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When In A Hole, Stop Digging.

Surface of Kickham Street Thurles, regularly travelled by Thurles Town’s two TD.

As a boy caught involved in some mischief, it was a regular phrase conveyed verbally by my grandmother Liza Jane, which out of respect resulted in my immediate head bowed silence. “Always when in a hole, stop digging George”, that wise old woman would say.

On Friday March 8th, the family amendment, which proposed extending the meaning of family beyond one defined by marriage and to include those based on durable relationships, lost, (67.7% to 32.3%).

The second care amendment, latter which proposed deleting references to a woman’s role within the home and replacing it with a new article acknowledging family care, not surprisingly, also lost, (73.9% to 26.1%).

According to the Irish Independent newspaper, Tipperary Fine Gael Senator Mr Garret Ahern went abroad last weekend and failed to cast his vote on both Irish Constitutionnal Amendments. Which reminds me, I will book a flight abroad, in advance of the next General Election.

Fianna Fáil Senator, Ms Lisa Chambers, latter a contestant for the European elections expected in June next, and a former barrister; yes I repeat “a former barrister”, and leader of Fianna Fáil in the Seanad since June 2020, has confirmed that she had voted No in the recent referendum; despite canvassing for a Yes vote in Dublin city centre, last month.

Cavan/Monaghan Fianna Fáil Deputy, Ms Niamh Smyth, also canvassed for a Yes vote on the Care and Family referendums, but had voted No on her election paper. But then Fianna Fáil blood flows deep in Ms Niamh Smyth, what with her being a grandniece of former Minister Paddy Smith.

Meanwhile, here in Thurles, according to RTE, Fianna Fáil TD Mr Jackie Cahill stated, quote; “I think this is a serious wake up call for us. We need to start listening to the ‘ordinary people‘ on the ground. We’re doing things in Government that they don’t agree with”.
Mr Cahill was elected to Dáil Éireann in 2016 and was, prior to that, a member of Tipperary County Council from 2014 to 2016. Was it the ordinary people who elected Mr Cahill, or was it some higher power?

No matter, we now fully understand why Thurles has no ‘Ring Road’, no ‘Inner Relief Road’, no Local Employment’, yes we fully understand why Thurles has ‘Potholed streets’, reminicent of the moon’s surface, and works to upgrade the ‘drainage infrastructure’ in Thurles may not be completed until 2029. It appears that it is all because Mr Jackie Cahill and Fianna Fáil have not been listening to those annoying ordinary people.

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Can A “Blow- In” Be Ever One Of Us?

A story from the pen Of Author & Poet Tom Ryan, who calls for the immediate setting up of a Government Department for ‘Blow-ins’.
Tom ironically points out, tongue in cheek, that we have a Department for Foreign Affairs for Foreigners; some sort of Department of Internal Affairs for those residing here at home, but divil a Department for those unfortunate craythurs, better known in communities as ‘blow-ins’.

We invite you to read on.

Blowing in.

One of the most pathetic of rural institutions is that enigmatic personage known euphemistically as a ‘blow-in’.
I have spent the greater portion of my life attempting to define and rationalise the character of both the ‘blow-in’ and the people with whom he associates, the ‘Ould Stock’.

Firstly, the ‘blow-in’ is a citizen of no mean city and, presumably, of no good one either. Indeed, in retrospect, he is perhaps a tale of two cities, the one in which he was born and the other in which he is now a dark stranger, coming to live among natives.
He is an eternal wanderer, a socially-acceptable rambler, and his heart is restless. For he will never receive acceptance in his adopted abode, as in the manner of the native. After a certain period away from home, he will become a ‘blow-in’, within the confines of his own parish. Which or whether, he is a sorry loser.

