What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?

A couple of years ago, one Saturday afternoon, I was bored and decided to create a quiz on Facebook.

For years, I'd had the phrase "What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?" rattling around in my head. I heard it from a Cavan girl I shared a house with in London half a lifetime ago. It was something her dad, or uncle used to say - and he pronounced 'eejit' as 'ee-get'. Very Cavan. I love the Cavan accent, having spent several years in boarding school, and much of my childhood on my grandparents' farm up there, so the phrase stayed with me.

In any case, I thought that if it were taken as an actual question, rather than a rhetorical insult, it could make for a funny quiz. After a few hours of effort, during which I managed to make myself laugh out loud many times - always a good sign when you're writing comedy - I had the thing done.

I put it up onto Facebook, obsessed over it for a few days, then forgot all about it. A few weeks later I remembered it and when I checked, it had over three thousand 'Likes.' Checking now, the figure is at 3,984. So it must have a made a few other people laugh too.

I decided, before it goes missing on Facebook, I'd preserve it here.

The questions and possible answers are first, followed by the possible results, and the picture associated with each:


What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?

Find out what sort of a gobshite you'd be if you grew up in Ireland - or what class of a shitehawk you should be if you actually did!


1. How do you pronounce 'idiot'?

• Eeejish
• Ee-jut
• Eeee-jitt
• Langer!
• Eejit
• Eee-get

2. Do you support a British soccer team?

• Soccer? G'way to feck! If it doesnt involve swinging a big lump of a tree around like a homicidal corn-reaper, I'm not interested.
• I'm too busy organising marches and pogroms to bother with that sorta shite!
• I do in me arse!
• Feckin' girl's game! GAA all the way! Yahoo!
• I'm more into Rugby, actually, like.
• Yeah, and I regularly have heated arguments in the pub with supporters of other teams.

3. Where would you spend Christmas?

• In traffic trying to get home from shopping in Dublin.
• I dunno. The Seychelles this year, maybe.
• Behind the curtains, in fear for me life!
• How much would I have to spend?
• At home, like.
• In the local, if it were open.

4. What's a 'Wheel?'

• Something my Skyline has four of and my Evo X also has four of.
• Something my Ford has four of.
• Something my Honda Civic has four of.
• Something my Massey Ferguson has four of.
• A stupid gobshite.
• Something my SUV has four of.

5. What's a dump valve?

• I'm not sure; but I bet it was invented by someone from my home county.
• An utterly pointless addition to my Nissan Micra's engine.
• A yoke on the back of the jacks.
• A very useful addition to the twin-turbos on my Jap import.
• Jaysus, I dunno. Something they put on a beer tap?
• I'm not sure, but I think my 4x4 has one.

6. Do you like the English?

• It depends on whether there's an English person within earshot or not.
• I do in me hole! Hate the feckers - although that's only because I've been told I should hate them.
• They're not to be trusted.
• I couldn't care less. They're inferior to us in every way, anyway.
• Sure, I mean like, yeah - why not?
• Fluffy Saxon bastards! It pains my breast to think of Eire's fertile sloping mantle being trodden underfoot for 800 years.

7. What's the definition of 'class'?

• An important social distinction by which you measure yourself against your peers.
• Jonathan Rhys-Meyers
• Something you forego to go into town and hang around Grafton Street.
• I wouldn't have a clue.
• Cristiano Ronaldo.
• Anything that's feckin' brilliant!

8. What does "Quar'n" mean?

• It's a vegetarian meat-substitute.
• Jaysus, I haven't a clue. Is it something you spread on the land?
• No idea. Some bog-trotter code word for something?
• 'Very' - as in "You're quar'n tick!' (You are a person of low intelligence.)
• Something we say when we're copying the Wicklow accent.
• It's a feckin' stupid expression, the likes of which we'd never use around here.

9. What's a 'turn?'

• A bend in the road.
• Something you serve soup in.
• A stroll around your property.
• A bend in the beautiful river that flows through my county town.
• A nasty shock.
• A song by the band 'Travis.'

10. Cad is ainm duit?

• Wha? Feck off with yer Irish, ya spa!
• Leath-uair tar éis a deich.
• No - only red diesel.
• Sorry - I don't speak bog.
• What's that there, now?
• ... Ó Murchu is ainm dom!

