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“You are probably aware that scientists have recently discovered a food that can cause major grief and prolonged suffering; up to 60 years in some cases, after it has been consumed”, said Mikey Ryan. “It’s called feckin wedding cake”.
We were above in the Arch Bar, and Mikey had just arrived, displaying a bright red swollen jaw. “Was it the result of a sudden precipitous assault by his ‘little woman’ or was it simply a transitory mouth abscess?”, I wondered. Mikey’s above statement was the reply I received when curiosity got the better of me and, I queried the possible reason for the swelling.
In a low verbal murmur, Mikey explained what really had happened. I appears that he had attended a once off marketing lecture above in the Tipperary Institute (LIT), and to use his own words he had “hugged a young one”, without giving her fair notification of his intentions.
The surprised lassie had stepped back exclaiming “What was that for?”
Mikey had smiled at her, exclaiming, “That’s what I call Direct Marketing!” The lassie, a former Black Belt in East Asian martial arts, had then retaliated, soundly striking him with a sharp shot to the jaw.
“What was that for?” said Mikey, rubbing a painful cheek.
“That’s what I call Customer Feedback”, said the offended damsel, before walking away.
“Well did you manage to go golfing on Paddy’s Day”, said I, changing the subject.
“No”, said Mikey, “Sure when I woke up on Saturday morning I said to the little woman, Petal, would you brew us up a mug of coffee? Well you want to see the look on her wrinkled phizzog as she screeched : ‘Sure that’s your task’.
” Now as we all know there are certain jobs that are best undertaken by women, coffee brewing being one of them, so my natural reaction was the simple question, how in the name of God, do you make out that coffee making is my task?”, replied Mikey
Sure, isn’t is written everywhere in the Bible’s New Testament, you ignoramus”, she screeched again.
“The Bible says absolutely nothing about who’s supposed to brew a mug of coffee, in fact the opposite,” said Mikey, quoting “Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands”. (N.B. Husbands should please note Ephesians Chapter 5, Verse 22.)
Of course, according to Mikey, the little woman just reaches out and grabs hold of a bedside Bible (she had acquired same in the bedroom of a certain unnamed hotel, while on their honeymoon, together with one glass ash-tray, two bath towels and a kimono-like dressing gown), and starts flipping through the pages at random, “See here, and here, its everywhere, read it for yourself; “Hebrews, Hebrews, Hebrews; which reminds me, today might be a good day for you to show your face in Church again, before you go making any stupid plans to go golfing or such like”.
“So”, said Mikey, “now you know why we call our spoken language the “mother tongue”; because the man never gets to put in a word edgeways. Sure, you know yourself, women are like our potholed rural roads; the more the curves, the bigger the danger, if you know what I mean; so, I conveniently forgot the golf and having attended 10.30 am Mass in the Cathedral, I stayed in to watched the Rugby on the TV, instead.
“Right”, said I “So it was rugby for Paddy’s day for you. Tell me what would you call an Englishman standing in the London Marriott Hotel, Twickenham, holding a bottle of Champagne, after an England versus Ireland rugby match?
“I haven’t an iota” said Mikey after a brief pause.
“Faith the English Rugby Manager Eddie Jones knows”, said I, “Sure what else would you call him, but a feckin Wine Waiter”.
“You know”, said I “Snow White was returning out of the Thurles Shopping Centre on last Saturday morning, heading back to her cottage in the woods where she lived with those seven dwarfs. Then in the distance she sees a trail of smoke in the sky, and as she gets nearer, she realised that her little cottage has burnt to the ground. Now fearing the worst she begins searching deeper in the surrounding woodland for her seven dwarf companions. Suddenly she hears a lone voice chanting, “England for the World Cup, England for the World Cup, England for the World Cup”; so, you can imagine her relief when she realised that now at least ‘Dopey’ was safe.”
“Does Snow White really exist then?”, said Mikey. “Of course she does”, said I, “Ask any child, sure isn’t she living beside the Leprechaun on Thurles Golf Course, that you told me about last Friday“.
“Give us two pints there Pat please”, said I.
  
“Here’s to a long life and a merry one.
A quick death and an easy one.
A pretty girl and an honest one.
A cold beer and another one.”
An Irish Wish On St. Patrick’s Day.
“Are you going to view the Thurles St. Patricks Day Parade tomorrow”, said I to Mikey Ryan last night, above in the Arch Bar.
“Damned if I’ll bother”, said Mikey, “When you see one you’ll have seen them all”.
“Still the marching bands can be good”, said I “Sure, you know I’ve always wondered why bagpipe players always walk when they are playing?”.
