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 Mikey Ryan was non customarily running late, and I was already on my second pint above in the Arch Bar in Liberty Square, Thurles, when he eventually made his appearance. As he headed in my direction, he began copiously rubbing his hands together, before spreading them briefly in front of the open fire.
“Should have brought me gloves”, said Mikey, “Jasus, it’s so feckin cold outside tonight, would you believe I actually spotted a local politician with his hands in his own feckin pockets.”
“Pat you had better give Mikey a small one for medicinal purposes to start”, said I, “It looks like he could be coming down with something nasty”.
“A small brandy would be grand”, said Mikey “throw in a ginger ale as well to make it last”.
“Aren’t you feckin lucky you never married” said Mikey, shaking his head in a convinced fashion.
“Is your marital bliss going through a bit of a bumpy patch at the moment”, I queried.
“I suppose you could say that”, said Mikey, “she seems be gone of the Richter scale at the moment”.
“Give us an instance”, said I, anxious as always to grant the benefit of my vast experience of life in general and console those that are seen to be heavy laden.
“Well” said Mikey “I think she might be going through the change, if you know what I mean. For example, I was sitting at my computer last Sunday evening, drafting my will on line, and I called out to her, “Honey when I die, I’m going to leave everything to you, my love”. She shouted back, “You feckin already do; you lazy bastard”.
“Begod that’s peculiar all right”, said I, “but tell me is she often inclined to bad mouth you”.
“No, not really”, replied Mikey, “but let me give you another instance”. I walked into the kitchen one evening last week to find her stalking around, armed with a fly swatter and not a morsel of supper served up on the table. What in God’s name are you doing? says I. Hunting flies says she. Well, did you kill any? says I. To which she responds, yip, 3 males, 2 Females. Anxious to advance my further education on the sex of flies, I asked how do you know what sex they were? She replied, 3 were crawling on your beer cans and 2 were creeping around on the house phone.”
“Begod that was truly peculiar” said I, “by the way where does your wife hail from originally; if you don’t mind me asking“.
“She’s from the west of Ireland; once the beauty queen of Muckanaghederdauhaulia, or the piggery between two expanses of briny water, in the parish of Kilcummin in Co. Galway”, said Mikey. “Sure, I met her down there while I was on a wee bit of a tear, if you know what I mean”, he further added. “We got married two weeks later, while I was still a bit the worse for wear”, Mikey said, with a distant knowing smile on his countenance.
“But I suppose she was always a bit on the spectrum like”, continued Mikey, “always forgetting things she said and had previously asked me to do”.
“Get her checked, maybe she has a touch of the Alzheimer’s”, said I, “I believe I read somewhere that same is a chronic neurodegenerative disease that can start slowly and worsens over a period of time, and the most common early symptom is difficulty in remembering recent events”.
“Jasus you could be right”, said Mikey taking another slow mouthful of brandy, “Sure when our first born, young, Paddy was only 5 years old, she became convinced that he looked different to the rest of the family”.
Mikey now moved closer to me lowering his voice. “So, she decides, without my knowledge you understand, to have a DNA test performed, to find out from the results that he was actually from completely different parents than ourselves. She phones me up at work in a panic stating she had something very serious to tell me.
What’s up? said I. Then she tells me that according to this DNA test, that Paddy was not our son. Look-it-here now said I, sure how could he be; don’t you remember that when we were leaving the hospital, you noticed that our young lad had a wet diaper and you said, “Honey, go change the baby, I’ll wait for you here.”
“Oh, and talking about hospitals, just to change the subject for a minute; I’ll say it again and I’ll say it no more”, said Mikey, “this country, under this Fine Gael government, is rapidly heading down the sewers, and I bet you any money that this time next year there will be even more patients waiting up to 5 years, just waiting to have an abortion”.
“Pat give this man whatever he’s having”, said Mikey, “and I’ll chance another small brandy for meself”.
  
Mikey Ryan was already in the Arch Bar, above here in Liberty Square, Thurles, last Monday night, when I arrived through its portals at 10.00pm.
It was obvious, right from the very onset of our usual Monday night encounter, that someone had taken a ‘bite out of Mikey’s bun’.
Without so much as a ‘hello’ or a ‘how are you’, Mikey said, “Do you see Murphy over yonder there?”
“Can’t say as I know the man,” said I glancing in the general, crowded direction that Mikey had indicated with his foot.
“Oh, you know him all right, he’s the one with the face reminiscent of an ass looking over a white washed wall”, said Mikey, pointing more accurately with his thumb, over his shoulder, at a man clad in a smart white shirt and matching tie.
“Oh, Murphy the plumber”, said I, “What did Murphy do on you?”
“Herself had a couple of dripping taps; one in the kitchen and another in the bathroom”, said Mikey, “so I sent for him to come and do the necessary. Well he comes over to me a few minutes ago”, continued Mikey, “asking why I haven’t paid the bill for the work he undertook last Friday”.
“So, did you fork out”, said I.
