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It’s All Go When It comes To Revitalising Liberty Square

Liberty Square, Thurles

Carpenters Mickey and Paddy were erecting shelving in a new shop due to open shortly in the soon to be revitalised area known as Liberty Square, Thurles, Co. Tipperary. 

Now following the 25 year public consultation period, this urgent project is headed back to the Consultants, latter who will provide the final designs, well maybe before Christmas, God willing.

“It’s nearly ten o’clock; we’ll get the tae now and then we’ll take another run at it”, said Mickey.  Paddy plugged in the grubby old electric kettle and then both men sat up on their work bench to watch the passing shoppers on Liberty Square.

“Jaysus” said Mickey “There is Jossy Taylor gone past.  I heard he was stopped by the fuzz yesterday after his wife fell out of the car.  Mickey grinned, “Did ya not know that your wife fell out of the car about five miles back asked Sgt. Brannigan?”.
“The good Lord be praised Sergeant, replies our Jossy, sure here was me thinkin I’d gone totally deaf.” mimics Mickey in a voice rather like Jossy’s own.

Paddy smiled “That would be our Jossy all right, sure I believe he was part of that mystery coach tour last week that decided to run a €1 sweepstake to guess where they would eventually end up.”   “How right you are”, said Mickey, “Sure I heard the driver of the coach was buying his buddies drink up in the Arch Bar, having won €48.00.”

Mickey surveyed their slow progress of the current job in hand, and with only a few shelves set up, he announced to Paddy, “You know” says he, “I bet you any money some nosy parker is going to walk up to here and put their face up to the window, before asking what we’re selling.”

True to prophesy, no sooner had the words left his mouth, when local elderly widow and gossiper Molly Finucane walked up to the white fogged window. Shading her eyes with one hand, she copped the movement of the boys inside. “What are you selling here?” she yelled.
“We’re selling ass-holes”, Mickey replied sarcastically in a loud voice.
Be god, ye must be doing well then”, screeched Molly, “I see you have only two left in stock”.

“Come on Paddy and make that brew”, says Mickey, “Sure it’s nearly dinner time and we haven’t so much as driven a feckin nail today yet.”

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Blame It On The Grant’s

Mikey and Biddy Grant had two boys, Gerry and Joe aged 12 and 14, “proper bould mischievous brats, badly in need of a regular trimmin,” according to ‘The Widow Scanlan’, who constantly regretted the day she had ever accepted the keys from the Templemore / Thurles Municipal District Council, to find herself now in residence next door to the these neighbours from hell.

Parents Mikey and Biddy Grant would have been the first to accept that any mischief that occurred in the town of Thurles; 99% of same would and could be attributed to one, or the other, or indeed both of their sons. Indeed, Sergeant Sean Brannigan was heard to say, on more than one occasion, that those Grant boys, if only caught and locked up, same would solve 95% of all criminal acts occurring in the town.

Their mother Biddy, in particular, was embarrassingly aware and indeed sick to the teeth of every day complaints and that well worn track up her drive, worn by threatening townsfolk, and Gardaí, asking questions regarding the whereabouts of Gerry and Joe Grant.

Last week Biddy got word that a new priest in Thurles had a great proven success rate in disciplining mischievous youngsters, and setting them on the straight and narrow in avoiding criminal behaviour. After Mass in Thurles Cathedral last Sunday she called into the sacristy. Admitting her own failings as a parent; she pleaded that this priest would speak severely and “straighten out” her young lads.

A somewhat reluctant priest agreed, but insisted on seeing Gerry and Joe as individuals. On the Monday morning, Biddy sent her 12-year-old first; with the older boy scheduled to visit the priest later in the afternoon.

Fr. Jimmy Ryan, a giant of a man with a thunderous, booming voice, sat Gerry Grant down and asked him sternly “Where is God?”
A wide-eyed Gerry’s mouth dropped open, without a response.
Now sitting with his mouth hanging open, Fr. Jimmy repeated the question in an even sterner tone “Where is God!!?”.  Again the freckled, frightened and red faced boy made no attempt at reply. Fr. Jimmy raised his voice even more and shaking his finger in Gerry’s face he bellowed “I asked you a question, where is God!?”

