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” You’re doing a lot of yawning, you must be tired”, said I to Mikey Ryan. We were both above in the Arch Bar, in Liberty Square last Thursday night; our mission to break one or two open and quench our uncontrollable thirst.
“Sure nowadays, what with all this gender equality, yawning is about the only time a married man ever gets to open his mouth”, replied Mikey grinning. “No really I think it has something to do with this unusual sultry weather”, he continued, “sure if this keeps up, come next Lent, Thurles will feature on the front of the new Trocaire Box”.
“I cod you not Mikey” said I, “but out around Ballinahow, Borrisoleigh and the Two-Mile-Borris areas of Thurles, the cows are giving evaporated milk; farmers are feeding their hens on crushed ice to keep them from laying hard-boiled eggs, while the larger trees are actually whistling for dogs.
“Not trying to change the subject”, said Mikey, “but have you noticed or is it my imagination, but there seems to be a lot less flies hanging around Tipperary this year, less than previous years.”
 “They probably have all gone off to Dublin like our young people, following the jobs trail”, said I, “sure there is nothing to be found anywhere for anyone in this God forsaken rural wasteland. But come to think of it I haven’t seen you around in several weeks either”, said I, “sure I thought you had emigrated”.
“Truth is”, said Mikey “wasn’t the wife one of the 20 lucky winners of half a million on the Euro Millions Lotto Jackpot recently here in Thurles, not that her win greatly benefited my bank balance. But Frau Ryan decided to take myself, her mother-in-law and our brats to Tanzania in South Africa, of all places, on a Wildlife Safari. But I hasten to add, it would have been better had I stayed at home”.
“What happened, did you get left stranded by the recent Ryanair strike”, said I.
“Oh, now it’s a long story”, said Mikey, “but I’ll give you the guts of it. Last Sunday night, while we were sleeping deep in the Tanzanian wilderness, didn’t Frau Ryan, my lesser half, wake up to find her mother had wandered off. Rushing into my tent next door, she insisted on me getting up and going outside to try to locate the doddery ‘auld wagon’.
In an attempt just to keep the peace, I picked up my Ruger, over and under shotgun, that she had bought me for the trip; took a swig of whiskey from my discreet, leather encased, silver hip flask, and beckoned her to follow me”.
Mikey continued, “A couple of minutes later, there in a clearing, not 100 metres from our camp-site, I came upon the most chilling of sights. Imagine the scene yourself; there was my mother-in-law with her fat arse up against a thick Baobab tree, and standing in front of her was a large, snarling, mangy looking lion”.
“The wife whispered to me,” Mikey continued, “Jasus, said she, what are we going to do now Mikey?’
Mikey continued “I replied, absolutely nothing dear, sure that feckin lion got himself into this mess, now let’s see how he manages to get out of it.”
  
You have all heard of the Cliff’s of Moher; the Doolin Cave; the Aillwee Cave; the Tipperary – Mitchelstown Caves and now here in Co. Tipperary a new tourist attraction has been developed by Tipperary Tourism; welcome to the “Potholes of Ballycahill“, situated near, Thurles, here in Co. Tipperary.
No brown directional signposts have been erected as yet, but one such heart-shaped hole can be found coming up to the 80k speed sign, found when exiting this most picturesque of rural village. (See photograph below.)
It was right here that last Friday a motorist, travelling to Limerick, seriously damaged a front brake disk, resulting in one his front wheels heating up to such an extent that it buckled, forcing him to abandon his vehicle.
Meanwhile on the direct route from Thurles to Templetuohy, again here in Co. Tipperary; local residents appear to be filling their own tourist attractions after dark, much to the annoyance of local County Councillors.
Same Councillors are aware that if our young people, forced to emigrate for work from the area since 2008, were attracted to return home on holidays from abroad, they could claim evidence of higher tourism figures visiting the Premier County.
Ah Yes, Tipperary, the Place, the Time.
 No Optical Illusion “Sure, maybe you can explain this!”, said Mikey Ryan.
We were above in The Arch Bar, in Liberty Square, here in Thurles, last Good Friday night, when Mikey proudly produced his new Smart Phone to show me a photograph he had taken earlier in the day.
“Begob Mikey, where was that taken?” inquired I.
“Back of Thurles Golf Club, heading out to the Mill Road / Littleton junction”, replied Mikey.
“It looks like the father and son of T. Junction signs”, said I laughing, “Don’t tell me that council signs have now begun breeding like Japanese Knot Weed. Sure, in July of 2017 didn’t Tipperary Co. Council engineers employ a contractor to spray roadsides where Japanese Knotweed is found, and are we now going to have to spray road signs as well.”
“Well by the look of things certainly these signs could take a lick of water, but wrong answer,” said Mikey.
“I bet is it something like the continuous yellow line regulation”, said I.
“What do you mean?” said Mikey.
“Well here in Thurles a single yellow line means you can’t park there at all”, said I, “while above in Dublin they have a double yellow line, indicating that you can’t park there at all, at all. Sure anyway, isn’t it offering a double health & safety warning to our over taxed motorists”, I continued.
“Do you remember Mikey”, said I, “that unfortunate Borrisoleigh girl that got severely injured and trapped, following a nasty car crash at that same T junction last year. Pumping blood, she was, before the paramedics arrived on site”.
“Remember it”, said Mikey, “sure, I came across it minutes after it happened and called the Ambulance. The paramedic said to the girl: “You’re going to be OK, I’m a paramedic and I’m going to ask you some questions; tell me what’s your name?”.
“Mary Ann McBride”, said the girl:
“OK Mary Ann, was this once your car?” asked the paramedic.