“Faith I did in me arse”, stated Mikey, “sure his invoice wasn’t what he had originally quoted me. When I had initially asked him to come and do the job, he was a kind of hesitant, before stating that he would be free on Friday.”
Before I even got a chance to reply, Mikey was off prattling again, “I tell you this”, said he, “this feckin country is rapidly heading down the tubes. You know a mate of mine was only telling me yesterday that he heard about five engineers, three males and two female from his local Co. Council, spending the bones of half an hour staring skyward at the top of a long steel pole.
What are you staring at enquired an inquisitive woman, who had parked her car nearby?
According to Mikey, one of the engineers confirmed that they were wondering what was the actual height of the pole. The woman went to the boot of her car, returning with a bag containing tools. Selecting a pliers and a 1/2″ spanner; she quickly removed the Whitworth bolt, before lowering the light steel pole; laying it flat on the roadside kerb. Then removing a tape measure from her tool bag, she measured the pole, declaring it to be 16ft precisely. Missus, thank you for your assistance, said one engineer, but we were looking for the height of the pole, but you have given us the measurements only for the width.
Disgusted, the woman reported the engineers to their Co. Manager, which resulted in the sacking of all five.
“Begod, I wonder what these engineers are doing now”, said I.
“You won’t believe it”, said Mikey, “sure haven’t they now all been nominated by Co. Councils to stand as candidates in the 2018 Irish presidential election, due on Friday, 26th October next”. Begod, when I heard it, I was tempted to throw me hat into the ring meself”, Mikey concluded.
“You better give me a pint their Pat”, said I, “and you might as well freshen this one for Mikey, it looks like it’s going to be a long night”.
 Thurles born Mikey Ryan was stuck in a major traffic jam, just outside Thurles on the M8 motorway recently, with absolutely nothing moving for well over an hour. Suddenly a member of An Garda Síochána’s traffic Corp., knocks on his window.
Mikey rolls his window down before asking the officer, “What in hells name is the hold-up officer”?
“I regret to inform you that unidentified elderly persons, who have recently had their weekly pensions reduced; now in response, have just kidnapped several members of Dáil Éireann; their drivers and at least five high profile bank officials” explained the officer.
He continued, “They’re demanding a 30 million Euro ransom, otherwise they have threatened to douse their hostages with petrol and set them on fire, so we’re going from car to car attempting to take up a collection, which we hope will at least partially, pacify their initial demands.”
In a rarely observed undertaking, Mikey Ryan’s wallet saw the light of day for the first time in a decade; before he asked, “On average how much is every motorist giving?”
“On average I’d say around 2 gallons.” replied the officer.
“I’d say we’ll get that Thurles Ring-Road before the next General Election”, said I to Mikey Ryan last night. We were above in the Arch Bar, Liberty Square, supping a couple of pints, when, during a sudden lull I overheard criticism being attributed to the engineer who had designed the new junction, joining the Slievenamon Road with the Clongour Road.
“A bit like Gardaí, they’re leaving engineering school much too early”, said some vehement unknown agitator sitting at the next table. “Sure, them long lorries, heading for Thurles mart, can’t even get around the feckin corners any more without mounting the kerbing, in their attempts to avoid causing a two-way traffic jam”.
“More bloody grass for no one to cut”, said I, “Then again, sure you don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes in that bloody Tipperary Council.”
“It reminds me of back many years ago when the elected Labour Party Mayor of Thurles, Mr Pajoe Aloysius Ryan, was officially selected by the then local Thurles Town Council to present his credentials to his counterpart, the Labour Party’s Mayor of Clonmel, Mr Archibald Cummins”, said Mikey, latter still retaining the use of his eyes to lip-read the ongoing remarks made by this same drink fuelled individual.
“Oh yeah I remember him”, said I, “One of the Ryan ‘Rawballs’, if I am not mistaken.
“The very man”, Mikey continued, “On arrival in Clonmel the Thurles Mayor couldn’t get over the palatial mansion afforded to his Labour Party colleague, especially when he compared it to his own rather humble thatched abode. Bejasus, didn’t Archibald ask the Clonmel Mayor how in the name of all things good and holy, could he afford his fabulous dwelling house.
“Well, sure, strictly between you and I, Pajoe, said he, do you see that bridge over there, pointing in the direction of the river Suir”, continued Mikey. “Sure, the EU gave us a grant to build a four-lane bridge, but taking advantage of the situation, what with flood plain problems etc, didn’t I built a single lane bridge with simple traffic lights at either end and used the extra bit of funding to build meself this fine house, the Clonmel Mayer explained in lowish tones”.
“You’re joking me surely”, said I.
“Not a bit of it”, said Mikey, “But sure that is only the half of it. It must have been one year later, possibly on St. Patrick’s Day, when the Mayor of Clonmel, Mr Archibald Cummins, paid a return visit to Thurles; to be awestruck by Mayor Pajoe Aloysius Ryan’s brand new house. It was at least twice the size of his own previously admired Clonmel abode, displaying electric gates front and rear; wall to wall marble floors; together with gold taps and heated toilet seats in the six on-suite bathrooms”.
