Up the Duff

Miley Magee's youngest one is up the duff. He is very put out because he's already housing her two sisters and the three little ones they have between them. No sign of paternal support for any of them of course.

'Have ya no idea who done it?' I asked him in Magowan's the other night.

'Are ya coddin' me? If ya ate a tin o' beans, would ya know which o' them made ya fart?'

'It's like that is it? I asked.

'It is. I don't know where they get it from. Loose morals an' looser knickers. Their Ma was never like that.'

'Not tha' ya didn't give it a go?' I suggested.

'Ah, yeah, well ya had to. It was expected. To show yer interest like.'

'But if she let ya get any farther than a feel of her diddies, ya'd have to radio back to base for instructions.'

'Correct!'

'Except for Marie Dunn, o' course.' I pointed out.

'Ah yeah, she was always obligin' - or so I believe.'

'Did ya ever hear the story about when she left the convent?' I asked.

'No. Go on. Tell us.'

'Well the girls had to go in one by one to say goodbye to the Reverend Mother, an' she asked them wha' they were goin' to do next. A few o' them were goin' into the sewin' factories, one into Batchelors, another into Guinnesses, etcetera. When Marie was asked she said tha' she was goin' to be a prostitute. The Reverend Mother nearly had a fit. They had to get smellin' salts an' a drop o' whiskey from the bottle they kept for Father Collins. Eventually she calmed down an' asked Marie if she wouldn't reconsider.

"No, Mother." she said, "I've decided. I'm goin' to be a prostitute."

"Oh, a prostitute," said the nun. "Thank God! I thought you said Protestant!"

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World Cup Fever

A man I know called Eugene Larkin has a cushy job in the Civil Service - something to do with fishes and trees. Through some chicanery he managed to get himself to Rio de Janeiro last week to liaise with Brazilian officials about their fishes and trees. While there he managed to finagle a ticket to the World Cup Final between the Germans and the Argentinians. A good ticket it was too, just down from Septic Bladder.

He was telling us all about it in Magowan's last night - the colour, the drama, the atmosphere, the celebrations .. the lot.

'I've never seen the likes of it lads,' he said. 'There musta bin the whole population o' Argentina tryin' to get in,' he said.

'Full, was it?' Barney Pugh asked.

'Full!' I said. 'O' course it was feckin' full ya thick eejit. It was the World Cup Final!'

'Well it wasn't completely jammered,' Eugene said. 'There was an empty seat next to me.'

I stared at him, shocked at the sacrilegious waste.

'I asked the fella in the next seat along wha' the story was. He said tha' he'd got two tickets ages ago for himself an' his missus. It was their lifelong ambition to go to a World Cup Final together. Bu' she had passed away, so he was there on his own.'

'Ah tha's sad,' I said 'Could he not a got someone else to use the ticket? A friend or a relation?'

'I said tha' to him,' Eugene said.

'But, apparently they were all at the funeral.'

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Summer holidays of yesteryear

When the kids were little chisslers, one July we had a week in a guesthouse in Arklow. It was desperate. No, hold on, it was much worse than desperate!

The four of us were jammed into a room in the attic with only one tiny window, which gave a fine view of a brick wall. It wouldn't have been so bad if we had the room to ourselves, but we had to share it with resident fauna including bed bugs, spiders, cockroaches and a family of birds nesting in the eaves. A couple of mice visited once, but left in disgust.

Mrs Meagher, our genial hostess told me that it was not her policy to listen to complaints as it only encouraged people to make them. A reasonable point of view, but a shame as I had much to complain about. There was the room which made me realise for the first time what people were talking about when they referred to inhuman conditions in African jails - and I was brought up in a Dublin tenement! And there was the food - at least I think that's what it was. One evening the meal was announced to be liver and bacon, and when I nervously pointed out to Mrs Meagher that we got no liver, she said: 'That's right. There's no liver left.'

I won't speak of the bathroom facilities in case you are of a nervous and sensitive disposition.

The only thing that helped us to soldier on was the camaraderie of our fellow inmates. In particular, there was a family from the Coombe called the Richardsons, billeted in the cell next to our one.

Me and Richie Richardson took refuge most evenings in The Harbour Bar while the women and kids ate chips and ice cream on the sea front. We had a great laugh joking about the dump we were staying in, comparing it to various stalags, gulags and the black hole of Calcutta.

At the end of the week, I said to Richie - joking like: 'Are ya goin' to leave a tip for Mrs Meagher?'

And he said - and this is no word of a lie...

'Well, we didn't last year.'

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We will remember them

My grandfather was a Royal Marine in the Great War. He was 19 when he was injured in the Battle of Jutland in which nearly 10,000 lives were lost in a single day. He was on the battle-cruiser HMS Lion when it was hit by shells from the battle-cruiser Lützow. He lost an eye and had other injuries. Like most men who were involved in that war, he was never inclined to talk about his experiences, but he suffered nightmares all his life. 

My father used to tell a story about the outbreak of the Second World War, and how they heard the news. He was a teenager working with his Da on a painting job in Bluebell. The old man had sent him into town on his bike to get paint and other materials. He had one of those old black delivery bikes with a big basket in the front for carrying goods.

In the centre of Dublin there was great excitement as the news was breaking that war had been declared. The newsboys were shouting the headlines and people were jostling to get copies of the paper.

My father jumped back on his bike and flew back out to Bluebell as fast as he could.

'Da! Da!' he shouted as he arrived. 'It's War! Britain is after declarin' war on Germany!'

The old man looked at him and asked:

'Did ya forget the turps?'


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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