Piotr Czerwinski – KURRVICULUM EIRE



Written in a Brit-Pol jargon, this is a novel about two very different Poles who have gone to seek their fortunes in the Emerald Eire. Working in a Dublin factory, their days are filled with mind-warping monotony. To counter its effects, they escape into a surreal world of cartoons, music and daydreams about the return of the Little Prince.

Involving, original and wildly relevant, this is the kind of fairytale no one expected…

Already published to serious acclaim in Poland, OFF_ gives you a teaster taste of its translation;



Discovering a new city is not unlike discovering a whole new planet for the first time. The Ancients believed the Earth limited to a few lousy islands.  The Medievals were then of the opinion that it’s nothing but a handful of nations, beyond which there is only The Edge, the whole lot resting on the backs of impossible monsters. By analogy, Gustaw was still stuck in the Dark Ages. The Edge somewhere near Waterloo Road, the limits of his sojourns thus far. He tried to imagine what the rest of Dublin looked like and saw nothing but Norfolk Road stretching into endless distance, a hundred square miles of Cabra, the lot filled with Poles, Indians and Chinamen crowding round internet cafés and giant billboards, screaming just how koorva grand it is to call Bangladesh for two cents a minute. Troo enuf. Only the Ancients felt exactly the same about the Pyramids, their peers on the other side of the planet just as proud of their Machu Picchu, the lot of us delighting like innocents in this wonder-filled world of ours.


Nine a.m., Gustaw’s mobile whistled the theme from Peer Gynt, while its owner was still struggling with the twin taps in the washbasin – one, as we know, piping hot water, the other liquid ice, neither helping to get soap washed off his skin.


What the fook is the matter with the fooking taps in this country, koorvayebana?!


Trapped between extremes, Gustaw chose to brush his teeth in cold water, to save hassle and fresh burns, then listened to his voicemail render the recording of someone speaking way too fast to make comprehension possible. The gist of what he’d heard hinted at a “job”, and Gustaw more or less managed to catch the name of one of the companies he’d sent his Kurrvivculum Eire to. He also lucked at noting the appointed time, as he heard the words “too au cloc” and there is no way, not even for an Ayrish, to say “two o’clock” in anything less than comprehensible manner. Troo, troo. Gustaw felt hepi. He donned his three piece and hit the town, starting with the bus stop, where, as we all know, the chariots of this Ayrish Wonderworld have to be hailed, instead of always stopping at each stop along their route, a cruel fact of life visitors from the Continent had to learn the hard way. Gustaw waited half an hour for a bus which failed to show, before deciding to hit the pavement. He had plenty of time to kill, what with it only being ten eau clok. He walked the whole of Cabra, then along North Circular Road, passing along the way a hospital surrounded by a handful of protesters. Their home-made banners proclaimed that while Ayerish Wonderworld’s economy was first rate, its healthcare was distinctly third. As in Third World. Gustaw assumed it was the healthcare, not the economy, they were protesting against. He strolled on, towards Dorset, and from there onto Gardiner. Troo, too troo, it was a fair old way. But what was one to do if buses rolled along a schedule quite separate from that printed on the stops and even then utterly refused to alight at the appointed time? Besides, he managed to pick up seven five cent coins along the way and felt like the luck of the Ayerish was starting to rub off. Meanwhile, it rained a total of of four times, the sun putting in an equal amount of appearances. He relieved himself in a cul de sac behind Talbot Street, having already been refused use of the facilities by a bouncer in the pub he was now pissing over.


When in Rome, do as the Roma, he thought to himself.


In life, one could piss all over anything. It was just a question of decent bladder control.



by Piotr Czerwinski



read the rest of this chapter by clicking this link pdf EN