According to Mikey, Clonmel’s Mayor now quizzed his opposite number on how a small Thurles town Mayor, like himself, could afford such modern splendour.
“Do you see a six-lane, 250-foot-long bridge that was funded by the EU over there?” said Mayor Pajoe Aloysius, grinning, pointing east towards the river Suir.
“The puzzled Mayor of Clonmel scanned the horizon several times before replying, “No.”, said Mikey, with his usual all knowing nod.
“I don’t believe it; still”, said I, “Do you know that Garret Ahern individual, who had the honour of being selected as Fine Gael’s latest political candidate for the next General Election?”
“I do well”, said Mikey, “Played marbles with him in primary school. Sure, in his recent Thurles election brochure wasn’t he pictured with his hands in prayerful mode; inviting Thurles locals; using the words recorded in St. Matthew’s Gospel , inviting us to “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest”. “Begob”, Mikey reflected, “you don’t think he was trying to attract Labour Party voters do you; sure, all of them must surely have joined Sinn Féin by now.”
“The same again Pat, two more pints when you get a chance”, said I.
“In the words of Worf, latter a well known Star Trek, Klingon warrior”, said Mikey, “jang vIDa je due luq, ach ghotvam’e’ QI’yaH devolve qaS”, which when translated means, “The minister will reply in due course. However, this is a non-devolved matter.”
“I see ‘The Geezer’ McGrath sadly passed away last week”, said I to Mikey Ryan. We were both above in the Arch Bar, Liberty Square, Thurles today, sheltering once more from the suns dangerous ultraviolet (UV) rays, latter being emitted and targeting currently the town of Thurles here in Co. Tipperary.
The reason for my own stopover was merely to support Mikey, latter who had informed ‘Frau’ Ryan, his lesser half, that it was crucial that he watch the longest eclipse of this century, when the moon was set to line up with the earth and the sun on tomorrow, July 27th, 2018, to form a ‘Blood Moon’.
Somehow or other Mikey had managed to fully convinced ‘Frau’ Ryan that he needed to be there a day early, to be sure, as he said himself, “of getting a front row seat in the Lounge of the Arch Bar, near to any device that might be used to observe distant objects, their emissions or absorptions, and / or their reflection, if any, of expected electromagnetic radiation”. Sure, like isn’t ‘a nod as good as a wink’ to a blind ass, if you know what I mean.
“Ah yes, the poor auld Geezer, decent enough auld skin”, said Mikey, “sure I worked with him, only once mind you, on the graveyard shift; when we painted over in Sweeney’s Bakery in Mitchell Street, in the late sixty’s”.
“Yes, those were the days; begob the smell of those fresh loaves of bread and sponge cakes coming out of the oven would do your heart good back then”, continued Mikey.
“I suppose they would throw you the odd auld loaf of ‘scab bread’ (A traditional Irish Batch Loaf) as a bonus; still warm from the oven, for your breakfast, when you were heading home?” said I.
“Sure Justin, the head man, was as mean as feckin dishwater”, said Mikey, “he wouldn’t give you so much as the steam of his, you know what. Sure, over in the canteen he insisted that a fork be kept at all times in the sugar bowl”, continued Mikey.
“Begob yes”, said I, “sure I heard many a Thurles person state that they suspected that the once 7-sided 50 pence piece, was actually designed by him; to replace the old 10-shilling note; thus, making it easier to extract from a customer’s fist, using an adjustable Wrench”.
“You know, come to think of it, one of the reasons I only ever worked once with ‘The Geezer’ was because of a little episode in that bakery”, said Mikey. “I once managed to lift one of their Fairy Cakes, quickly concealing it in my overalls, without ever being spotted by head buck cat, Justin Fogarty, which believe you me was a major feat of ingenuity in itself “.
“On the other hand, according to ‘The Geezer’, who had spotted my manual dexterity; same action was just plain blatant thievery”, said Mikey. “Now, said ‘The Geezer’, let me show you how to do that honourably; while achieving a more moral, yet similar result; in this case not worthy of even a mention when I should next visit the confessional in the local Cathedral of The Assumption”.
“So, he calls over Justin”, said Mikey, ” Justin Fogarty, said he, do you want to see a piece of real magic, which I will only demonstrate once, said ‘The Geezer’, just one time and one time only”.
“Somewhat intrigued, Justin waltzes over, confident no doubt that any magic performed or trickery attempted by ‘The Geezer’ that day, he would and could easily interpret and explain to those employees assembled roundabout. ‘The Geezer’ closed one eye, before reaching out and then in one swift movement he grabbed a fairy cake, hastily eating it, reducing it to a few tiny crumbs.”
According to Mikey, “That action will cost you 50 pence, said Justin, alarmed that his baker’s dozen had been drastically reduced to a standard twelve; before then asking the question, where was the feckin magic to be found in someone simply eating a Fairy Cake?”.
“Ah now, replied ‘The Geezer’, sure you thought I ate your miserable fairy cake, didn’t you, now you take a look in the pocket of Mikey Ryan’s overalls and you will see that my action was a mere optical illusion.”
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