“Sure, that’s an easy one”, said Mikey, “Isn’t it the case that moving targets are much harder to hit. Now what intrigues me is how do they feckin know when their infernal bagpipes need tuning?”
“So, what will you get up to tomorrow, Saturday March 17th, if you are not watching the Parade”, said I.
“I’m thinking of hitting down to Thurles Golf Club”, said Mikey. “That’s of course if I can escape from herself.”
“And how are things at home at the moment “, said I, not wanting to appear over inquisitive.
“Eh, pour me a stiff one, there Pat and one for himself”, said Mikey pointing to me, before announcing he had just had another tiff with “the little woman”, as he affectionately calls her.
“Oh yeah”, said I. “And how did this one end?”
“Well I’ll tell you when it was over”, Mikey replied, “Herself came to me on her hands and knees, so she did”.
“You don’t say?” said I intrigued, “Now that’s a change for the books! So, what did she say?”.
“Oh, she said something like come out from under that bed, you gutless little fecker, or words similar”, replied Mikey, his tone indicating a reluctance to further discuss the matter.
“You know”, said Mikey changing the subject, “Talking about St Patrick’s Day; there used to a leprechaun living in the woodland, near to the 16th hole on Thurles Golf course”.
“Go away with you now”, said I, “Sure there are no such things as leprechauns.”
“I’ve heard for a fact, that you are very wrong”, said Mikey, who continued, while lowering his voice to a whisper.
For what it’s worth, Mikey confirmed that he had been reliably informed that on one day while on Thurles Golf course, a guy was out golfing at the 16th hole. He tees up and strikes the ball, but unfortunately, doesn’t it go into the wooded area over there on the side of the fairway. So, he goes looking for his ball, as one does. Immediately he comes across a little guy with wild red hair and a shaggy red beard, stretched on the ground, bearing a massive lump on his forehead. A golf ball lay close to his discarded green banded hat.
My Goodness, says a now worried golfer, who proceeds to attempt to revive the injured little guy, who is wearing green knee-length trousers and shoes with giant buckles. Upon awaking, this little guy says, “Well, you caught me fair and square. I am a Luchorpán, but if you let me go right now I’ll grant you three wishes.”
The golfer says ” Sure I can’t take anything from you, I’m just glad I didn’t kill you, please I would be glad if you didn’t go looking for medical compensation”, and he walked quickly away.
Watching the golfer depart, the Luchorpán says, “Well, that fellow that caught me was decent, so I’ll do something for him. I’ll give him the usual three wishes that most men would want. Sure, I’ll give him unlimited money, a great golfing future, and a long sex life.”
Just this week, and almost a month later, that same golfer was out golfing on the Thurles course and again at the 16th hole, he hits the small white ball into the same woodland and was forced to go off looking for it. When he finds the ball, on the way back he spots a small, little guy, dressed in green, tapping away with a hammer on a three-sided shoe last, in true ‘leath bhrogan’ (Shoemaker) fashion’.
“How are you doing”, the golfer asks.
“I’m fine”, the leprechaun replies, “And might I ask how your golf game is presently?”
The golfer says, “Begod it’s great! I hitting under par every time.”
The leprechaun knowingly nods his head, “I did that for you. And might I ask you now, how is your money holding out?”
The golfer looked at him, “Well, now that you mention it, every time I put my hand in my pocket, I pull out a €50 note.”
The leprechaun smiles and said, “I did that for you as well. And might I ask”, the luchorpán lowered his voice, “now that we are talking, how is your sex life?”
The golfer looks at him a little shyly and also in a low tone stated, “Well, between you and me, maybe once or twice a week.”
The leprechaun appeared disappointed, “Once or twice a week”, he queried? “Is that all?!”
The golfer looks at him in amazement, “Well, I would consider that to be something of a record for a priest residing in a very small parish”.
Mikey raised his glass, “May your thoughts be as glad as the shamrocks. May your heart be as light as a song. May each day bring you bright, happy hours that stay with you all the year long. A happy St Patrick’s Day to you.”
“You know”, said Mikey in an afterthought, “Like the man said, there are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”.
“I have absolutely no faith in doctors, consultant or surgeons”, said Mikey Ryan, “In fact I would go so far as to state publicly that I have no faith in Shannon Doc or even the nursing fraternity as a whole, and I’m including the Health Service Executive (HSE).”
We were above in the Arch Bar in Liberty Square, on our usual little Thursday night soirée, when Mikey first broke the news regarding the predicament his first cousin Dick Palmer (on the wife’s side you understand, but nevertheless a young strapping lad), had found himself in last week.
To cut a long story short, according to Mikey, Dick Palmer had been attending his doctor for a long time, complaining of chronic headaches, latter mostly during the daylight hours. Eventually he was fast tracked back in 2010, and placed on a waiting list to see a brain consultant in February 2018.
