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.


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

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.


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

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

M&S for all your shopping needs

Don't forget to order a copy of 'It's a Desperate Life' for Father's Day - do it now! Not socks. Real men never need more socks.This is a myth put up by women who exalt newness over comfort and familiarity. 

Last Monday Peggy went shopping for brassieres, knickers and tights. For herself, like - not me. She puts these articles of clothing under enormous stress so that they never seem to last very long on her. As I say, I've got socks and underpants that are older than most policemen,and there's still loads of wear left in them.

Tights in particular are a complete joke and a con. They're obviously not meant to last - certainly not on a woman like Peggy. You might as well be trying to hold back the incoming tide with a stern remark. I've told her time and time again to get herself some proper woolly socks, but I might as well be talking to the wall.

Anyway, she was traipsing backwards and forwards between Marks & Trotsky's and Dunnes-Stores-Better-Value-Beats-Them-All-Everyday, getting quotes and estimates, as she does.

I wasn't with her myself because life is too short for that class of thing, and anyway I had an important investment decision to make with regard to a thing that was running at Roscommon.

She got back in time to make the tea - dragging several sacks of lingerie behind her - and told me what happened.

She was in Marks, stress-testing gussets and elastic, when her attention was drawn to a drunk who had entered the premises. He staggered up and down several aisles, crashing into things and knocking them over. He seemed to be looking for something. Peggy thought that he might have remembered that he needed to buy a present for his wife's birthday. (I think that was a dig at me, because I somehow forgot again this year - a bit of a surprise after what happened last year! But that's another story.)

Eventually, he wandered into the changing-room area and locked himself into one of the little cubicles.

By then the store authorities had been alerted and a young under-manager was sent to investigate. He went into the adjoining cubicle and listened. All he could hear was the sound of the drunk grunting and muttering to himself.

'Ahem, excuse me, sir,' he said. 'Are you okay? Do you need any assistance?'

'Ah yeah! Good man!' the drunk replied.

'Is there any paper on your side?'


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

Father's Day 2014

As Father's Day approaches you'll be agonising over what to buy for your one. Well stop agonising. Get him a copy of 'It's a Desperate Life'. You will establish yourself as his favourite child for evermore. Let the other eejits get him the socks.

Speaking of fathers, my Da used to tell a story about a wake at a house near Smithfield. The priest came along to offer his condolences to the family. As he turned into the street, he was somewhat surprised to hear that the joint was hopping. Eventually his knocking was answered by the man of the house, and inside he found the room was jammed full of people drinking, singing and dancing. The corpse was lying on the floor.

'That's disgraceful,' the priest said. 'The corpse should be reposing on the bed, not thrown like that on the floor.'

'Ah yeah, Father,' said the householder. 'I know tha'! The only thing is tha' we need the bed for the coats, d'ya see?'

The priest was not an unreasonable man, and he did indeed see.

'Well, you could put the corpse on the table then,' he said.

The householder shook his head sadly.

''Bu' Father, the dhrink is on the table.'

The priest scratched his head.

'Well, why not three chairs then? You could lay the corpse across three chairs.'

The householder could see nothing wrong with this idea, and he looked for help from the assembled mourners.

'Hey, lads, lads! Can we have three chairs for the corpse?'

And the enthusiastic cry went up:  'HIP, HIP... HOORAY!'

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

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

I remember the first morning I woke up as a married man, lying beside Peggy in our little home in the Daymo. It was summertime and still quite early. Through the open window I could hear the little birds chirping away like lunatics in the tree outside. A velvety breeze ruffled the curtains, allowing the sun's rays to peek in. By its light I could see Peggy’s face on the pillow, peaceful and still sleeping. I planted a little kiss on her cheek, slipped out of bed and went downstairs.

I crept out and went around to Gorman's shop for the Independent. Then, keeping as quiet as a mouse in its stocking feet, I cooked up a breakfast of sausages, rashers, black and white pudding, fried egg and tomatoes. I put this on a big tray alongside a plate of hot buttered toast. There was also a pot of tea, orange juice and the newspaper. To add a small flourish, I got a handful of daisies from the garden and put them into a little china vase, which also went on the tray.

I carried the whole lot back up to the bedroom and gently eased the door open. Peggy was still fast asleep.

‘Wakey, wakey,’ I said softly. ‘It’s breakfast time, Mrs Flynn!’

Her eyes fluttered open, and she gave a cute little stretch and a yawn. She looked at me and smiled as she sat herself up. I put the tray across her lap, and she stroked my hand.

‘Oh Frank,’ she said. ‘This is lovely. It really is.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I said. ‘An’ tha’s the way I want it every day for the rest o’ me life.’


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

The demon drink

My father used to tell a story about a very poor family who were neighbours of theirs back in Marrowbone Lane. 

Jem and Rose Clarke had nine children. The family often went to bed hungry as Jem had no education, skill or trade and he was often unemployed. To make matters worse, he spent whatever money they had in the pub, due to an unhealthy fondness he had for drink.

The Parish Priest, feeling sorry for Rose and the kids, promised that he would get Jem a permanent job if Jem would take the pledge. Jem agreed, and started work in the St James's Gate brewery the following Monday. Back in those days Guinness used to ferry the barrels of the black stuff down the Liffey on barges to the waiting ships, and Jem was given the job of bargeman.

All went well for over a year. Jem stayed off the drink, and brought home his wages to Rose every Friday. The children had food, clothes and heat, and Rose was delighted. But it was not due to last. Jem was surrounded by temptation, and he started having a little sip every now and again. The little sips got bigger and more frequent.

One day he was steering his barge down the river, and he misjudged his approach to Butt Bridge. The barge hit one of the supports at full tilt. Jem was catapulted into the water, and he was fished out an hour later down at the North Wall, as dead as a drowned rat.

After the funeral, my grandmother was in with Rose, doing her best to provide sympathy and support.

'God love ya,' she said. 'An' ya were doin' so well, with Jem earnin', an' givin' up his money. Now y'are worse off than ever. Ya poor thing!'

Just then there was a knock on the door, and when they opened it a man in a suit came in.

'I'm very sorry to trouble you Mrs Clarke at this terrible time,' he said. 'I'm from the Guinness welfare department, and I just wanted to tell you about the lump sum and pension arrangements. As Mr Clarke died in the service of the company, I've calculated that you'll be entitled to a lump sum of £500 and a pension of £8 a week.'

This was a lot of money at the time. After agreeing when Rose would call at the office to complete the necessary paperwork, the man excused himself with many expressions of sorrow and regret, and left.

My grandmother broke the stunned silence.

'Jaysus, Rose isn't tha' brilliant? Poor oul Jem did his best to look after ya when he was alive, an' he's still lookin' after ya - an' the poor man neither able to read nor write.'

'No,' said Rose. 'An' thanks be to God he couldn't swim either!'


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