Now, why the ‘blow-in’ should be such a slighted dignitary I do not know. But slighted he is. And I have known a wretch to devote some forty years of his time and talents to a parish, only to hear at his graveside: “Arrah, he was a ‘blow-in’, the craythur, but sure we will not hold that against the poor divil now.”
By the same token, I have heard a convicted blaggard righteously defended on the grounds that he was surely led astray by the ‘blow-ins’ of the parish, who should never have been allowed to set foot on native soil in the first place.
I have since learned that all goodness and virtue and graciousness is in the natives, and that every evil is inherent in the heart of a ‘blow-in’.

There is no middle course, and he, who would attempt to establish such a compromise is in dire danger of being found hanged in the haggard or worse still, of being sent to Coventry, like the very “blow-in” himself.

It is indeed, a serious matter, and little, if anything, is being done to remedy the situation. We have a Department for Foreign Affairs for Foreigners, some sort of Department of Internal Affairs for the ones at home, but divil a Department for the unfortunate craythurs referred to as “blow-ins”.

A great discrimination defies human rights, and we acquiesce in apathy and aloofness. We would sooner face a mad bull in a field than face up to this problem!

Rural society has many ways of sticking the ‘blow -in’s’ head into the muck, mud and manure. He could come into his new parish to teach, farm or just to inhabit a humble cottage and, if he is a teacher,he might be selected Secretary of the Parish Hall Renovation Committee or P.R.O of the Dramatic Society. Usually, he thinks he has made it in society if he progresses thus far to such an appointment. But, he is a right gomalog of a fool if he believes this. For he is only being used, and even a public ‘thank you’ for his efforts is tempered with the follow-through: “And he not even one of us.” No, the “blow-in” can never hope to win. He may as well try to sow barley on cement.

The ‘blow-in’ will seldom, if ever, play hurling for the parish. The parish would never have it said that they could not win by the sole efforts of the ash-wielders from the parish alone. No, faith, they would sooner be beaten into the ground by the neighbouring parish and be able to hold up their heads to declare: “We (natives and ould stock) did it OUR way“. Then they proceed to kick the head off the goalie for letting in 18 goals, in front of the ‘blow-in’ who, once upon a time, played inter-county for another county.

Alas, but in the country we set too much store on and attach too much importance to the vague notion of “knowing your place”. I think it may simply be an over-reaction, and a delayed over-reaction at that, to Diarmuid Mac Murrough going over to England and bringing back a brigade of “blow-ins,” who are still with us. Indeed, any of us could be a descendant of that brigade. But only the mighty-minded will believe the latter idea.
Yet, not all ‘blow-ins’ were treated with dishonour and disregard. Indeed, you might say that the greatest ‘blow-in’ of all, for whom the Gaels have the greatest reverence, was the rustic Welshman who is our National Saint – St Patrick. It is a matter of history that not a few of our most honoured and hallowed citizens in high places were born very far indeed from Dingle Bay and Malin Head.
In this controversial matter, the discussion of which is detrimental to people with blood pressure problems; blood is thicker than water. There are long horns on the cattle overseas, but what about the ones from the parish next door?
The world is a cantankerously peculiar place. But we have to live in it, somewhere. All the world is a stage but the ‘blow-in’ is never the hero. Always he is the anti-hero, who must invariably come to no good end. He is the perennial fall guy in the comedy of country manners and mindlessness.

The partner of mine who is a ‘blow-in’ (‘runner-in’, they say up there) in our parish from Dalkey , says sagely: “Honour and fame are no respecters of blow-inism; rather it is the person who matters”
Fair enough. But what happens when the ‘blow-in’ starts to run the parish and starts acting as if he owned the place, acting like a lord of the manor?
Dearie me – the disease is contagious. A native is an unnatural thing!
END

Tom Ryan, ”Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.

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Mikey Ryan On Joy & Sadness Experienced Round Xmas Time.

“Xmas, while being a time of great cheer for the vast majority of people, it can also be a very sad time for some people, mainly due to family deaths” announced Mikey Ryan.

We were above in the Arch Bar, as usual there in Liberty Square, Thurles.

