Owen O'Neill's people were flax scutchers and barbers who shaved with cut-throat razors sharpened on leather belts. Some chewed War Horse tobacco, spat long distances and threw tin buckets at Orange flute bands.

Owen's mother gave birth to sixteen children and was never beaten at hopscotch. His father would sometimes black-up, dress as a Sikh and sell shirts round the neighbourhood.

His aunt once ate her Christmas dinner out of a big glass ashtray and commented how the indents were perfect to rest her knife and fork.

Owen would like to thank his very large family, living and dead, for their flights of dangerous, dark alcoholic, deep-rooted madness and instability, without which he would not have a story to tell.

"He has the turn of phrase of Roddy Doyle and the darkness of Patrick McCabe"

The Independent

"O'Neill is never anything less than an excellent and intelligent writer."

The Stage

"O'Neill's animated passionate perfomance brings his poetry to life and puts each piece into perfect context."

Glasgow Herald