Thurles Information

I wouldn’t have been in Monk’s public house in Mitchel Street, Thurles, at that time on a St Patrick’s Day, in the first place, were it not for the wife.

Let me explain. There I was sitting peacefully at home checking the ‘Situations Vacant ‘ column in the Tipperary Star, intent on heading for the Thurles parade, when she swooped like a bird of prey.

Moving quietly in from behind, the ungrateful wretch savagely cracked me on the back of the head with, of all things, the good large metal frying pan I had bought her as a birthday gift.

Now, yelping in excruciating pain, I politely asked,”What was that for?”

With a face on her that was reminiscent of a bulldog chewing a wasp, she replied, “That’s for the piece of paper I found with the name Roseanna written on it, just before I threw your trousers in the wash?.”  Dodging her next swing I quickly explained, “You stupid woman, remember yesterday when I went to the Thurles races, ‘Roseanna’ was the favourite running in the 4.30 Machlochlainn Road Marking’s Kinloch Brea Chase.”

She halted on her downward swipe with the pan, delaying what was designed to deliver that final killer blow and from the corner of her eye, I foolishly believed I had caught a slight glimmer of possibly guilt, mixed with a tinge of remorse, for this, her sudden and unwarranted outburst.

Music Courtesy of Sharon Shannon and Mundy.

Now dissecting every word of my explanation, carefully like a female Sherlock Holmes, she slowly turned and walked off to continue her housework, leaving me with what I now recognise as being a ‘false sense of security.’

I use the word ‘false ‘ deliberately because about thirty minutes later, as I dozed in the comfort of my own favourite arm chair, digesting the corn beef and cabbage that I had eaten earlier, she struck again, this time more violently, with the same ‘birthday present.’

Jumping up half dazed, but with the presence of mind, to put the kitchen table between her and me, I yelled. “You ould bag, What’s that for this time?,” She sneeringly replied, as she swung again “Your favourite horse just rang on the phone.”

Despite severe concussion, but in the interest of instinctive self preservation, I made a quick exit via the open back door and keeping an eye on my rear flank, for fear she should make another sudden sneak attack, I fled in retreat to the sanctuary of the Monk’s pub.

I knew I would be safe there until she cooled down, as the wife has been barred from this fine licensed hostelry since I foolishly hosted her last birthday outing. It was on this annual occasion that she, to my great public embarrassment, seriously assaulted the landlord. It was some casual remark he had made, in her ear shot, during a perfectly civilised conversation on the popular topic ‘equality of the sexes.‘ It was generally agree by all the men who dragged her kicking, biting and screaming off the unfortunate bruised and bleeding landlord, that her sudden attack was totally unwarranted. What the poor man had said, during the course of his deliberation on that topic was a fair point “If God had wanted women to be equal to men, he would have given them brains.”

Now nursing a pounding head ache, I straightened the bunch of shamrock in the pen pocket of my jacket and ordered a slow pint, while surveying the almost deserted ‘snug.’
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