This book compiles a choice selection of an ingenious column Flann O'Brien wrote for The Irish Times.
The column tells of two friends, Keats (the poet) and Chapman (famous translator of Homer into English) and their encounters here and there and everywhere. Every little story is an elaborate build up to a bad pun, which assisted by O'Brien's knowledge of languages such as Gaelic and Latin. The only way to do it justice is to display some of the articles here:
CARNIVAL
Keats and Chapman once lived near a church. There was a heavy debt on it. The pastor made many efforts to clear the debt by promoting whist drives and raffles and the like, but was making little headway. He then heard of the popularity of these carnivals where you have swing-boats and round-abouts and fruit-machines and la boule and shooting galleries and every modern convenience. He thought to entertain the town with a week of this and hoped to make some money to reduce the debt. He hired one of these outfits but with his diminutive financial status he could only induce a very third-rate company to come. All their machinery was old and broken. On the opening day, as the steam organ blared forth, the heavens opened and disgorged sheets of icy rain. The scene, with its drenched and tawdry trappings, assumed the gaiety of a morgue. Keats and Chapman waded from stall to stall, soaked and disconsolate. Chapman (unwisely, perhaps) asked the poet what he thought of the fiesta.
'A fete worse than debt,' Keats said.
Chapman collapsed into a trough of mud.
DOWN THE HIGH
Chapman's fag at Greyfriars was a boy called Fox, a weedy absent-minded article of Irish extraction. One evening, shortly before the hour when Mr. Quelch was scheduled to take the remove for prep, the young fellow was sent down the High with a jug and strict instructions to bring back a pint of mild and bitter without spilling it. The minutes lengthened and so did Chapman's face, who disliked going into class completely sober. He fumed and fretted, but still there was no sign of the returning fag. In the opposite armchair lay Keats, indolently biting his long nails. He thought he would console his friend with a witty quotation.
'Fox dimissa nescit reverti,' he murmured.
'Dimissus!' snapped Chapman, always a stickler for that kind of thing.
'Kindly leave my wife out of this,' Keats said stiffly.