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Duke attempts the Impossible
duke3016:
Now if any of you have had the pleasure of meeting Laxie you will attest to the fact that not only has she kissed the Blarney stone she bit a big chunk off and swallowed it.
The term “Blarney” was, I think, invented by Queen Elizabeth I in the 1600"s. A cute whore by the name of Cormac Mac Carthy was running with the hare and running with the hounds as he tried to keep in with the queen, in order to retain his lands, and also appease his own clan so his head wasn"t taken off.
The old Mac Carthy stronghold is Blarney Castle and that is where you will find the stone today, under the battlements. They say that kissing it will reward you with the gift.
The survival technique of Cormac Mac carthy is now a customary activity. While you may not be dependent on your loquaciousness to stay alive, an ability to charm your opponents at the table may reward you.
duke3016:
I played hurling for Bodyke and was not really very good, more of a bull in a china shop me. Now some of you heathen's may say that suits the beautiful game of hurling. That is a misguided view of what is the fastest grass game in the world and one of the most skillful.
Anyway as I was saying I usually filled in at Full Forward where I would cause the least problems and maybe fluke a couple of points. We were playing against Tubber in the league and they were known to be hard men who came down from the mountains once in a while to play a game. The rumour was they were fed raw meat before the match.
We lined up and the Full Back stood beside me.
“You're going to get it today” says He
“Eh” says I
“It's payback” says he
“FFS what the Feck for” says I (don't think I ever met the guy, I knew of him however)
“Your father broke my father's arm in a match, and we don't forget” says he
FFS the sins of our fathers visited upon their sons. First high ball my ankle got a rap, FFS this was going to be a good one. Next ball in, self preservation kicked in and I didn't even look at the ball, I was like Zorro trying to parry his flashing hurley. This would have to stop.
“This will have to stop” says I
“Only when you go off” says he
The referee was fecking useless and would only intervene if the situation merited a 999 phone call. Ok I was not going to wait for the bout of pain that would inevitably arrive, so I hatched a wee plan.
Now players of this level wore normal football shorts that had no ties only loose elastic, he leapt for an easy ball and as he rose up I grabbed his shorts and pulled then down around his ankles. When he landed, ball in hand, he went to run and fell heavily, crying in pain (he had no undergarments on and his pride and joy was exposed to the world).
The ball was cleared and this hard man stayed down whimpering in pain holding his left arm. The trainer came on and he was carted off.
When the match was over we heard that history had repeated itself and he was carted off to hospital with a suspected broken arm. I had to dodge the slings and arrows after the match but arrived home fairly intact.
The ould lad was a picture, cracking an infrequent smile, when I told him. I had blamed him of course, saying that his actions of years ago had precipitated the whole thing. This elicited the time honoured response.
“Feck off, you fecking eeijt”
priceless
duke3016:
On the Shannon when we pulled into Dromod and parked (moored?) the boat, we strolled up town for a few pints. As I said Mike didn't drink but was absolutely, stark, raving, mad. We were in this establishment and were having a good time and Frank (who was hard to understand at the best of times) was getting incomprehensible. Some soft lad asked him a question.
“You're not from here” says soft lad
“Gerrawayay” says Frank
“Where are you from then” says soft lad
“lisshaonorrr” says Frank
“Where?” says soft lad
“Feshking Lisshonnnnorr” says Frank loudly
“You taking the piss” says soft lad
“whaddayaymeansh” says Frank
At this point Mike ups and takes a lump out of soft lad, soft lad's brother takes a lump out of me and Denis, bless him throws a punch and of course misses landing in a heap on the floor where he stayed for the rest of the evening.
Frank, who had trouble focusing at the best of times, was shouting at the top of his voice in a language unknown to all of us. The scrap, mid melee, paused as we all watched and listened in wonder at this speech in a language most alien.
It was wonderous, not one word was understood by anyone. We all sat down and reached for our drinks looking at each other in bewilderment as Frank continued for a good 10 minutes of ranting.
He eventually stopped took a bow and passed out on the floor. Soft lad and his friends helped us get Denis and Frank back to the boat and we toasted their health to the wee hours as the two boys snored in happy slumber.
