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The Gness Holiday Diaries (Part 5)
9 Answers
I left the stage of the hotel to rapturous applause and wolf63 whistles, the officials still in disarray from their plummet to the floor; well what a stupid place to put a support pole. They need our The Builder to sort them out.
Back to the cottage and a celebratory Guinness, a cold lobster salad (not the lobster’s that had been hanging off Captain Haddock’s oily crotch) and I was well sated, music courtesy of the Redman and Rowan duet, a local variety of Sunny and Cher, playing ukulele, concertina and harp, singing like choral anngels or as if sibton was a choir girl and owdhamer a choir boy.
Talking of choir boys, my old friend, Dermott, came around and many a prank we had played as teenagers, like dressing up or whitewashing all the statues in Sneem and, girl, was the village full of monuments. Anybody famous was commemorated, some conventionally such as Crusher Casey and President Ó Dálaigh but then we had the ubiquitous range of Christs, such as the one in St Michael’s, and the really bizarre, the goddess Isis, the awful de Gaulle memorial and then a panda, yes, a fecking panda in the middle of Ireland, some donation from China.
As we tanked up on the Guinness and then a new bottle of Shannon Grain Single Malt, we turned to giggling and next thing we were out in the shed, scratching around for whitewash and brushes. Success, though the wash wasn’t white, 45 minutes later, Sneem had acquired a lime-green Panda, Crusher and Ó Dálaigh as a testament to Gness’s and Dermott’s artistic contribution to the Festival.
Talking of choir boys, Dermott had been a chorister in St Michael’s under the tuition of Father Diarmuid óCléirigh, a Venator-like Pope character when we were wee, however he was one of those priests and lecherous wasn’t even in it.
The number of times Dermott came home to be bundled into the cupboard and then, one evening, a man joined him in there, Dermott saying that it was dark in here to which the man said, “Yes”. Dermott seized his chance and asked him if he wanted to buy his hurling ball, the sliotar. The man had replied “How much then?” “Twenty punt,” he had replied. The unknown man coming back with “twenty, you must be joking” to which Dermott said, “My old man will be waiting outside.”
This extortion turned out to be profitable for pocket money and, soon, Dermott was back under the stairs, the man joining him again and, this time, eighty punt was extracted under the same premise for the hurley. Shortly after though, his old man had suggested that they knocked the sliotar around in the garden and Dermott had to say that he had sold it and his hurley stick. His Dad had exploded with fury,m mentioning the word extortion and dragging him down to St Michael’s for confession.
Dermott had entered the cubicle and when he realised that Father Diarmud was there, next door, he said “It’s dark in here!” The response came “Don’t you be bloody well starting that crap again.”
Diarmuid’s hands went to more than women though, and Dermott realised this. We decided on a course of pre-emptive action, Dermott entering the confession box one Saturday pm when Sneemers were fishing, drinking or sleeping and duly luring the Father in to shedding his breeks. Yours truly was behind the box with some gunpowder taken from Uncle Sean’s shotgun cartridges, a magnesium strip and copper chloride and lycopdium powder,, “borrowed” from School, this to add to the pyrotechnic, smoke and, best of all, the fireball effect.
On the given moment, Dermott exited rapidly, I ignited the pile, the fireball shot under the Confessional and boom, struck the Father, and the most almighty “Bang” and smoke everywhere. The last we saw of the Father was him streaking up Church Street, trousers down, blackened, cassock on fire, a look of commensurate horror and the clientele of Hickey’s and Dan Murphy’s bar, sitting outside, looking on at this Father Ted cum Jack Hackett figure diving into a nearby water barrel to extinguish the flames.
Back to the cottage and a celebratory Guinness, a cold lobster salad (not the lobster’s that had been hanging off Captain Haddock’s oily crotch) and I was well sated, music courtesy of the Redman and Rowan duet, a local variety of Sunny and Cher, playing ukulele, concertina and harp, singing like choral anngels or as if sibton was a choir girl and owdhamer a choir boy.
Talking of choir boys, my old friend, Dermott, came around and many a prank we had played as teenagers, like dressing up or whitewashing all the statues in Sneem and, girl, was the village full of monuments. Anybody famous was commemorated, some conventionally such as Crusher Casey and President Ó Dálaigh but then we had the ubiquitous range of Christs, such as the one in St Michael’s, and the really bizarre, the goddess Isis, the awful de Gaulle memorial and then a panda, yes, a fecking panda in the middle of Ireland, some donation from China.
As we tanked up on the Guinness and then a new bottle of Shannon Grain Single Malt, we turned to giggling and next thing we were out in the shed, scratching around for whitewash and brushes. Success, though the wash wasn’t white, 45 minutes later, Sneem had acquired a lime-green Panda, Crusher and Ó Dálaigh as a testament to Gness’s and Dermott’s artistic contribution to the Festival.