I’ll let Mikey takes up the story from here:-
“The consultant says to Dick; Mr Palmer I can cure your headache problem. However, more distressing for you will be the fact that the only cure will require that you be completely castrated”. Mikey continued “You have a very rare condition, which causes your testis to press up against your spine and this constant pressure, in turn, creates the series of headaches you are suffering, during daylight hours. The only way to relieve this pressure, I am afraid, is to remove both testicles”.
“Now”, stated the consultant, “I can set a date to surgically remove your testicles at, shall we say, 10.00am on May 4th 2024, or if you hold Vhi Health Insurance, we can schedule to fit you in for this very necessary surgery, say after lunch today; the cost, including an anaesthetist for this surgery, being about €8,000.”
“Dick’s sudden shock, almost immediately turned to chronic depression”, Mikey declared, “wondering if he had anything worthwhile left to continue his life. Then it dawned on him; money doesn’t grow on trees (Except of course in the case of Marijuana.), and look at all the money he would save into the future, by not having to buy large packets of Panadol tablets every single day. He quickly pulled himself together, realising if the headaches were to subside, he would have no choice but to accept this costly surgery, that very same afternoon.”
Waking up after his surgery, and due to the shortage of trolley’s, not to mention beds in Limerick University Hospital (UHL), he left this overcrowded medical venue for home just four hours later, without any headache, for the first time in 18 years, but nevertheless still feeling he was missing an important part of himself.
As he walked from Thurles Railway Station, down Friar Street, towards Liberty Square, bow legged and imitating the walk of a duck, due to heavy bandaging; he realized that he would have to make a whole new start to constructing a completely different lifestyle.”
He spotted the numerous men’s clothing shop on Friar Street and thought to himself, “Now, what I need is a new suit to begin my new lifestyle“, and on entering the shop he thus informed the salesman of his need.
The elderly salesman eyed Dick up and down briefly, before announcing, “Let’s see, would I be right in stating a size 44 “.
Dick smiled for the first time in 18 years, “That’s right, but how did you know?”
“Ah, sure I’ve been in this business 50 years”, said the salesman as Dick tried on the only remaining Windowpane Check suit, which fitted him like a glove.
As Dick admired himself in the full-length mirror, the salesman asked, “Would Sir be also requiring a shirt perhaps”. Joe thought for a moment and then said, “Ah, sure why not, after all you only live once.”
The salesman eyed Dick and said, “Let’s see, 34 sleeves with a 16½ inch collar?”
Dick was again surprised, “That’s right, how did you know?”
“Ah, sure I’ve been in this business 50 years”, said the salesman
Dick tried on the ‘Gant’ pink shirt, to find it fitted him like a charm. As Dick walked penguin-like around the shop getting a feel for his new clobber, the salesman asked, “How about some new underpants?” Dick thought for a moment before saying, “Sure, in for a penny, in for a pound.”
The salesman stared briefly before declaring “Let’s see …… a size 36.”
Dick smiled, “Ah ha, with all your experience, you’ve got that one wrong, I’ve worn a size 34 since I was about 16 years old”.
The salesman shook his head, “No you can’t have worn a size 34. A size 34 underpants would have pressed your testicles up against the base of your spine and given you one hell of a series of headaches, especially during daylight hours.”
“In the name of everything that’s good and holy, how did you get down in all that snow, Mikey”, said I. Mikey Ryan, had just arrived into the Arch Bar, Liberty Square, here in Thurles, last Thursday night, looking like a walking, live snowman, courtesy of the so called ‘Beast from the East’ blizzard, that was howling outside.
“I’ll try a large hot brandy with a few cloves there Pat”, said Mikey, before turning to me to relate, in fine detail, his most recent escapades. “Jasus”, said he shivering, “Sure I got the mini-bus; feck it if you fell on your arse on the ice out there tonight, it’s not swollen Haemorrhoids you’d catch, more like inflated Polaroids”.
“I’d say you didn’t run into many other humans out and about tonight”, said I.
“To true; only the widow McGrath was with me at the bus stop and complaining as usual“, replied Mikey ” It seems she was making a lot of mistakes while ‘texting’, if you don’t mind, on her; wait for it, iPhone, if you don’t mind, due to the extreme Arctic chill. Sure, you should have seen her bespectacled, ugly phizzog”, Mikey continued, “When I informed her of her urgency to visit an Accident & Emergency unit, as texting mistakes on iPhones are often a preliminary sign of the fatal disease known as ‘Typothermia’.
