Living in the Republic as a foreigner is a constant adventure of befuddlement and wonder, not least regarding hidden meanings in the simplest turns of phrase. I have begun to assemble a small lexicon that could be of help to visitorsAre you okay?

This phrase greets millions of dumbfounded tourists who arrive at Irish cash registers with their arms wrapped around masses of goods they wish to purchase.

In most countries people thrusting wads of pound notes over check out checkout counters are not asked whether they are 'okay,' "OKokay"", and therefore many of those who are inexpert in Irish English think the saying translates into a modern version of the older indolent one of, "why the hell are you bothering me?"

Not too bad:

This is the automatic Irish response to the question: "how are you?" The words appear to be meant to convey that the person mumbling them is not yet neither dead, nor has he had his entrails recently cut out the victim of a recent disembowelment by invading Norsemen nor witness to his family being or his entire family stricken with typhoid, only to depart in the night on a pestilential famine ship.

Although the response is roughly the same as the inevitable American one of "great!", it can never, ever be rendered with a smile.

I don't mind:

Irish people repeat this noncommittal little mantra is repeated when they are an Irish person is offered a cup of tea, a dry and unpalatable biscuit, a free airlift to the Bahamas, six vestal virgins Vestal Virgins and perhaps the stars, sun and moon.

Its various clouded meanings include "I wouldn't think of imposing for a second on your kind generosity" and "you won't be seeing any begging bowl about me or my father, or his grandfather, either".

Come here:

This also does not mean what it says. It means: "halt your trap and listen to my much better story instead of than your pointless waffling."

Traffic calming ahead:

This phrase has singularly confused international linguists, although some have theorized theorised that it may echo back to child-like childlike beliefs regarding the voyage of St Brendan across the Sea of Flowers to the Aisles of the Happy. Come here: There is no traffic calming in the Republic, not ever, not anywhere.

Overtaking:

A simple-sounding term, this is a description of the opposite of traffic calming. It refers to an ancient tradition, beginning with wild cattle raids, in which largely naked individuals swooped out of nowhere and screamed like demons as they thumped the heads of anyone in their path and stole whatever manner of creature pleased them. Nowadays this rite is still continues to be gleefully practised on Sunday afternoons by barristers in Mercedes-Benzes, eighteen-year-olds in CF2>Mad Max motorcycle gear and old farmers in smoke-belching bangers. They wait until they discover discovering a visiting family attempting to enjoy a pleasant drive in the Irish countryside, then and suddenly materialize materialise in waves.

They flashing flash their headlights, leaning lean on their horns, and accelerating accelerate to within side-mirror inches of the dawdling 60 mile-an-hour 60 m.p.h. motorist and dead into the face of oncoming traffic, preferably on blind bends or the at the beginning of ancient, one-lane stone bridges. Roaring engines and screeching brakes are the raiders' signature whoops of the day.

I took some kind of bad drink and recall nothing of that night, yer your honour, sir, sir, but I haven't never had a drop since:

Irish Solicitors in Ireland solicitors have this one printed up on pocket cards which that they sell are sold for 200 £200 each to that they give to those accused of unprovoked street violence, paroxysms of closing-time property destruction and the like. other one-night forays into house breaking, wife beating and rape and the like. A very indigenous assertion, it It is ridden with ancient Irish twists, beginning with blaming the world's troubles on a certain pint of Guinness being "off" while signalling a readiness for to do say three Acts of Contrition acts of contrition and a formidable string of Hail Mary's Marys, so that the judge may think back to a boyhood when forgiveness was battered into him by the in Christian Brothers.

Drinking-up time:

This is a magical clock-stopping period that is known only in Ireland. It follows an interval which is that is officially called closing time, but isn't really that as the afore moment is actually is really an offertory offer to anyone for all individuals with money left in their pockets to buy another purchase an additional three of their favourite drinks. quaffs.

Pinpointing the exact chronology of the transition from closing time to drink drinking-up time, or measuring how long drinking-up time lasts, can be as difficult as catching a lunar eclipse on a cloudy night. in a deep nocturnal haze. However, visitors to Ireland who have witnessed 'drink up time' have reported that they have had a distinct sense of clocks stopping all over the land as strange magical rites and sayings are incanted for an interlude that seems resistant to precise measure.

I'll be back to you tomorrow:

Postpone a single minute's activities on this promise - or a variant, "I'll sort you out next week" - and you will begin to learn about Purgatory right here on Earth.

He's a dote:

Don't confuse this supremely term of endearment endearing Irish term with dolt or dope, because it is the nicest thing that can could ever be said about a person. human being on this planet. To be a "dote" or "dotey" is to be so loveable that Irish women - - it is always females who use the phrase - - transform an ordinary turn a verb into an all-embracing rebirth as a noun or adjective. The elect are branded as being worthy of being doted on forever, and becoming a permanent 'dote.'.

She has a lovely nature:

Few countries have thrown away their precious natural gifts as profligately as Ireland the Republic is doing now, yet this phrase expresses one that remains an almost visionary remaining ability to size up people's one's the inner landscape.

It can be uttered after a glance at a stranger in whose soul dreamy mountain lakes and , quiet glens and old rural ways of decency are instantly espied. Whether it is better to be branded as being a dote or as having a lovely nature is a toss up.So:

This is perhaps the most untranslatable of all Irish turns of the English language, conveying as it does a thousand nuances of pause, summation, sigh, expectation and more. I use it constantly these days, so. Every time I do, I feel a surge of renewed affection for Ireland, this ever-changing land that cannot stop messing with a language that has fallen out of the hands of kings.

David Monagan is an American journalist living in Cork