[Well truth is, but keep it to yourself; Mikey was a bit red faced last night, after having been barred the previous week. Pat, in the Arch Bar, explained to me his temporary barred absence. According to Pat he had limped in on a pair crutches, before asking the barman for 2 pints of Harp Lager, 2 pints of Smithwick’s, 4 Vodka and Coke, 3 Genievre Gins and Schweppes Tonic and 6 shots of Mexican Tequila, latter with accompanying lemon wedges. Mikey had downed them all quickly in the same order as he was served, before finally finishing on the shots of tequila, which he dispatched one after the other without so much as a break. He then looked at the barman really sad-faced before declaring, “I shouldn’t have drunk all that, with what I’ve got”.
The barman, having focused on his crutches said, “Why what have you got Mikey?” Mikey supposedly then declared “About €3.86.” ]

No matter, the issue had since been sorted, with the usual loose promises and apologies and hopefully the incident is now in the distant past, never to be referred to again.

“How right you are Mikey” said I, “By the way, talking about deaths, is it true that Molly McNeill passed away today.”
“Indeed, sadly, she did”, confirmed Mikey, “Heard it myself from the horse’s mouth, none other than the late Tommy McNeill’s brother”.
“I seem to recollect she was married twice, if my memory is correct”, said I. “Wasn’t she referred to as Mrs Laffin, before she married the late Tommy McNeill”.
“Aye”, said Mikey, “She took up with Tommy after Jerry Laffin passed on. Sure, they both were in their late 50s, and both widowed”.
“They had been going out with each other for a long time, before getting hitched, if I remember correctly”, said I.
“True for you” said Mikey, “and sure wasn’t I one of many who urged him to make an honest woman of her”.
“I remember when they decided to take my advice and to get married”, continued Mikey, “Tommy McNeill confided in me first, that they had finally named the day”.

Mikey paused before confiding in me that after Molly had said ‘Yes’, (somewhat reluctantly I understand) and before the wedding, both had gone out to Supermac’s for a meal, and they had a long conversation regarding how their marriage might work, as of course one is inclined to do.
A somewhat relieved Tommy, who had feared a marriage refusal, began quietly discussed their finances, details of any outstanding debt, future intended living arrangements, funeral insurance policies currently held, hobbies and so on and so forth. Placed at the very end of the list and therefore the last item for discussion, which needed clear clarification was their future physical relationship, if you know what I mean.

“How do you feel about the sex?” said Tommy, speaking in a tone, as if not really caring, but nevertheless hoping for at least some hint of positive confirmation, with the finer fetishism details to be worked out at a later date.
“I would like it infrequently”, replied the now sadly deceased Molly.
“Tommy told me in strictest confidence”, continued Mikey, “and swore before his death, that he had sat quietly, (picking bits of burger and French fries from cavities in his teeth, using a safety pin ), before he had leaned towards Molly, and again fearing being overheard, he had whispered; “in-frequently! – now, should I take that as being one word or two words?

“You can be pulling two more pints there Pat, when you have a minute”, said I. “Oh and Pat, by the way, on what night are you dispensing the usual free Xmas drinks?”

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Mikey Ryan-A Serious Case Of Divided Chestnuts.

“How is she cuttin Mary” says I.
“Not bad at all, tell me now, you that’s well educated, where would I get a few chestnuts. The young lad needs them for the upcoming Conker Championships”, said Mary.
“Try St. Mary’s graveyard” said I “If you search around, the wind last week should have shifted a few unto the ground”.

Of course I did not convey the story that Mikey Ryan had related to me last evening up in the Arch Bar in Liberty Square, and as true as God, this incident happened this very Autumn.