The following morning when Frank awoke and was asked about the night before, he looked at us with disgust. It turned out that he thought that soft lad wanted him to sing and as he couldn't sing he recited the whole of the “Midnight Court” by Brian Merriman.
Well I congratulated him on his mastery of the Irish Language.
“Irish, I can't speak a word, that was all in English” says he.
Priceless
duke3016:
My sister Maria was over on holiday from England and was joined by her then boyfriend Neville. Now, I was staying below in the house opposite the church at the time and to prevent any nocturnal hanky panky my Father demanded Maria slept above by the shop and Neville would bunk down with me.
“Remove the temptation, remove the inevitable outcome” he growled
Now Neville stood about 6' 4” in his socks and was built like a brick Shiite House with a huge mop of unruly black hair. He was a lovely lad and couldn"t do enough for you.
Early one morning there was a rap at the door and I got up and answered it to find Josie Gleeson in a bit of a state. Now Josie and her brother Mick were well into their eighties and lived next to the church nearly opposite our house.
“Ger, you'd better come I think Mick is dead” cried Josie,
“Right Maam lets go and see” says I
Neville called to see if he could assist and I told him to stay there and I'd be back shortly.
Josie had crossed the road and I scampered across and we entered through the back door and into the living room and sure enough Mick was in the chair still and serene in repose. I did a quick check and sure enough the poor misfortune had indeed passed away.
“Sorry for your troubles Josie, Mick has indeed passed on” says I
“We must say a decade of the rosary” says she
So we removed Mick's shoes, something Josie insisted upon, lit a couple of candles and knelt down to say the rosary.
At that particular moment Neville appeared at the back door. The sun was just rising and was directly behind him and he filled the door with an eerie glow of the morning sun around him,
“Hi, it's Neville, I've come to help” he growled in his deep voice
Well, Josie let out one hell of a scream and promptly fainted on the floor at Mick's feet.
“Go and get my Father” says I and Neville headed off.
Josie started to come round and I helped her into a chair.
“Who was that” she stammered
“That was Neville, Maria's boyfriend over from England” says I
“Thank God” says she “I thought he said he was the Devil come to take Mick”
I phoned the Doctor and he said he was on his way. In the meantime my father had arrived and I shot to the back door to tell Neville he had better nip back over to the house as Josie was still a little apprehensive about letting the “devil” into her house.
Doctor Flynn arrived and in his best bedside manner promptly declared Mick dead (No Shiite Sherlock) and demanded £20 for his troubles. I knew I should have gone to medical school.
The ould lad, ever the entrepreneur, sealed the rights to the funeral and proceeded to make arrangements.
Innocent times sorely missed,
duke3016:
A good few years ago, on a Saturday, I was having a wee refresher in Mike Slattery's bar in the village. It was a lovely small bar with a narrow entrance and a slightly wider area at the back of the bar. He built a huge bar & lounge next door later on and it didn't quite retain the character.
Anyway this French tourist arrived in and he had fairly good English, which was good, because as you can imagine our French was about as good as our Swahili. He asked for directions to O'Brien's Bridge.
First response was from the resident lush and knower or all things important who ended (and punctuated) most sentences with the word right..
“You go down the road, right, take the second left, right, then past old Tom's place, right !, turn right, right !, then on past Mrs Murphy's, right !, hang a left, right !, continue 2 miles past the old mill, right !, then second right, right !, then immediate left, right ! and the village is on your right, right. !”
The tourist was glazing over.
Second response was from old Peter Cox who had never left the village all his life unless it was to go to another bar. His directions invariably had to be via noted hostelries.
“Don't mind him sir, go through the village, left at Minogue's bar, left again at the Blacksticks, continue on until Kelly's, turn left until you hit Jimmy Danny's bar, turn right. Go along that road until Wuthering Heights bar then turn left and it's straight on to the bridge.”
The tourist was losing the will to live.
Third response was from the owner of the bar,
“If I was you son, I wouldn't start from here at all, will ye have a pint while your waiting”
Mike normally wasn't known for his wit but I think that a similar scenario was used in an advertisement for Guinness (or was it Harp) around that time and he was probably waiting for weeks for the chance to lob it into the conversation.
priceless
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