Welcome to Sinead Hamill’s Blog.

Sinead retains copyright on all her original material.

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A Week is a long time in hospital

I’m stretched again in hospital

The food is fairly sparse

If I see another scrambled egg

I’ll eat the contents of my arse


It starts off in the A&E

Where you’re triaged by the nurse

Then spend hours sitting on your hole

Unless your illness is the worst


If you come in via ambulance

You’re straight in to the Docs

And they stick you in a flimsy gown

Where the split shows off your jocks


The blood nurse she comes over

And you try not to be sick

As she sticks a harpoon in you

Like she’s shooting Moby Dick


In a week you’re black from needles

They say it’s just a scratch

With your hairy legs and bikini line

About to turn to thatch



The nurses always washing hands

To prevent M.R.S.A

Scrubbing, gelling, gloving up

Their skin will wear away


You fantasize about salty chips

Stir fries, curries too

When they slop up something bland and dull

You want to chuck it down the loo


In the cardiac department

It’s like you’re on a leash

An alarm bell rings if you leave the ward

When you’re running from the quiche


You ask to have a sleeping pill

And they answer “Well we’ll see”

Then they wake the fella next to you

To take his at half past three


There’s buzzers going beep, beep, beep

And bells that ring so shrill

You’d give your body up to science

For just a lick of that small pill


The porters are the funny lads

Who come to take you for a spin

When the theatre ring and tell you

That it’s your turn to go in


Since you were a toddler

You’re told not to wet the bed

So a pan stuck underneath your bum

Is like a pencil without lead


Instead, they bring along a “jacks” on wheels

They call it a commode

They pull across the curtain

And say “away and drop your load”


You’ve been holding it for ages

And you’re sick & tired of waiting

But going in a ward of six?

It’s like Heuston bloody station.


The nurses smile & tell you that you might get to go home

But the doctor has to sign you out, so they try him on the phone

You came in with a heart attack on that first eventful night

And you leave it with a ruptured gut for the want of a good shi**

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50 Shades Irish Style

50 Shades of Grey…the Irish male lead’s script…

Performed at a recent “Singing by the sink” event.

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Johnnie One Ball

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This is a musical ditty about a man who meets our “leader”.



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Scumbags & Handbags

Check out today’s MetroHerald page 21 for more about the origins of Scumbags & Handbags.
The book is available in all Dubray Bookstores, on Amazon and all other e platforms and in the Village Cafe in Kilmacud Crokes…where you can have a nice mug of scald while you get stuck into reading.

Book two is 22,000 words in…a few more to go!

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The Weather

The Weather


Clarks are selling shoes no more

Sure who the feck would buy them.

They’re chucking out stilettos and stocking up on flippers

And bringing in a lead based trim

To keep you grounded in your slippers.

But still and all, it’s not enough

That wind would life you high,

And the rain that falls as sheet ice

Would have out both your eyes.


The weather comes in from the west

And it’s brutal as the norm,

Let’s get the petrol guzzlers round the world

To Inishbofin in a storm

Yis don’t believe in climate change?

We’re nearly drowning, that’s the proof

So give the Irish all your money so we can

Build a shagging roof.


Cork is underwater, Panna’s been taken by the Lee

There are floats and boats upon the street

And none upon the sea.

C’mere a while I want ya

Say the rebels to the gales

Shag off up to Dublin and leave us the feck alone

“I will Yeah” says the weather, which in Cork of course means No

And the sneaky little shagger turned around and gave them snow.


You know, the culchies come to the capital to work among the Dubs

And bleed us dry of water when they want to have a scrub,

They like to preen themselves for Coppers, to try to look their best,

Bet they wish they pumped their water now, that they’re flooded in the west!


I’m guessing on conspiracy ‘cos we’ve had ten storms in a row,

With roads ripped up and buildings felled,

Construction’s sure to grow.

There’ll be plane loads into Dublin,

As the builders all come back,

Then Enda’ll stop his rain dance,

To pat himself upon the back!


A Sinead Hamill Original

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Time Please!

Don’t stand there crying down on me

Because my time on earth is done

Reflect on all the laughs we had

As I lie stretched here on my bum

The poor oul priest will stutter

As he tries to say the mass

As I remind ye all I’m lying here with

Embalmer’s cotton in my ass

I didn’t want to leave you but

I could no longer stay

There’s a party with them all upstairs

The invite came my way

So now I’m standing at the lift you see

And I just pressed the button

It doesn’t give a choice so I just press it with a frown

And hope to bloody Jaysus it goes up instead of down!

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