#Jackeens

[heavy-nfld]

SHOW ALERT: Andrew Smith Band, Jackeens, and Rad Gushue @ The Ship Pub - Friday, March 28th, 2025. Show at 10:00 PM. $10 cover.

[definitelytherepublicofireland]

This question will most definitely determine my opinion on you

Dublin or Mayo

MAYO FOR SAM

SCREW THE JACKEENS

[fontainesdc]

I don't think we rhyme, I will wear you down in time I will hurt ye, I'll desert ye, I'm one Jackeen of a line I don’t think we rhyme, I will take up all your time I will chew ye, I'll go through ye, I am Jackie down the line I don't think we rhyme, I will make your secrets mine I will hate ye, I'll debase ye, I am Jackie down the line And I will stone ye, I'll alone ye, I am Jackie down the line If I can make you, I can break you I am Jackie down the line

JACKIE DOWN THE LINE - FONTAINES D.C.

[fandomwe1rd0]

I found a song that reminds me of Rick and Morty soo much, it's called Jackie Down The Line by Fontaines D.C. and I'm so (not) normal about it

Wow uhm ok so I listened to it and wow- You aren't wrong, mainly the chorus reminds me of Rick and Morty's dynamic and I think it's clear to see why:

I don’t think we’d rhyme I will wear you down in time I will hurt ye I’ll desert ye I’m one Jackeen of a line I don’t think we’d rhyme I will take up all your time I will chew ye I’ll go through ye I am Jackie down the line I don’t think we’d rhyme I will make your secrets mine I will hate ye I’ll debase ye I am Jackie down the line And I will stone ye I’ll alone ye I am Jackie down the line If I can make you I can break you I am Jackie down the line I am Jackie down the line (ooh shalala) Do do do La la la

I actually might make a post about it-

[kaizey]

In Ireland, there is a big town called Dublin that everyone pretends is a city and not 5 small towns sellotaped together and if you question it, the jackeens will feed you to demon that lives in the Spire

[breitzbachbea]

#sorry I could not vote for Ireland bc I think someone should bang him but it is prolly not gonna be me

you're right. it's me

You can have the canon twink and leave my Sicilian his Jackeen with the gunshow.

[fionabrennanartisttours]

It's almost Queen Vic's birthday (May 24th, 1819). I'm sure I'll be forgiven for not saying happy birthday! Because of her, for hundreds of years in Ireland, it was illegal to be gay. And then in 1885, the Criminal Law Amendment Act made anti-homosexuality laws in Britain and Ireland even stronger! This Act - which some people call the Labouchere Amendment - made any act of “gross indecency” between two males illegal. This vague crime would put you in prison with back-breaking hard labour. Even acts taking place in private were illegal. 

You’ll notice that only male homosexual acts were criminalised; female homosexuality was never illegal. This was apparently because no one wanted to tell the remarkably uptight Victoria that women might consider having sex with each other!

Pictured: Victoria visited Dublin - the second city of her empire - in 1900 with large crowds of Dubliners gathered to greet her. It's theorised that the slang term "Jackeen" used to refer to a Dubliner comes from their very old habit of waving miniature Union Jack flags at such occassions. Although most current Dubliners aren't even a fan of this country, nevermind anywhere else!

[eden-that-leprecauhn]

I like me Irish breakfast tea and with me potatas I hate me husband though! Just kidin maybe he’s a gas he never does a lot just says “I will yeah” but we know what that means are anywhos you a culchie or a jackeen lassie?

YES FINALLY ANOTHER IRISH BITCH IN THIS HELLHOLE! How are ya lassie do you like your tea with your potatas or without and oh by god are you coming to my new years pub crawl? I have to get away from my husband he is a bag of shite at the moment

OMG!! Irish lasses unite!! I'm amazin'! I take my tea with my potatas! What about ye? And what kind of tea do ye like? Of course I'm comin' ta the pub crawl, I need my whiskey!! I'll help ye get away from 'im for a moment!

[definitelytherepublicofireland]

important questions

kerry is the best county,ya?

david Clifford is the best player,uh huh?

fuck dublin

1) yep

2) yep, met him at the Irish open at the k club last year

3) fuck the jackeens up the culchies 🗣🗣🔥🔥

[trickstertime]

Having read the article there's one important thing that'd you'd miss, they used this pun to hide the fact that they were talking about an Irish person while the Irish person is present cuz they'd say the Hebrew version of the pun which sounded different WHICH is extra funny cuz Irish speakers (gaeilgeoir) do exactly the same thing when we're abroad and don't want others knowing we were talking about them in Irish.

today i learned that Jews in Ireland used to call an goyische Irish person “beitz” or “beitzimer” (pl) which in hebrew is EGG.  because “eggs” in yiddish is “eyer”.   (get it?? because eyer-ish?)

