Humour « Thurles Information

Are Bent Metal & Missing Signs In Thurles Caused By Global Warming?

“Long time no see, Mikey”, said I, “Where have you been hiding yourself for the last three months?”
I had just entered the Arch Bar in Liberty Square, Thurles, to find my friend, Mikey Ryan, sitting in his brown stained overcoat, with both elbows stretched along the counter top; his two hands cupping a pint glass of Guinness.

“Herself had me confined to barracks since I lost me job”, replied Mikey. “I wonder, do you think Tánaiste Simon Harris has ever tried to keep a fractious wife and 5 kids on €244.00 a week?

“A very good question,” said I.

“Anyway, I suppose you are still continuing to verbally abuse the Thurles Municipal District (TMD) council officials”, said Mikey, “but now that I see you in person, let me correct you on some of your complaints. You do a lot of giving out about crooked traffic signs and posts; narrow streets; blaming HGV for breaking railings; excessive potholes on our streets and poor planning. Tell me now, are you aware of the complex concept of global warming?

Hoping to bring a smile to Mikey’s downcast face, I stated, “I’m not a great believer in global warming but I think I’m warming up to that theory; but then again, I myself don’t have a carbon footprint, since I drive everywhere”.

Mikey was having none of it. “Well do you realise that everything you are foolishly and tediously prating about, are forcing TMD officials, to leave the sanctity of their normally irreproachable office desks, to follow up, in silence i might add, the queries raised by you? Mikey replied. “To my mind everything you prattle on about is caused simply by global warming. Irish temperatures have risen by 2° Celsius, causing metal posts, their attached warning signs; traffic indicators and Redipave traffic island bollards, to simply melt and vanish without trace. There is nothing our TMD administrators can do, so we better learn to live with it”, he further added.

A silent, but knowing sideways glance and a quick side to side head shake from the proprietor Pat Hayes, was enough for me to attempt to change the course of the present conversation.

“So, what has you in here so early this evening Mikey”, said I.

“Strictly between ourselves”, said Mikey, “I got this pressing call to attend at “The Brothers” this morning from the Principal’s clerk. After escorting the young lad to his class, I was to learn that one of the teachers, affectionally known as “Mr Killer“, (a known psychopath my son would later inform me), had posed what he called a ‘straightforward challenge’ to my young lads english class.
Said he, “Can anyone give me a rhyming sentence or two, containing the word ‘pistol’?”.

“That young lad of the Brown’s, Jimmy I think his name is,” continued Mikey, “He is supposedly a bright buck; sure you see him scurrying around most days with his index finger stuck up his nostrils, picking his nose. Well Jimmy quickly raised a hand and declared “My daddy is a soldier. He has a suit of blue. He has a sword and bayonet, and he has a pistol too.”
“Having thanked the young lad for his quick reply; Mr Killer (or whatever his name is), was about to move on, when my second eldest intervened”. Mikey queried with a proud knowing nod of his head, “Sure you must remember our Cristiano, he takes after myself. Didn’t he quickly chime in “Sir, my father isn’t a soldier. He doesn’t have a suit of blue. He draws his dole at half-past nine, then he’s on the piss ’till two!”.
“I tell you this my man”, said Mikey, “The disparaging remarks made by that School Principal, regarding my failures as a parent, fairly hit below the belt. Truth is, had I known I was going to be so verbally abused this morning; and had I been still in full employment, I’d have taken the day off.”

“Right so”, said I, anxious at this stage to make a hasty exit “I’m in a hurry this evening Mikey. Got a visitor calling to the house. Sure we will, no doubt, talk later. Give us a 6 pack of Guinness Pat and I’ll be off home.”

“Certainly”, said Pat, “And then I’m heading to lie down in a darkened room, as soon as my barman comes back.”

Grab Your Suitcase – Thurles Park Has Begun To Vanish.

In early September 2024, we wrote that in recent weeks we had watched 10 mature trees being ripped out from their allocated space, in the now closed ‘The Source’ car park. Same were re-sown close by, behind Thurles Swimming pool.

**10 trees removed from *‘The Source’* car park.**

Sadly the outer bark and the roots of these 10 mature trees were extensively damaged by heavy machinery, used to rip apart the tree heel mesh grills at their base.
We forecast then that at least two of these 10 mature trees were unlikely to survive the coming winter.
It would now appear that all ten of these trees, so savagely uprooted, have vanished without trace, leaving behind small hillocks of bare earth. (I hasten to add not the work of Beavers or giant Moles).

**Thurles Park** – *“Going, Going, Gone”*.

But then another shock!
The costly mural, lauded by local councillors, (who had suffered a bad announcement week), has also vanished from the same area.

We were aware that in their annual report in 2019, ‘Tidy Towns’ judges had been rather critical of this art work; unjustifiably so to my mind, again positioned to the rear end of Thurles Swimming pool. Their report had stated, quote – “with all due respect there are parts of the mural that look as if they were done by a graffiti artist”. (Obviously a prominent, leading, art critic was in their midst.)

It has taken until 2025, (six years later), to have this mural painted over, using a colour identified by locals as being “Rectum Defecatious”, same an inspirational neutral brown colour, but as yet not unveiled on this years ‘Colourtrend‘ colour card. Same colour I understand was chosen to reflect the hue projected by the River Suir from Barry’s Bridge, latter situated in the centre of Thurles town.

