Luis Suarez is not an original

The news about the Liverpool player Hannibal Suarez reminds me of an incident years ago when me and Barney Pugh played for Mountrock Rangers in the Dublin City Under 17 League. Barney played at centre half and his philosophy was that the ball or the man might get past him, but never both. At this stage Barney was about 22, and his commitment to drinking pints, smoking Sweet Afton, and eating burgers was such that the edge had been taken off his athleticism.

One day he was up against a racing ferret of a young fella, who was not only running rings around Barney, but was taunting him with unkind remarks about his figure. Barney has always had a somewhat deluded view of his appearance. You may see a bulging sack of pork meat, but Barney looks out from what he imagines to be the chiseled features of Gregory Peck. You challenge this self image at your peril - and so this young eejit found out.

The next time he approached Barney with one of his mazy little runs, Barney took him out with a flying tackle that would have shocked the crowd at Lansdowne Road. The referee was a policeman in real life and a bit of a stickler for the rules. He sent Barney off, dismissing his plea that his action was a fair and reasonable response to the provocation he had suffered. Barney sat the rest of the match out on the sideline, brooding on life's injustices.

Afterwards, in a commendable corinthian spirit, the young fella came up to Barney and offered him his hand in sporting friendship. If Barney had ever heard the word 'Corinthian' it was in association with the picture house of that name beside O'Connell Bridge. He mistook the gesture as the opening move on some further assault on his person or his dignity. Anyway, his instinct was to get his retaliation in first, so he bit the outstretched hand.

Unfortunately the policeman / referee witnessed this, as did most of the victim's team-mates. Barney was led away in chains and appeared in the dock the following morning charged with assault. To the irritation of the District Justice, Barney denied everything, in spite of the evidence.

'I suppose you were just standing there, minding your own business, when this young man came up and shoved his hand into your mouth? Such was your surprise, and in order to stop swallowing him whole, down to his boots, you bit him! Was that it?'

'Tha's exactly wha' happended your honour,' Barney said.

He was fined thirty bob and bound over.


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A miracle at Lourdes

Every year our local church organises a pilgrimage to Lourdes for the ladies of the parish. It is a spiritual event very much looked forward to by the women. The men look forward to it too.

It is normally led by Monsignor Jim Collins, our hell fire and damnation PP who has a black belt in theology, and a zero tolerance approach to most things - especially people. But last year JC didn't feel up to it and he delegated the job to his side-kick, Father Patrick Higgins.

Higgsy was a shiny and spotless new recruit to the clergy, fresh up from the seminary. He looked like the Angel Gabriel without the wings - all rosy cheeks, blue eyes and golden hair. He always plied his trade with the greatest of devotion and solemnity. JC could do mass in little over twenty minutes, but a groan would go up when Higgsy appeared on the altar, as everyone knew they were in for the best part of an hour. If ever a man had the makings of a saint in him, it was Higgsy.

A week before the pilgrimage was due to leave, he held a meeting for the participants in the church hall. It was hardly necessary as nearly all of them had been there before and knew the drill better than he did.

'Now ladies,' he said, 'we'll be meeting here in the hall at 1.00 p.m. - make sure you have your passports - and we have a coach to bring us to the airport. The flight leaves at half five so we should have time for a cup of tea at the airport.'

'When we get to the hotel in Lourdes, it will be quite late, but there will be a light supper laid on, and maybe a glass of the local wine.'

This got a little cheer.

'The following day after breakfast, we will have mass at the Grotto, then some free time before lunch. In the afternoon there will be the Rosary, and then prayers at the Baths.'

He was beginning to lose his audience, so he rushed through the remaining programme of masses and stations of the cross, interspersed with meals and some socialising time.

'So there we are ladies,' he said. 'I hope that is all clear. I am very much looking forward to a happy and a holy visit, when we all have an opportunity to renew our devotion to Our Lady. Does anyone have any questions?'

Breda O'Byrne, famed in these parts for her ability to put away bottles of stout, put her hand up.

'Yes - Mrs O'Byrne,' said Higgsy.

'Father, if you manage to come back a virgin, it will be a feckin' miracle!' she cackled.


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The lost vest

Peggy's mother and father used to go to the seaside for a week every August. They always went to Tramore and they always stayed in the same room in the same guesthouse. Oul Richie was a man of fixed habits. He liked to know exactly where and when he was going to have his dinner. He didn't care what it was as long as it had meat, veg and potatoes in it, and as long as it came with a big pile of bread and butter and a mug of tea.

Every year in Tramore, hail rain or snow, Richie would go for his dip in the sea - a sight I happily never had to witness. Richie was known in his local as Moby Dick for a very good reason.

One year, after they got back, the Ma was telling us how they got on. The guest house was great as usual. The food was great. The weather was great. The only thing to mar an idyllic week was that Richie had lost his vest on the beach during his annual swim. They had looked everywhere but it was not to be found.

It was a great mystery. The prospect of anyone nicking any item of Richie's intimate clothing seemed very unlikely to me. I suggested to Peggy that maybe a tall ship was stuck for a main sale and borrowed the vest, but she didn't think that that was either helpful or funny.

The following year, the pair of them headed off to Tramore as usual. Afterwards the Ma gave us the review of the week. The guest house, the food, the weather, etc., were all great as per usual.

'But c'mere,' she said. 'D'ya remember me tellin' yis tha' himself lost his vest on the beach last year?'

'Yeah,' said Peggy.

'Well he found it when he went for his swim!'

'Y'are jokin',' said Peggy. 'It was still on the beach?'

'Not at all,' said the Ma.

'He was wearin' it all the time!'


The hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' is now available as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com