And that was it. Ten questions scientifically designed to tell you which part of the country you were from - or should be from. These were the answers:

You're A Feckin' Wicklow Goatsucker

You're not entirely sure whether you're happy to be from the Pale or not, and you're as likely to be seen in Fitz's lounge givin' out yards about the feckin' Brits as you are to be found in Phil's, lookin' at one-ohs and engaging a couple of hapless English tourists in a rambling beer-fuelled diatribe about the sorry state of Liverpool's performance in the Premier League. In quieter moments, you have a strong feeling that you should be up in the hills wandering about in the fog in a pair of wellies, but, you know what - you just can't be arsed!

You're A Feckin' 'Cute' Cork Hoo'er

Let's get one thing straight now, ye feckin' Swamp Donkey: There's nothin' cute about Cork or the naturalised extra-terrestrials that inhabit it. You're not even useful enough to be called langers. Tommy Tiernan once said that hearing Corkonians talking is like listening to tinkers trying to speak French, and he was right - if the tinkers in question had been lobotomised and were gargling Murphy's at the same time. Why the hell yiz find yerselves so superior to the rest of the country, is beyond us. You seem to make an awful lot of noise about yerselves, so there must be something of value down there, but we'll never know what it is because we can't understand a feckin' word you're sayin'! And your women! For feck's sake, even a sniper wouldn't take one of them out. The best thing that could ever have happened to Cork would have been if the pilot of the Enola Gay had gotten lost over Hiroshima and dropped the jaysus A-bomb on Ballincollig Gunpowder Mills.

Yer From Wee Northern Ireland

They mooted another solution for Norn Iron long before Sunningdale and the Good Friday agreement, did you know that? The Irish and British governments were going to plant a series of tactical nukes along the border and separate your sorry asses from the rest of the island. You were to be towed by the entire British Navy up near to Rockall and left there to fight it out amongst yourselves. The only reason it didn't go ahead was that the Icelandic government threatened to send Bjork down to live in Killarney if we moved you any closer to Reykjavik than you already were. And feck that! But lookat; you're a shite province, let's face it - utterly useless. If there were a competition to find the shitest most useless province on the planet, you'd only manage to come second 'cause you're so useless and shite.

You're A Fockin' D4 Head

Oh by Jaysus, but you are some feckin' tool! Where did you get that unholy accent? Holy Mother o' Jaysus, is this what our ancestors fought and died for; so you could ponce about Donnybrook in yer BMW X5 - the tyres of which will never see a feckin' stitch of mud - stopping off in Kiely's to drink Heino whilst watching in horror as Munster dismantle Leinster AGAIN, then slipping in your own vomit on the floor of the disabled jacks in Eddie Rocket's? Is it? Yer a feckin' disgrace to your genetics and anaemic complexion. Why don't you feck off to London where you belong and leave the rest of us in peace, you planter wannabe knobjockey.

You're A Mean Feckin' Cavan Basthard.

C'mere you, hi, ye feckin' hoo'er. The next time your rusted cunt of a Jetta breaks down outside Ballinagh, just pay to get the whore fixed. Don't spend the next five days commuting back and forward between your odious hovel in Mullahoran and the site of the breakdown on your Massey Ferguson 35X at 25 mile-an-hour, with a clatty toolbox that dates from the Emergency rollin' around in the feckin' transport box, just to save money, you miserable eegit! You're that tight, if you ran out of sausages, you'd eat your own mickey before buying more. There's a strong smell of cowshite about you, Bucko - and saying 'Taxi' won't stop you gettin' a good Sixer the next time you let one of your clatty bog-farts in the Owen Roe, ye dirty whore. Saying 'class' all the time doesn't mean you feckin' have any!

You're A Feckin' Wexford Yellowbelly!

You're stuck in the middle of the three 'W' counties, and you think you're the best of them. Well, you're feckin' not. In hurling, maybe, but that's about it. You're normally stood at the end of the bar in the Wren or Tipsy McStaggers with a big bockety head on ye, whingin' like a bowsie about horse-racing or blow-ins from Poland or other local tripe like the 1798 rebellion. Well, do you know something; nobody from outside County Wexford knows where Vinegar Hill is and no-one gives a SHITE! Shut up to be fecked, ye borin' wheel, ye!