WARNING: Residents, with things vanishing without electors knowledge, do be very careful travelling through this area of Thurles Park, especially at night.

Author Tom Ryan Contemplates Move To Peace & Quiet Of Dublin.

“I’m thinking of moving to Grafton Street, Dublin for peace and quiet”, writes Mr Ryan.
Contrary to rumours, emanating from sinister suburban sources, life down here in the country is far from being just pothole and puddled roadways; mice in the cooker or rats in the haggard, not to mention the now returned woeful cold, wet weather being currently experienced outside.

The truth of the matter is that at this time of year, I, annually, up and make for Dublin in the hope of getting some brief respite from all the varied and ‘contraried’ activity, that is part and parcel of rural life.

So far, my services have been solicited for the darts team down at my ‘Old Rustic Inn’, latter my cross-roads boozer; by the secretary of Macra na Feirme who felt I look just villainous enough to play Lago (a character in Shakespeare’s Othello) in their local upcoming dramatic societies latest production.

It is little known, but I have this policy of my own: “Join nothing except your hands, and then only in prayer”.

However the ambassadors of the ‘Watery Mall’s Quiz Team’ and the ‘Set Combination Ceil Band’, are not impressed by this policy. Hardly a night goes by without that fearful, dreaded knock on the front door.

Of course up in Dublin one can say “no”, close the door, and get back to watching ‘Coronation Street’, but not so here, in this my rural countryside.

Down the Watery Mall one is obliged, under pain of mortal sin or worse, to be an active participant in village activity and failure to do so could mean relegation of one’s duty in the matter of honouring the little village. And for that failure, one will be made to answer; sure as water runs and grass grows.

I have even tried bribing my way out of the situation; in vain must add. I offered the secretary of the Watery Mall community fund-raising committee a fiver the other night, towards mounting the Watery Mall Tops of the Parishes competition. Thought she would plant a smacker on my cheeks in gratitude.
Looking at this filthy lucre as she would have observed Judas Iscariot’s 30 pieces of sacrilegious silver, she hissed “G’way with ye”; insisting it was my time and talents she sought, in return for the honour and glory of the little village. Focusing on the positive aspects of this situation, I console myself with the belief that she was looking for my body.

Now I am a rational, reasonable and tolerant human being and I shudder and shiver at the mere thought of violence, but the next “ambassador” of a voluntary organisation (and there are 76 in the Watery Mall alone) who fails to accept NO and refuses to believe that I can survive just with a book, a bottle of wine and my partner, remaining isolated from all parish societies, will be formally introduced to ‘Twinkie’, latter our very unsociable, hostile, teeth baring, Alsatian dog.
And if that fails to throw parish organisations off my scent, then there is nothing left for me to do, but rent a room off Dublin’s Grafton Street, just for that little bit of privacy and peace you understand.

Beardy Buck In A Long White Gown.

The great Leitrim native Seamus O’Rourke, writer, director, actor, poet and independent producer (Big Guerilla Productions) has a chance meeting with “The Beardy Buck in the Long White Gown”.

Look out for that “Buck in the Long White Gown”.☻☻

My Uncle’s In The Dáil.

Lyrics and Vocals: Irish performer Seamus Moore.

My Uncle’s in the Dáil.

It was at the last election that me uncle Pat got in.
He was always fond of politics and the faith I knew he’d win.
He made such pretty promises to the people one and all,
That’s how he got elected as a member of the Dail.

Oh, me uncle is a T.D. me boys, me uncle is a T.D.,
And that’s the very reason why nothing bothers me.
Me brother was made a foreman, though he never built a wall,
Ah, but then you’ll see me uncle, he’s a member of the Dail.

Now, he’s not good at learnin’, sure he never went to school,
But that’s no disadvantage in this country as a rule.
He was in the county council, but you know that means damn all,
But hats off to me uncle, he’s a member of the Dail.

Oh, me uncle is a T.D. me boys, me uncle is a T.D.,
And that’s the very reason why nothing bothers me.
He got a pension for me Da, though he’s not blind at all,
Yea, but then you see me uncle, he’s a member of the Dail.

Now he’s not fond of arguing, sure he’s as quiet as a mouse.
He never says a wrong word up there in Leinster House.
He never connects with either side Fine Gael or Fianna Fail,
So long as he draws a salary as a member of the Dail.

Oh, me uncle is a T.D. me boys, me uncle is a T.D.
And his sister’s going to marry a ministers secretary,
She met him up in Dublin in Barry’s at a ball,
That’s how they got acquainted through me uncle in the Dail.

Now, we’re the finest family that ever yet was seen,
We make a tidy packet from the makin’ of poitin.
It goes across the border and up to Donegal,
And they drink it in the lobbies, with my uncle in the Dail.

Oh, me uncle is a T.D. me boys, me uncle is a T.D.,
And me mother got her pension at the age of forty-three.
We draw family allowance though we’ve no kids at all,
Yea, but then you see me uncle, he’s a member of the Dail.

Oh, me uncle is a T.D. me boys, me uncle is a T.D.,
And that’s the very reason why nothing bothers me.
We draw family allowance though we’ve no kids at all,
But then you see me uncle, he’s a member of the Dail.
But then you see me uncle, he’s a member of the Dail.

END.