Mattie Kiely

Mattie Kiely occupies a unique place in the history of Cork city life. The proprietor of a small chip shop, tucked away in an unassuming side street, Mattie served a congregation of disparate, and desperate souls. Builders, Bankers, Schoolboys, Dockers, O.A.Ps, Winos, the Rich, the Poor, the Sober and the Drunk, he served them all. Mattie’s menu was short and to the point. Burgers, Sausages, or fish (No Chicken). Plain, with Chips or in a Supper. Portions were small but the prices were too and this made it a favourite for those on a limited budget or appetite. Stories abound about the shop and the man, and his retirement was a terrible shock to his customers and friends.

Mick Lynch 2009

Lyrics:

Mattie Kiely

On a cold December evening

It’s Cork it’s mid December

I was waiting for the girlfriend

And I hoped that she’d remember

Conversations from the night before

The both of us were pissed

We said we’d meet at 5 O’clock

Or was that 5, a 6?

I though I’d got a fifty

When the clock read half past five

When my mobile rung

It was your one

She was rough but still alive

I’ve only just got up she said

My eyebrows must get lined

I’ll meet you there at half past 8

No, make that 8 a 9

As I stood there in the shelter

At the front of Roches Stores

Perused the permutations

And beneath my breath I swore

I hadn’t had by breakfast

I hadn’t had my tea

I was feeling numb, I was feeling glum

When a thought occurred to me.

Chorus

Just go around the corner

To a place where you’ll get fed

Lay out some dosh

For some handsome nosh

By my stomach I got led

He’s may not as tall as….

Be he look a lot like Mylie

Ooooh, Mattie Kiely

I reached my destination

Took my hat off, stepped inside

The temperature was toasted

The aroma deeply fried

The atmosphere had a hint of beer

The light a battered hue

I took my place

In the space prescribed

And turned to see the view

A section of humanity

Predominantly older

In a line at ease with their mushy peas

Their chips, their Coca Colas

For those who chose the cutlery

A plastic fork at most

Their tablecloth a single page

Of last week’s racing post

Chorus

So come on down to Maylor Street

To a place where you’ll get fed

Lay out some dosh

For some princely nosh

By your stomach

You’ll get led

He shuts up shop at 9 O’clock

He lives the life of Reilly

Oh Oh Oh Mattie Kiely

An order quickly taken

Our hero moves with speed

It’s passed along with assured aplomb

So the process can proceed

Another thirty seconds and

Your table’s deftly laid

And with no delay I can safely say

Your bill is tilled and paid

Along the polished counter top

Your elbow slowly slides

As the tension mounts

You do all but count

The amount of broken tiles

A wave of paranoia makes

You think you’ve been ignored

A later ordered burger

Disappearing out the door

Chorus

And up the length of Maylor Street

From a place where you’ll get fed

Lay out some dosh

For some princely nosh

By your stomach you’ll get led

In unemployed society

He’s spoken of quite highly

Oh oh oh Mattie Kiely

You raise your hand in protest

As our hero re-appears

But you bite your tongue

Cos the fare he’s brung

Is the best you’ve seen in years

Drenched in mushy peas

On top there floats in a crispy coat

Fresh fish from Irish seas

To finish off this master piece

A healthy dose of salt

Shook in and drenched with vinegar

The clear stuff or the malt

Your lips are licked

Your chip is picked

You spear it with your fork

It’s raised aloft and a bite bit off

Of the finest chip in Cork

The Finest chip in Cork

Chorus

But no more down on Maylor Street

Is a place where you’ll get fed

Can’t spend your dosh

On some princely nosh

By your stomach

Won’t be led

He shut the shop in February

Quietly and shyly

Oh oh oh Mattie Kiely