“So, the widow McGrath bought an iPhone did she”, said I, “Sure I suppose we live in an age nowadays when losing your feckin iPhone is way more sensational than losing your virginity”.
“Talking about Accident & Emergency units and losing your virginity“, said Mikey, “I was down in University Hospital Limerick there last week, to get the results of me tests. And looking around the overcrowded, waiting room, I noticed there were four men in one corner, expecting news regarding their women folk, who were due to give birth.”
He continued “A nurse comes up to the first guy and says, congratulations, you’re the father of twins. That’s odd, says the man, you know that my last work place address use to be “Twins Way”, in Minnesota’s bordering there on Canada and Lake Superior.”
Taking the first sip of his hot brandy Mikey went on, “Another nurse says to the second guy, congratulations, you’re the father of triplets. That’s a weird coincidence answers the second man, I work in 3M Ireland Limited, in Carrickmines, above in Dublin.”
“Then, yet another nurse comes out to inform the third man, congratulations, you’re the father of quadruplets!” Mikey stated, “Jasus, that’s very strange, comments the third man, aren’t I a waiter above in the Four Seasons Hotel & Leisure Club, in Co. Monaghan!”
“The forth man then began groaning, clawing and banging his head against the wall, and it was almost 2 hours later before I found out that he was currently employed as a salesman for 7Up”, Mikey concluded.
“Well Mikey”, said I, “We’ll have one for the road, What will you be having this time?”
My best mate Mikey Ryan failed to turn up in the Arch Bar last Wednesday night, which I found, to say the least, rather unusual. Come to think of it, I hadn’t spotted him all week, so I decided to called over to the house, to discover he was recovering from flu like symptoms.
Despite looking a bit peaky, he informed me that being confined by his doctor to get bed rest, has been a happy and a most rewarding experience.
“How so?”, said I.
“Well”, said Mikey bursting with pride, “I’ve found out how much my wife truly loves me – she’s been thoroughly pleased just to have me confined once again within the bosom of our family.”
“How do you conclude that?” said I
“Well”, said Mikey “Every time our postman; milkman; coal man or dustman come anywhere near our house, she’s running outside shouting “My husband is home! My husband is home!”
“Begod”, said I, “Maybe Mikey you should be really down in Limerick hospital, with that congested chest of yours?”
“Limerick Hospital!”, Mikey raised his voice, “Limerick Hospital me arse; sure there is serious overcrowding down in that place, which has led to calls from them lodgers in the Health Service Executive (HSE) for people to consider all other options, before attending their emergency department. Sure, there was 72 patients waiting for to find a bed down there this afternoon, making it by far the most overcrowded medical facility in the feckin country, and to make things even worse the present minority government and those who voted for them, couldn’t give a feck. Look truly, not enough people in North Tipperary are getting sick, that’s the bloody problem”, Mikey continued.
“By the way”, said Mikey “Mrs Browne, at No. 27, was telling my wife that her husband Paddy is due to undergo some serious medical tests shortly.”
“And what kind of test are being planned for poor Paddy”, I enquired sympathetically.
“Well it is a bit confusing really”, stated Mikey, “But according to Mrs Browne her phone rang yesterday asking to speak to herself. “Hello, may I speak with Mrs Browne, please”, a voice on the other end was heard to say.
“Speaking”, says Mrs Browne.
“Mrs Browne”, said the caller, “This is a consultant here at University Hospital Limerick (UHL). You might recall that your husband Paddy was referred to us here for some blood tests last week?”
“Yes”, replied Mrs Browne, in anticipation of results.
“Well”, said the caller, “I regret to inform you that when the laboratory attendant received Mr Browne’s blood sample, a further blood sample arrived from another Mr Browne, and we are now uncertain as to which sample was actually your husband’s. Either way it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that both results are not very promising in the long term.”
“What do you mean?”, Mrs Browne queried, her voice shaking.
“Well, one of these tests proved positive for Alzheimer’s, and the other test was positive for Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS), said the caller, “And I regret to bring you the news that we can’t tell which disease is actually applicable to your husband.”
“That’s dreadful!”, exclaimed Mrs Browne. “But can’t you do the test again?”
“Normally we could, but the Health Service Executive (HSE) and the Minister at the Department of Health, due to cutbacks and overcrowding, are only prepared to pay the costs for one of these extremely expensive blood tests.”
“And what are you suggesting that I should do now?”, requested an angry Mrs Browne.
“My medical colleagues and I at UHL”, continued the caller, “Would suggest that the best scenario would be to drop your husband off somewhere in the middle of the hills above the Upperchurch or the Kilcommon area of Co. Tipperary and if he manages to find his way home unassisted, we suggest you don’t sleep with him in the same bed for the foreseeable future.”
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