Sure, you’re heard of the Joyces and Becketts, but what of these lads of local legend?

Johnny O’Gre, author of the plays “Ma, I Donae Wanna Go to Work!” and “Not Today Either!,” widely believed to be thinly veiled autobiographies; he lived with his mother until he was 75, when she passed on. At her funeral service, he fell on her coffin, wailing, “Who’ll make me tea now?!”

John Milk Derry, the genius who created but one work, and an unfinished one at that. “There Once Was a Man” was 5,500 rambling pages (and no end in sight) at his death. The story illustrates 5 minutes in the town of Kilkee, with each page densely packed disassociated streams of consciousness, quirky dialogue and vivid descriptions. Derry layers in countless literary allusions, bits of popular songs and, infamously, scores of interlocking limericks, some of which take on lives of their own. Some feel James Joyce’s blindness was caused by rage, after reading this limerician.

Brendan Beanie wrote the hit play, “The Kindergardener,” which caused quite a sensation, and his proclamation as “The Precocious Prince of Parkasilla.” Its follow up, “Stinky Milk,” was not successful; one critic declared “Beanie, a pretentious hack, is but a mere sad shadow of his former self.” At age 6, Brendan sulked “They’ll see, I’ll never write again.” And kept good his word.

Seaumus O’Drool never, as far as anyone can tell, actually wrote anything. But he looked enough like an Irish writer that he caged many a drink from a wide-eyed Dublin tourist, falling prey to his line, “You wouldna mind fillin’ me pint, wouldya? It’s tired am I, day and night on the ol’ typer-writer . . .” 

Some prefer “At Swim-Two-Birds,” and brilliant it is, with the young Flann O’Brien perhaps under the Joycean spell, perhaps lightly mocking the master. “The Poor Mouth: A Bad Story About the Hard Life” is an acquired taste, but, even without fully understanding the Irish folk tradition is satirizes, a romp of hilarity. Then of course you’ll want to get your hands on the collected columns of Myles nagCopaleen (“Miles of the Little Horses”), the pithy, playful, amusingly arrogant Irish Times writer. Myles/Flann were both alter egos of Brian Nolan, an Irish civil servant who was never able to make it as a writer, in his lifetime.

This fan of Brian/Myles/Flann reserves a sentimental spot for a comic masterpiece about a greedy fellow’s journey into a surreal, bicycle-obsessed land.

1. St. Patrick’s Day at Galway Bay: The best Irish bar on the whole, wide North Beach . . . O.K., it’s the only Irish bar on the North Beach. But it’s also one of the best places to have a pint outside of Samuel Beckett’s homeland. Always good music, consistently delicious food and the beer, oh, the beer. Have you tried Smithwick’s? Or Galway’s own signature brew? Three bands plus a piper. No cover charge.

2. Speaking of Beckett, read his famous (and famously misunderstood) play, “Waiting for Godot.” Aloud. To your significant other. Then, when he/she scurries away, continuing reading it aloud. To your dog. Then, when she/he scurries away, answer the phone, and continue reading it aloud. To a telemarketer.

3. Drink green beer. Ponder, “Did they use green dye for this, or Ocean Shores water?”