I am in the unfortunate position of having to report that Irish poets, even Nobel Prize winners, are to hits as Ebola is to cardiovascular health. We’ve dropped in popularity by 68% overnight. Seamus better watch his back if he ever gets to Vancouver, that’s all I’m saying.

So Frank McCourt was on Conan O’Brian’s show, and he was of course telling a story, as every Irishman is compelled to do in company of another Irishman or even Irish-American, or even, it must be admitted, in the presence of nobody more than just the voices in his own head.

The story goes like this, more or less. I shall paraphrase recklessly. I spoze I could look it up, but I’m a blogger, not an effing researcher!

Frank: So I used to teach at New York University. Are you listening, Conan?

Conan(rapt): Huh? Yeah!

Frank: Good. I used to teach poetry at NYU. Are you paying attention, now?

Conan: What? Yes!

Frank: Ah, that’s good then. And you know, there were lots of nice young people, and some older ones, you never knew what they were doing there, who used to be my students, because I used to teach, you know. Poetry. I was a poetry teacher. Conan!

Conan: I AM LISTENING!

Frank: Good to hear. Yes, so I was a poetry teacher, and one day, years later…this is the important part, now…

Conan: FRANK! I AM PAYING ATTENTION!

Frank: Excellent. So one day I’m walking down the street in New York, and I run up against a fellow who used to be one of my students. They leave…they go on…I never see them again…So. I asked him what he was doing now. “Well,” says he, “Your teaching really inspired me and now I’m a poet, Professor McCourt.” “Well that’s grand,” I say, “Is it going well?” He says, “No, I’m fucking starving!”

Conan: You know Frank, you were brought on to elevate the show…