plan,

for delivering the bottles of Bucky

And Big Patricia and me, lived the life of Riley,

in a mobile up near Knocknamuckley

Then Dan he turned up, that nasty wee pup,

and he stole her right out of my hand,

But if that caused a curse, the wee bugger done worse,

for he stole my bloody white van!”

He shouted “Now Dan, you are going down the pan,

for I’m hauling you over the coals,

You’ll be needing some tape, for I’m taking this graip,

and making you four new arseholes

For when I am done, you’ll be houlin’ your bum,

you will not be looking so cute,

You dirty oul dog, you’ll going to the bog,

like an Orangeman playing the flute”

Well, Dan, he jumped up, spilling half of his cup,

roared “Patricia, This thing is a farce”

“Hand me that hurley stick”, which she did double quick –

it was hid down the sheugh of her arse.

Well, they walloped and thumped, and collided and bumped,

for they both were as full as the Po,

They broke all the glasses; they lit on their asses,

got up, and had another go

Well, it might have gone on, right through to the dawn,

but some bugger turned out the light

And then in their terror, and purely in error,

two wallops connected just right.

The lights they came on, but the stranger was gone,

the end of his race it had come

For Dan’s final cut, had lit right on his nut

it was split like a bricklayer’s bum!

And Dan too was going; his wine had quit flowing,

with the graip buried deep in his hide,

It stuck six inches in; he was that bloody thin,

it was three inches out the far side.

He lay gasping his last, and lamenting his past,

for at last he had started to think,

For that now he was bate, he had found out too late

you should never mix weemin and drink!

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