Thurles Information

Mikey Ryan and myself were back again yesterday afternoon; tee-totalling; social distancing; soaking up the Thurles unprecedented spring sunshine; lying out on the banks of the river Suir; like dogs, with tongues hanging out, waiting for today’s double Covid-19 hand-out.

And speaking of canines; this had followed our vain efforts to gain access to the rear of the Arch Bar via Cormack’s Lane, which had been met by the total disapproval of licenced hostelry proprietor Mr Pat Hayes, who with the assistance of his new German Shepherd guard dog, was quick to directed us out onto a more public thoroughfare.

Again, talking of canines brought to mind yet another train of thought, leading me to ask Mikey a question, “I haven’t seen your little woman in Lidl all this week” said I, “don’t tell me she has withdrawn from enemy territory and retreated back to her mother to assist in stirring that auld ones cauldron”.

“No such damned luck” said Mikey, “but in truth she and the fruit of her loins, are driving me to utter despair. I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more; I was so driven by the complete absence of hope last Wednesday, that I went into the Liberty Pharmacy there at No 34 on Liberty Square, looking for medical assistance.

“Well did Kate give you anything that worked”, said I.

“Damned a bit did I get”, said Mikey, as he attempted to remove a piece of Brennan’s bread from between two teeth, using a piece of sedge grass.

Of course I learned from Mikey later, that local pharmacist Kate Kennedy had refused to dispense his request for anti-depression drugs on the grounds that he had no proper doctor’s prescription. “Simply showing me a marriage certificate in one hand and your wife’s passport photo in the other, is far from sufficient to access any such strong dangerous medication”; was, to quote Mikey himself, her instant reply.

“So is your missus isolating completely, or have you strangled her”, said I, smiling.

“Not exactly”, said Mikey, “tempted though I was; no it was agreed in principle that I should restrain her using a short chain, padlocked to her left leg and with the other end welded to a radiator. This gives her sufficient room to access the cooker and the sink in the kitchen. The reason for this is simply to social distance her from the fridge. Sure even she agreed it was the only solution to ‘flattening her curve’, if you know what I mean”.

If Mrs Ryan wanted to lose 10 ugly pounds immediately, she could cut her head off, I thought to myself, (Well you can’t say everything out loud nowadays, as people cocooning get very tetcey).

“Maybe she is suffering from water retention”, said I, “My own wife, I know, suffers from what doctors call ‘excess fluids’ that build up inside her body”.

“In the case of my missus I’m afraid its bloody, dairy milk chocolate retention”, said Mikey.

“Maybe her problem is brought on by stress; does worry of catching this covid-19 virus affect her at all?” said I.

“Well she has never mentioned stress, but strictly between ourselves I think she may have started to show the first symptoms of Alzheimer’s”, said Mikey.

“How did you work that out”, said I, “has she been consulting with her consultant.”

“No, but again between ourselves, she did say to me, only yesterday, that she doesn’t remember what she ever saw in me”, said Mikey.

“Then, out of the blue she announced that she wouldn’t mind if I re-married after she’d passed on. Well on one proviso”, Mikey elaborated, “that the new woman I would marry wouldn’t wear any of the clothes presently in her wardrobe”.

“She needn’t worry there anyway” said I, “sure her replacement is nearly 5 inches taller, even with her hair down”.

“Listen, keep your voice down, walls have ears”, said Mikey, “Listen, I’d better be heading home to open the fridge for the wife, fish fingers don’t exactly cook themselves; more’s the pity.”

“I’ll tell you something for nothing”, said Mikey Ryan, “what with all this Department of Health daily chit-chat about the Covid-19 pandemic, the only ones truly rubbing their hands together at this time are the cute whores manufacturing Soap and Sanitising Gel.

“True for you Mikey”, said I, “I swear to God, my hands have absorbed so much Sanitising Gel, Soap and Disinfectant over the last month, that when I attend to the call of nature, the wife no longer has to use any other antimicrobial agents to clean our toilet’s lime stained interior.

Readers will understand that what with the Arch Bar in Liberty Square and every other pub in Thurles closed, Mikey and myself were cocooning amongst the tall grasses on the River Suir Walk, sharing a six pack of Mexican Corona Extra pale lager. Mickey had acquired same from the Thurles Shopping Centre using a reliable five finger discount card. [Those anti-virus face masks come in fierce handy when funds are low of a Tuesday].

As we lay back soaking up the warm Thurles April sunshine, Mikey expounded the difficulties he was experiencing cocooning.
“The worst part of restricted movement is having to listen to the ‘fruit of my loins’, jabbering away like Black Howler monkeys in the Amazon Rainforest, said Mikey, “How many wives can a man have?” Mikey screeched, imitating his youngest who had asked the initial question. His daughter had replied, “Sixteen”, qualifying her answer with the misguided marital quote, “four better, four worse, four richer and four poorer.
I cod you not, but education has taken a nosedive in this country, since McHugh took over” Mikey declared.

“Ah sure the whole world is gone to pot”, said I, “and I’m not for one minute suggesting that everyone is smoking marijuana”.

“True for you, the situation is getting dangerous alright”, said Mikey, “Do you realise that very soon and for the very first time since 1870, an estimated 8.68 million adherent Jehovah’s Witnesses are going to wake up some fine morning to the realisation that the rest of the world are actually sitting cocooned in their houses, waiting to answer the door bell”.

“My God, that could upset the current delicate balance of religious power here in Europe”, said I, rising to my feet in the secure realisation that ‘her in doors‘ would be on a knife edge, having waited for over two hours for me to bring back her 30 gram packet of Amber Leaf Blonde tobacco and her Rizla fag papers.

“Sure I have to be going myself” said Mikey, switching back on his mobile phone, “but understand this, if I am forced to quarantine for another two weeks with the wife, I can assure you there won’t be any coronavirus in her system that can be blamed on her death”.