My Irish husband is always saying, “don’t love me”

English words don’t mean what you think in Ireland.

Irish slang is famous.

Even if you’ve never visited, you’ve probably heard the likes of “craic” (that’s fun to you and me), maybe even “eejit” (idiot), “yoke” (thingamabob), and “banjaxed” (broken beyond repair).

And sure, these are all fun to know and say.

But after a decade in Ireland, what I find far more interesting are the English words that have different meanings in the Irish English Frank speaks than in the American English I speak.

(Both distinct from what is spoken in England, which I’m confident is referred to as English English; feel free to quote me on that.)

These words may not be snazzy enough to print on T-shirts and novelty socks, but knowing how to use them like an Irish person is way more useful for getting on over here than making (yet) another joke about “having the craic/crack.”

So without further Irish stew…

Love

“Don’t love me,” Frank often says.

This might seem a strange request for a husband to make of his wife, but in Ireland, “love” is a weapon of a word — or can be.

Of course, it can mean exactly what you think it means.

However, in special circumstances, it’s like attaching a little dagger to the end of a sentence. Not a lethal dagger, but one that leaves a minor flesh wound all the same.

“When are you going to vacuum, love?” I inquire when I notice Frank’s on his phone while the breakfast crumbs are still on the floor.

In contrast: “Well done, love!” I say when he’s given a successful client talk.

But this “love” isn’t meant to draw blood.

And he can tell, because I haven’t stressed the word and thrust it at him like… well, a dagger (to remain loyal to my original metaphor).

It didn’t take me long after marrying an Irishman to realize any time you’re bristled by a beloved’s words or actions (or in cases like the vacuuming instance, inactions), you can jam all your irritation into “love,” tack it onto an otherwise neutral phrase, and deliver an emotionally devastating blow — or at least a mildly infuriating blow, but satisfying all the same.

Sorry

Sorry never means sorry because the Irish never accept blame for anything.

(Usually, they find a way to blame the English.)

A high-pitched “Sorry, love” indicates surprise, and, quite often, judgment.

Let’s say your host asks you to bring the dessert, only for you to arrive with a rustic but crowd-pleasing apple tart and find a five-tiered ganached masterpiece has preceded you.

“Sorry, love! Martin’s gone and brought a gateau. Sure look, I hadn’t a notion he’d remember — you know what he’s like. Anyway, we’re grand for dessert after all.”

The tone: cheerful, without a lick of remorse.

The implication: “Well, aren’t you a right eejit for failing to assume Martin would remember dessert?”

Then there’s “Sorry now,” always said in a stern tone, used when you impart information deemed unacceptable:

“Sorry now, two-hundred quid to replace a yoke in the oven? You must be joking. It’s not like it’s completely banjaxed!”

And then there’s the “Sorry!” the Irish bark out as they bulldoze their way through populated venues (such as supermarkets and sidewalks), dispatched in a tone that clearly communicates: “Would you f***in’ mind getting out of my f***in’ way.”

I once witnessed a toddler with a Polish accent waddle-running down the main passage of a busy shopping centre, clearing bodies from her path by gleefully singing out, “Saw-ree! Saw-ree! Saw-ree! Saw-ree!”

Inspiring to see one so young, and not even originally from here, exhibit such a proficient grasp of the language.

What?

There’s a distinct way the Irish say “What?” which makes it clear it doesn’t cleanly translate to “I didn’t catch what you said. Could you repeat?”

It requires a technique I often practice but have failed to emulate.

It’s a whip of a word, lashed out and retracted in one sharp expulsion of breath which transmutes its meaning to: If you expect me to keep listening to whatever nonsense you’re blathering on about you better stop sounding like a complete gobshite (that’s jackass to you and me).

And if you really want to sound Irish, lash out your “What?” while the poor American — who often has to stumble her way through verbalizing her thoughts — is still in the middle of a sentence.

She always loves that.

No

“No” doesn’t necessarily mean “no.”

That’s because in Ireland, the first answer to any question is always “no,” even if by all rights it should be — and eventually will be — “yes.”