You see, on the outskirts of Thurles town, there is a big, tall, Chestnut tree, growing just inside the graveyard wall. One day, unknown to Mikey Ryan, two young lads climbed over the wall at dusk and successfully filled up a bucketful of Chestnuts. Then they sat down behind a headstone, out of sight, before beginning to divide up the nuts into two plastic shopping bags.
“One for you, one for me, one for you, one for me,” said the ringleader as he set about sharing. During this transaction several of the nuts dropped and rolled down toward the narrow back iron gateway.

Then who but Mikey Ryan should come riding along Ikerrin road, on his bicycle. As he passed, he thought he heard voices from inside the graveyard. He slowed down and went back to investigate. Sure enough, he heard, “One for you, one for me, one for you, one for me”.

Alarmed, he was convinced he knew what these voices were. He jumped back on his bike and rode on. Just around the bend on Kickham Street, he met ‘Monopod Ted’; sure you know the fellow with the wooden leg, who just happened to be hobbling along; supported by his underarm crutch. [Actually, I must confess, I stole his wooden leg once in Thurles swimming pool. He was hopping mad!]

Anyway, Mikey braked, bringing his bike to a sudden halt.
“Come here quick,” Mikey called in a low voice, “you won’t believe what I heard. It looks like Satan and God are over in the graveyard dividing, up souls!”

A not very impressed and grumpy ‘Monopod Ted’ suggested that Mikey should “Beat it”, (or words to that effect), adding “you idiot, can’t you see it’s very hard for me to walk”. But when Mikey insisted, “Monopod Ted’ hobbled slowly over the short distance, to nearby St. Mary’s graveyard gate.

Standing by the back gate they heard the voice, “One for you, one for me. One for you, one for me”.

‘Monopod Ted’ was now fully convinced and whispered, “Mikey, looks like you’ve been tellin’ me the truth boy. Let’s see if we can see the Lord!”
Now both, each shaking with fear; peered through the bars of the gate, but failed to see anything. ‘Monopod Ted‘ and Mikey gripped the wrought iron bars of the fence tighter and tighter, as they attempted, on tippytoes, to get a glimpse of Our Lord.

At last, they heard, “One for you, one for me. That’s all. Now let’s go get those nuts by the gate and we’ll be finished”.

Mikey swore that ‘Monopod Ted’ took the lead for a good half-mile, down the Mill Road, before Mikey himself managed to eventually pass him on his bike.

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Mikey Ryan Ponders Man’s Fragility.

“In seven weeks time it will be almost over for another year”, said Mikey Ryan, “and only God knows if we will ever see another one in this life”

We were above in the Arch Bar on Liberty Square, which recently took Gold in Radio TippFm’s Best of Tipp Awards; each enjoying our usual Saturday night tipple.

“Another what”, says I.

“Christmas”, said Mikey, before continuing; “You know I had a dream last night. I dreamed that 3 Tipperary men died last Christmas eve. One was from the village of Littleton, one from nearby Two-Mile-Borris and the third was from here in Thurles town”.

“I think you need to stay off that Cashel Blue cheese and fresh crusty bread last thing at night”, said I.

“No let me finish”, said Mikey. “The other apostles had taken the night off and St. Peter was alone, supervising in person at the Pearly Gate. He informed the 3 Tipperary men, queued in single file, that to get into heaven on Christmas Eve, they must have something on their person that represented the Christmas season, otherwise they would end up in that ‘fiery lake of burning sulphur’, better known as Hell.”

The 3 men looked at each other, before the Littleton man flicks his cigarette lighter and says: “Peter this is a Christmas candle”. St. Peter lets him pass without further questions.

The Two-Mile-Borris man jingles his bunch of keys stating, “Peter these are jingle bells”.
St. Peter nods and again lets him pass without further questions.

The Thurles man steps up to the gate and pulls a woman’s black brassière out of his inside jacket pocket.
St. Peter asks, “What in the name of all things good and holy has that bra got to do with Christmas?”
“These are Carols”, replies the Thurles man.

“Go away out of that”, said I, “I thought you were being serious. Give us the same again there Pat.”

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