On 16th June 2011, in a non-descript conference room in Dublin, and Englishman laid down a challenge to the land of the Blarney - Talk for Ireland.
The challenge sounds easy.
Recite or read the poem On Raglan Road, by Patrick Kavanagh as fast as possible, making sure that all the words are clearly enunciated and with no stumbles.
As I said ~ it sounds easy.
If interested in this challenge the Irish are invited to register by 16th July, on the charities website www.5050phoneafriend.ie
Each person is encouraged to raise 500 Euros for the charity, and the fastest will be able to take on Steve in Dublin on Sept 10th – World Suicide Awareness day.
There is of course a catch.
Steve has held a World record for 21 years, for fast talking, and can reach speeds of up to 637 words per minute.
He is putting his reputation on the line for cause that is close to his heart.
50/50 Phone a friend is a new organisation that aims to promote suicide awareness, and is placing plaques with the phone numbers of useful support organisations in public places.
Just to give you all a start, here are the words of the poem to be used.
On Raglan Road
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
Patrick Kavanagh
So, if you are in the Republic and fancy yourself as a fast talker, why not give it a go.
Do you think I stand a chance?
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