“Yes”, said Mary Ann.
“Now tell me, where are you actually bleeding from?”, said the concerned paramedic.
“Actually, I’m from bleedin Borrisoleigh”, said Mary Ann.
“Anyway”, said Mikey, “the next thing you are going to tell me is that the County Council sign erector was too feckin lazy to remove the second sign; but you’re never going to guess the true reason for both these T junction signs, so I’ll better tell you.”
“Look, it is actually obvious when you think about it”, said Mikey, “One sign is for small people and the taller one is for adults. Now do you believe me when I told you that a leprechaun was living in the woodland, just across that Mill Road ditch, close to the 16th hole on Thurles Golf course.”
“I think I’ll have an early night”, said I, “Goodnight Mikey, Goodnight Pat.”
 “Mikey, have you ever noticed that all women’s problems start with “MEN”, well as a general rule anyway? said I after much reflection.
Mikey Ryan & myself were above in the The Arch Bar in Liberty Square, for the first time ever, of a Good Friday night, when I broached; well what I considered at least, to be a very debatable question.
“How do you mean ‘Men’; I’m not sure I fully understand your question?” replied Mikey.
“Well, women suffer an awful lot from the MENopause, MENtal illness, MENstrual tension, they are well noted for often behaving like MANiacs, and are forever visiting GUYnaecologist, not to mention undergoing HISterectomies”, I replied, “Now, if that don’t indicate an overall male influence on women, then what does?”
“Tell me, this and tell me no more; talking about medical problems”, said Mikey, “But is it me or is it that feckin Health Service Executive (HSE), that has gone totally mad?”
“I’m not sure I understand what exactly you mean”, said I, truthfully.
“Well, in the strictest confidence”, said Mikey in a low tone, “Paddy, that’s me 85-year-old father, went over to the Doctor on Wednesday last, for his half yearly check-up, to be told he would need to supply a sperm count, as part of his physical examination”.
“The doctor gave me father, Paddy, a bottle”, continued Mikey, “Telling him to take this container home and to bring him back a sperm sample tomorrow.”
“Well, the very next day me father made the return trip to the Doctor’s Surgery and gave him back the bottle; unused and as clean as a whistle. Needless to say, the Doc wanted an explanation”, continued Mikey.
My father explained, “Well, doc”, said he, ’twas like this, first I tried with my right hand; nothing. Then I tried with my left hand; still nothing. Then I asked the wife to assist. She then tried, first with her right hand, then with her left; still nothing. She tried with her mouth; first with her teeth in, then with her teeth out; result still nothing. Sure I even called in Mary and her sister Kay from next door. They tried, first separately and then together, first with both hands, then using an armpit, and sure Mary even tried squeezing it between her knees, but still nothing.”
The doctor’s complexion turned sickly pale, before seeking confirmation, “Your telling me, you actually asked your next door neighbours”, he queried in disbelief. According to Mikey, his father replied, “Doc, I’m sorry to say it, but it’s a fact; and despite all our efforts, we still failed miserably to remove the screw cap off that feckin bottle.”
“Give us the same again their Pat”, said I, “I think it’s your turn to do the honours this time Mikey; am I right?”
Got a call from Mikey Ryan last Tuesday morning, asking; nay demanding, that I support him for the All Ireland Poetry Competition finals, that were held above in The Arch Bar on the same night.
Now normally I don’t go drinking on Tuesdays, what with a nagging wife, wage cuts, the increase in the price of fags, and my overall delicate balancing of weekly payments. But Mikey appeared desperate, and herself in-doors, agreed (reluctantly I hasten to add) to lend me a tenner, (making it a point, that interest would be due, including reimbursement in full, next pay day).
Confirming my attendance over the phone, I learned from Mikey that his opponent was a fellow called Oscar Cumberbatch, a resident of Dublin 4 and a postgraduate academic degree student (Ph.D), from Coláiste na Tríonóide, (Trinity College), College Green, Dublin 2, who was being sent to represent County Dublin for the Title.
The Judges on the night, who spoke with distinct English accents; I later discovered were English Professors from the University of Cambridge, flown in by the Fine Gael Minister for Education & Skills, Mr Richard Bruton T.D., especially for the evenings National event.
I learned from the Judges later, when they were introducing the two contestants, that Mikey, (if you don’t mind), was from the townsland of Monacocka, (Translated from the Irish, the Shitty Bog), and was actually representing County Tipperary.
The format for the evening was simple, both contestants were given 60 seconds to come up with a short-handwritten poem entitled “Timbuktoo”. They were then obliged to read their poem before the jam-packed room of supporters in The Arch Bar, while the judges conferred to decide on the overall winner.
The 6o seconds up, Oscar Cumberbatch was invited to tender and recite his short poem first:-
“Along the lonely desert sand, slowly moved the caravan.
Men on Camels two by two, their destination, Timbuktoo.
The Dublin supporters who had arrived in large numbers by rail, went absolutely wild, yelling support and applauding their champion Oscar.
Mikey Ryan was next to the microphone to recite, as the judges pleaded for absolute silence:-
“Tim and I a hunting went, found 3 girls in a canvas tent.
Now they were three and we were two, so I Booked one and sure Tim Booked Two.”
Faith, the Dubliner’s knew immediately they were bet, and departed from The Arch Bar like lightening for the last train home, even faster than Cork supporters, when beaten by Tipperary in a Munster Hurling Final.
“Give us a small one their Pat”, said I, “And a small one for our champion, Mikey, no splash just water.”
” Sure, where Tipperary leads, don’t Ireland follow”?
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