Terrorised Gerry screamed and like a bolt of lightening, he fled from the room. Running directly home and knowing his parents were both at work, he made straight for his own room, slamming the door behind him.

A curious older brother Joe entered his room a short time later to find Gerry, red faced sitting on his bed.  “Well tell us”, said the brother “What happened down in the parochial house?”  The younger brother, still gasping for breath, replied “We’re in really big trouble this time, dude. God’s gone missing and they think we did it!”

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Fears Expressed On The Mind Altering Effects Of Cheese

After a fine feed of Tipperary Blue Organic Cheese; latter served thickly on fresh hot crusty bread, and washed down with half a bottle of a desert wine, with the unpronounceable name of Beerenauslese, I lay back in the armchair and switched on RTE1.

Last time we saw Mr Enda Kenny live in Thurles was on May 25th 2012. 

Mr Leo Varadkar and Mr Simon Coveney were arguing verbally on their princely right to become the next Fine Gael leader and Taoiseach (Prime Minister), following Enda Kenny’s abdication, (or was it abnegation. I always mix these two words up, but I know one of them means ‘rejection’).

Was my perception-altering effect brought on by the fact that I had spent time as a guest of the HSE recently? Could it have been the cheese? Could I be one of the 400,000 Irish water drinkers being targeted by trihalomethane toxins?

Either or, suddenly I found myself sitting in the forum area of Dáil Éireann. The TD’s surrounding me had all metamorphosed into organs of the body, each one arguing on their right to be the one to take control of all the other body parts.

“I should be in command,”  said the Brain, “Because I am the body’s microprocessor, the central processing unit (CPU) that run the body’s various systems. To be honest without me, you organs would all be useless.”

“No, I should be in charge,” said the Blood, “I circulate oxygen all through the pulmonary arteries and veins of the body, and so without me body organs do not survive”

“I should be in charge,” said the Stomach,“Three times each day I process the food that give all of you organs your necessary energy.”

“No, I should be in charge,” said the Legs, “Because I carry the body organs wherever they needs to go.”

“I should be in charge,” said the Eyes angrily, “Without me the organs of the body would be unable to observe and see exactly where they are going.”

“You are all incorrect,” said the Rectum, “Without me taking responsibility for waste disposal, none of you would survive for long.”

The other body parts began to snort and hoot with laughter, following this claim made by the Rectum, so now, feeling intimidated, insulted and partially terrorised he decided to prove a point and shut down tight his normal daily cleansing operations.

Within hours the Brain had developed a terrible headache; the Stomach became bloated; the Legs got weak; the Eyes became itchy and began to water, and finally the Blood developed mild septic shock.

Eventually, following an emergency Body Organ Cabinet meeting of all the organs concerned, it was decided that in the interest of self preservation the Rectum should be elected to the post of Fine Gael leader and Taoiseach.

Announcing this decision Fine Gael’s party whip stated that even though the other organs do most of the work, the asshole should always be the one placed in command, regardless.

“Goal”, my brother screamed, lifting me bolt upright in my armchair. This, ‘person born of parents not married to each other’, (if you know what I mean), had deliberately changed the TV channel across to Sky Sports as I dozed, and Liverpool’s Sadio Mané had put one in the net, past Southampton.

No lads, in all seriousness, I’ll have to give up that Tipperary Blue Organic Cheese, hot bread and Beerenauslese desert wine, and start going to bed earlier. I am convinced that all this new rich foreign food, being imported weekly into Thurles by Aldi, and Lidl is now seriously affecting the neural circuits of my brain; adding to these perception-altering effects.

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Paddy Maher Sees Life Differently

In the Arch Bar, Liberty Square, Mick Ryan and Paddy Maher were discussing modern family trends, in relation to sex, marriage, and basic overall modern family values.
“Begorra, I didn’t sleep with me wife before we got married, did you?”  Mick enquired.
Paddy replied, “Bejasus I’m not fully sure Mick, can you tell me what was her maiden name?”