[peigslayers]

love seeing americans debate what is urban and what is rural, simply accept the paradigm of culchie/townie/jackeen into your heart and be at peace

[westmeath]

got a first for the short story i wrote about an irish navvy working in england in the 50s HEHE a low first BUT. this is the easiest place to upload it so i’m going to post it here if you’d like to read it.. tumblr loses all my formatting but just picture the nicely indented lines in your mind

The Dublin boys and the Connacht boys were fighting again. Over what Bernard wasn't aware and cared little; too focused on his dinner. It was always one of a few things, each as trivial and dim as the last, and all of which boiled down to ‘You're from there and we're from here.’ Likely, it came down to the simple utterance of the word culchie or jackeen.

Bernard didn’t get involved in these arguments, both for the fact Sligo was too far north of Connacht for either side to bother with him, and that he himself simply couldn’t be bothered. He was, frankly, sick and tired of these petty arguments between men who were all here for the same reason; forced by a need for work to leave their homes and venture into the British workforce for the promise of better wages.

Even with the uncertainty of jumping from job to job, city to city, middle-of-nowhere to middle-of-nowhere-but-somewhere-else, not knowing how long you'll be there or how well you'll be looked after, only having enough money to keep you going for maybe two weeks at any given time… It’s not a life most would choose, but it was preferable to whatever lay in wait at home.

But for all the good it brought, Bernard missed the simplicities of home – though he’d left for the same reason as everyone else, a desperate need for work, absence had only made the heart grow fonder. He’d become weary of the back-breaking work, he hated the conditions he worked in, he hated the cities, he’d even grown to hate the people who inhabited the same spaces as him; the pubs filled with the same faces every day, faces of men who would never return to their birthplace, be it through shame, poverty or arrogance, men who would rather slink off over the horizon to die like a dog rather than be seen by their families again, nosing out the least amount of dignity in death.

An elbow slipped against Bernard's arm, knocking both his train of thought out of his mind and the slice of ham he'd just managed to get onto his fork straight back off it again. Martin, a younger man from Lancashire who'd somehow ended up with this gang of Irish navvies, craned his neck to gawp over his shoulder.

‘What are they fighting about?’ Martin looked back between the two men sitting with him. ‘Should I - should we be concerned?’

‘Don't worry about it,’ Christy, a Kerryman built like an ox, mumbled through a mouthful of mash. ‘Just keep your nose out of it.’

‘What's a “Dublin Shackreen”’?

‘Why are you here, Martin?’ Bernard asked. ‘On this job, I mean. There's no other English working here.’

Martin blinked. ‘I needed the money. I weren't going to be picky.’

Bernard hmm'd in response. He couldn't fault him there.

‘I'd rather be out in the fresh air than cooped up in one of the factories, day-in, day-out.’ Martin now idly picked at the peas on his plate, having forgotten the ruckus that was still ongoing behind him.

He finally stabbed the fork down onto a single pea, sending a couple more flying in opposite directions. ‘And anything's better than being down the mines.’

‘Out in the frigid air, you mean. At least the factories and the mines might be warm,’ Christy said.

‘Only depending on how deep the mine is,’ Martin replied. ‘It gets colder first, then it starts heating up.’

‘Send me right down to the core. I'm tired of my hands cracking open with the cold.’

‘Maybe you wouldn't feel so cold if you worked a bit harder, Christy,’ Bernard remarked.

Knocking his chair backwards, Christy leapt up and pulled Bernard towards him by the collar. ‘Look, you-’

‘Are you two heading home for Christmas? You'll be warm then,’ Martin said casually. ‘I'll go back for a couple days, at least. ‘Til they all start depressing me again and I can't take them no more.’

Christy sank back down into his seat, releasing his hand from Bernard's shirt and using it to scratch the side of his face in thought instead. The fist Bernard had reeled back in response slowly returned to his cutlery.

‘I’d say so,’ Christy said idly. ‘I usually do. I've enough saved to stay home for a month without doing a stab of work.’

‘I haven't been home in years,’ Bernard mused. ‘I'm afraid if I go now I mightn't come back again.’

He looked up from studying the remains of his plate and saw two faces staring at him.

 ‘You're thinking of packing it in, Bern?’ Christy asked, voice low.

‘Ah, I-’

From behind them, a roar rose up from the gathered crowd, and a tremendous thump cracked through the floorboards.

‘I think the shackreen lost,’ Martin remarked.

—

Martin saw the two of them off in the train station, waiting to catch a train of his own back up North. He gave them each a roughly torn piece of notebook paper with a company name and address of a job in Birmingham where he might be working come January, if they wished to join him on their return.

The remaining two travelled together on the ferry as far as the port in Dún Laoghaire, where Christy left him with a few claps on the back and a reminder to keep him posted on what he decides to do. For the rest of his journey, Bernard was alone.

He didn't know what exactly he expected to feel; preferably anything, but try as he might, he couldn't conjure up any feelings of nostalgia, or excitement, or longing, or even loneliness. The towns and fields racing past the window blurred into a numb fog in his mind.