(Note: This isn’t permission to assume point-blank every “no” is a “yes” waiting to happen. There are plenty of instances when “no” means “no,” and you must respect it as such. But I know you’re a decent human being who doesn’t need telling this.)

Over a decade ago, when I was back in Kentucky and Frank was in Ireland, I booked a one-way trip to see him.

I planned to leave before my tourist visa expired, but I left my return journey open-ended as we were floating the idea of a week in Italy to cap off my stay (or rather, I was floating the idea), and I’d head home from there.

(Irrelevant side note: I’ve floated the idea of Italy with Frank every year we’ve been a couple. Twelve years on, it still hasn’t happened.)

I’m fully aware anyone with a modicum of experience in international travel is currently rolling their eyes at my stupidity. Which is exactly what the immigration officer in Cork Airport did when I presented my passport but no return ticket.

His “no” sent my heart into a drum solo worthy of Led Zeppelin. But even back then, I knew if I could engineer a bit more chat between us, I’d be going through those gates.

So he was treated to the full details of the Italian trip I was hoping for, as well as multiple promises that if all I needed to cross the border was a return ticket to the States, I’d eagerly book then and there.

Eventually, he stopped shaking his head and started asking questions.

Slowly but surely, his “no” turned into a stamped passport (accompanied by a severe warning never to try the like again).

This was an extreme (read: extremely foolish) situation, but its memory has helped me maintain serenity through the countless lower-stakes denials I regularly bump into.

Like the repairman who assures you the leak is unfixable.
Or the restaurant server who refuses to let you switch tables.
Or the shop assistant who doesn’t have the color you want in stock.

Just keep them chatting, and eventually they chat themselves into a yes.

As for why it’s always a “no” straight out of the gate?

I blame the English. (Help! I’m being indoctrinated.)

My theory is that under British rule, the Irish grew sick of gritting their teeth and saying “yes” which makes them now delight in saying “no” every chance they get. (Maybe don’t quote me on that though.)

Yes

Archaic. Not in current use.

[See above entry.]

I will, yeah

There’s an apocryphal story about how Apple trains its American managers who work with Cork-based teams to beware this common phrase, particularly when it’s said in response to a work request.

The reason being that despite how it sounds, “I will, yeah” is basically Irish English for “not a hope in hell, you eejit.”

Just how many gullible American managers have actually been duped by this phrase after asking their Irish teams to work weekends?

For that matter, just how many gullible American wives have actually been duped by this phrase after asking their Irish husbands to clean and reorganize the kitchen drawers?

Who knows.

The overall lesson here is to always be highly suspicious anytime an Irish person seems to be saying “yes.”

Sugar

“Sugar” is a word that still catches me off guard when I hear Frank mutter it under his breath.

To me, it will always be a term of endearment, the likes of:

Sugar
Oh, honey, honey
You are my candy girl…

But an Irish person uses “sugar” like we use “darn” or “shoot.”

It’s a stand-in for the rare occasion when a full-blown swear word isn’t called for, or when an American in-law is within earshot.

But basically, only in Joyce Country would something so sweet rub shoulders with the profane.

***

I could keep going, but I think I’ve done enough to convince you of my rigorously un-researched theory that the English language isn’t always what it seems in Ireland.

Practically every spoken word has layers of meaning. And it’s not just the Yank in the room claiming this.

Recently Frank was at a stag (that’s bachelor party to you and me) and the slightly sozzled conversation turned to why you’re unlikely to meet a plain-spoken Irish person.

The groom’s dad piped up with his theory, which blames the English (bet you didn’t see that one coming).

He reckons Irish citizens perfected speaking in layers of subtext so they could never be pinned down to an exact meaning, in case an English lord or lady took offense and demanded all their sheep as punishment, or maybe their potatoes, or possibly just banished them from the island altogether.

But if all this historical linguistic theorizing is a layer too far and you just want to know how to use “craic” in a sentence, rest assured there are millions of Irish slang lists on the internet.

Why don’t you go google one now, love?

P.S. Over here I get called “love” all the time (whether snidely meant or not), but back home in Kentucky it’s “sweetheart” or “hun.” What’s the default term of endearment everyone uses where you’re from? Tell me in the comments.
- Marci x