It was his teacher’s discussion on a person’s capacity for understanding, logic, planning, creativity, and problem solving, that prompted Paddy’s 12-year-old son Wayne Eden Maher to probe, “Pa, where actually did my intelligence come from?”
To which Paddy quickly replied, “Without fear of contradiction I can confirm son it was gotten solely from your mother Mary, cause I still have mine.”

Paddy’s wife Mary had left him and prior to her death had sought and been granted a divorce. Deciding on that particular case, in camera, at Thurles District Court, sometime in May of 2014, the Judge had stated “Mr. Maher, I have reviewed this case very thoroughly and having done so, I’ve decided to give your wife €600.00 a week in maintenance costs.”
Paddy thanked the judge stating, “That’s more than fair your Honour, and sure every now and then I’ll try and send her a few Euro’s meself.”

Mary’s tragic death, some weeks’ latter was caused by her putting her hand into an unearthed toaster, while at the same time attempting to fill an electric kettle from an ‘Irish Water’ tap.  Still named as ‘next of kin’ on her medical file, Paddy was duly summoned.  “I don’t like the looks of your wife at all, at all”, said the doctor pulling Paddy aside.
”Not to worry in the least Doc,” said Paddy “If the truth be told, down the years and in bright daylight, sure I never really liked the look of her meself.”

But it was that morning of Mary’s interment in St Patrick’s Cemetery, Thurles, that got Paddy to thinking seriously about his religion. On that morning as the funeral service just finished, a massive clap of thunder filled the air. It was followed instantly by a tremendous flash of lightning, accompanied seconds later by even more rumbling. Paddy looked at the old parish priest, Father John, and remarked, “Well, it looks like she’s feckin arrived there already.”

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Be Careful In Your Dealings With Women!

A 16-year-old Thurles boy, Ronaldo Ryan, arrived home from school driving a €130,000, 2017 Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS Cabriolet, last Monday.

As one might expect, his parents were just a little surprised. (Truth is they totally feckin freaked out.)

“Where did you steal that car?” demanded his mother Molly.

“I didn’t steal it, I purchased the car today,” Ronaldo proudly replied, “She’s Taxed until January 2018”

“You are a liar; so where did you get the feckin money?”, his father John screamed, “Don’t think that we don’t know the cost of a Porsche Carrera!”

“I paid for it with savings from my confirmation money,” replied Ronaldo, rubbing a small speck of dust, with a paper hanky, from the windscreen. “It cost me just €20, and look”, he reached across between the front seats, “here’s the tax book!”

This gets both his parents into a bigger frenzy, as you can only imagine; “Twenty Euro’s”, who the feck sells a brand-new Porsche Carrera for twenty Euro’s?”

“It was that nice lady what moved into No 12 up the street,” replied Ronaldo. “I don’t know her actual name, but she saw me ride past in the rain, on my bike, and asked me if I wanted to buy a Porsche for twenty Euro’s.”

“Well, there must have been some kind of mistake,” said his mother Molly, trying to understand the situation; before then turning to her husband demanding that “you might get your feckin arse up that street and see what’s exactly going on.”

Under pressure; John strolls up the street, where he identifies a rather attractive middle aged woman on her knees in the front garden of No 12; planting Pansy flowers along her border. Having introduced himself, he states that he is looking for a woman who might have sold a Porsche to his 16-year-old son, Ronaldo.

“Oh, yes,” she responds, standing up, “That indeed was me. I do hope he’s not experiencing engine problems!”

“Err… no, from what I have heard, she seems to be running perfectly,” replies a somewhat relieved John, “But to tell you the truth, we can’t understand why in the world you would sell a 2017 Porsche Carrera for such a low price; twenty Euro I believe?”

“Well,” she says, “Just this morning I got a phone call from my husband. I believed he was on a business trip, but I since learned from him that he has run off to Australia with his ‘tart’ of a secretary, and is not planning to return in the near future. He said he was temporally financially destitute at this present time and asked me to sell his new Porsche. Send on the money he said, so that is exactly what I did.”

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