It was dark by the time he disembarked from the train in Sligo, and late into the evening by the time he had reached the end of the long walk along the road out of the town.

Under the shadow of Ben Bulben lay the same old house; the same old trail of smoke stretching from the same old chimney, from below which the light of the same old fireplace illuminated the same old dirty windows.

He walked straight in as he always had done, and his mother acted equally as though no time had passed, not even looking up from making dinner on the range as she told him to take his dirty shoes off.

Bernard remarked that it was a bit late to be having dinner, to which his mother responded that it was only for his father’s sake, who was working late this evening.

The dreariness involved in sitting at the table while his mother simultaneously conjured up a stew and updated him on every death in the parish since his last visit, all while being badgered with questions of ‘Have you met any nice girls over there yet?’, compelled Bernard to put his shoes back on and say to her, ‘I'll talk to you properly later on, when Da is home, right?’, and headed back out the door and towards the nearest village.

Having a drink with some of his old mates would surely put his mind right. He had barely stepped foot into the pub when he was accosted by a familiar voice.

‘Get the fuck out of here Bernard, you’re barred.’

‘Ah come on Peadar, I’ve not been back in years.’

‘Fine!’ The grey-haired owner of the pub was already filling a glass. ‘Just this once. But one word out of you and you’re gone.’

Bernard slipped onto a stool at the empty bar, glancing over his shoulder to see who else was around. A number of men populated the darker corners of the little building, none of which Bernard was overly familiar with - except for his father, who grinned at him upon making eye contact and held up his drink in greeting from a table he shared with a few similarly scruffy looking men by the open fire.

Peader slid Bernard’s drink towards him. ‘How’s your sister? D’ya ever run into her over there?’

‘My sister? Is she not here?’

‘She’s been in England for the last 3 years, Bernard.’

‘Oh.’ Bernard paused. ‘Well no one told me.’

Peadar watched him drink for a moment, one eyebrow raised. Bernard busied himself with looking over his shoulder.

‘How’s the rest of them? Francis, Michael, Joe, Steve Óg, those shower - they’d normally be in here this time of day.’

He punctuated each name with a point of his finger at different chairs and tables across the pub; all now either empty or seating the worn older men he’d seen on his way in.

‘All gone.’

‘What? Died?’

‘No, not died, you stupid- …Gone and done the same as you, off to England to find work,’ Peader sighed.

‘Right, right,’ Bernard eased slightly, or deflated; he couldn’t tell.

A chair groaned across the floor, and he looked back up in time to see his father bid his drinking partners farewell and waltz out the door, singing something about dinner being ready for him.

For a few moments he watched the door swing slightly in the draught, knocking against its frame where it hadn’t been shut in properly.

‘Peader,’ Bernard began, ‘You haven’t got a pen and some paper I could borrow?’

‘Only if you give ‘em back.’

Hunched over the bar, Bernard began to write a letter:

Dear Christy -

I’ll see you back in Birmingham.

[glitter-worm]

3 Genders:

Culchie, City-slicker, and Jackeen

[breitzbachbea]

I also need to use the week between work and vacay, when I am not moving, for practicing Italian. I KNOW I am going in the opposite direction. But I can't learn Gaelic in a week, I am going amongst the Jackeens and as a first time Ireland traveller I at least want to show off my South Italy Traveller badge.

[fallimentiquotidiani]

Do do do La la la

My friend Sally says she knows ya Got a funny point of view Says you got away with murder Maybe one time, maybe two

Something happens in the morning When I can't see those failing eyes I can't find a good word for ya Does it come as a surprise?

I don't think we'd rhyme I will wear you down in time I will hurt you, I'll desert you I am Jackie down the line

Said did Sally 'bout a future Before you bored of her as well If all you want is entertainment If you can't have it you make hell

Don't make no odds for ye To be told, yeah Don't make no odds for ye To be told, yeah

I don't think we'd rhyme I will wear you down in time I will hurt you, I'll desert you I am Jackie down the line I don't think we'd rhyme I will make your secrets mine I will hate ye, I'll debase ye I am Jackie down the line

Do do do La la la

So come on down to Sally's boneyard See her spirit in decline See the handsome mourners crying They hawked a beating heart for a sturdy spine, yeah

What good is happiness to me If I've to wield it carefully? For care I'll always come up short It's only right

I don't think we'd rhyme I will wear you down in time I will hurt ye, I'll desert ye I'm one Jackeen of a line I don't think we'd rhyme I will take up all your time I will chew ye, I'll go through ye I am Jackie down the line I don't think we'd rhyme I will make your secrets mine I will hate ye, I'll debase ye I am Jackie down the line And I will stone ye, I'll alone ye I am Jackie down the line If I can make you, I can break you I am Jackie down the line I am Jackie down the line

Do do do La la la

[baepsrae]

A girl just walked into this starbucks and almost immediately knocked someone elses shit over and didn't apologise like she just looked at it and walked by then started moving chairs around like girl are u ok? wyd? adhsjsbsjsbsksb