Talking of choir boys, Dermott had been a chorister in St Michael’s under the tuition of Father Diarmuid óCléirigh, a Venator-like Pope character when we were wee, however he was one of those priests and lecherous wasn’t even in it.
The number of times Dermott came home to be bundled into the cupboard and then, one evening, a man joined him in there, Dermott saying that it was dark in here to which the man said, “Yes”. Dermott seized his chance and asked him if he wanted to buy his hurling ball, the sliotar. The man had replied “How much then?” “Twenty punt,” he had replied. The unknown man coming back with “twenty, you must be joking” to which Dermott said, “My old man will be waiting outside.”
This extortion turned out to be profitable for pocket money and, soon, Dermott was back under the stairs, the man joining him again and, this time, eighty punt was extracted under the same premise for the hurley. Shortly after though, his old man had suggested that they knocked the sliotar around in the garden and Dermott had to say that he had sold it and his hurley stick. His Dad had exploded with fury,m mentioning the word extortion and dragging him down to St Michael’s for confession.
Dermott had entered the cubicle and when he realised that Father Diarmud was there, next door, he said “It’s dark in here!” The response came “Don’t you be bloody well starting that crap again.”
Diarmuid’s hands went to more than women though, and Dermott realised this. We decided on a course of pre-emptive action, Dermott entering the confession box one Saturday pm when Sneemers were fishing, drinking or sleeping and duly luring the Father in to shedding his breeks. Yours truly was behind the box with some gunpowder taken from Uncle Sean’s shotgun cartridges, a magnesium strip and copper chloride and lycopdium powder,, “borrowed” from School, this to add to the pyrotechnic, smoke and, best of all, the fireball effect.
On the given moment, Dermott exited rapidly, I ignited the pile, the fireball shot under the Confessional and boom, struck the Father, and the most almighty “Bang” and smoke everywhere. The last we saw of the Father was him streaking up Church Street, trousers down, blackened, cassock on fire, a look of commensurate horror and the clientele of Hickey’s and Dan Murphy’s bar, sitting outside, looking on at this Father Ted cum Jack Hackett figure diving into a nearby water barrel to extinguish the flames.
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Indeed those were the days.
Talking of farce and fun, this conveniently brings me to my second reading to the Festival, earlier this morning before we head back to AB land, my discourse on Goat Herding, the principle text being:
“The Fundamentals of Goat Rearing”
My Tony, ever-armed with a Saab wagon
Owned six randy old effing goats
Like their boss, their prowess, 'mid the bracken
There was every right for the goats to gloat.
The she-goats of the AB nation
Tony would see that they'd have a ball;
For a small remuneration
For Minty, Lady J, Sibs, me and all.
Like a karenmac haggis around the mountain
Tony’s reputation certainly spread,
And nanny-goats past countin'
With Alba-twine were duly led
The goatish bucks could fairly rise
They serviced large and small
A goatman in heat looking for the shooty prize
Tony pranced around their stall.
His goatish prowess was discussed across AB Land
Amongst the Sloopy River and the WyeDyed hills.
In places like Nungate Towers and the Ibiza strand
Tony, so well known for his bum and ibex thrills
When Minty and Lady J came to tape him
He was on the floor wanting more
Gals like desktops aspired to ape him
In every Welsh Waitrose grocery store.
Some AB troll no doubt jealous
Told a Mod of the Ab-Ed State,
Who with PC and I-pod, over-zealous,
Arrived at Tony's front gate.
" An illicit goatish escort agency has been reported,
I must check out the thread and call".
"I'm guilty" Tony retorted
"My bum's against the wall".
The Ed went through exacting Chuckficken tests
With MarkRae invasive techniques old and new,
And passed them all, despite their purple Tony vests
And with sunnydave colours too.
Tony registered his goats with Minty in good Auld Reekie
As a stud-goat keeper, he could now walk tall:
His rear end truly large and bibble cheeky
AB status he had sought, despite those who hoped he'd fall
Now trading with brazen ummmmm impunity
Tonyav could plainly see
His golden Venator opportunity
To double up his “tiggs and tinks” mating fee.
The Gness shed goat-house he had recently slated
With excelsior mating lights and all
And the price (in AOG Euros) clearly stated
The Board fixed upside down on the 4getmenot rubble wall.
Soon came an old AB reliable
Douglas Highland-Moo with female goat and chequebook too.
Tony’s new operation seemed more than viable
But wait 'till Gness tells you;
That the Minty’s Herdsman decided he'd relax
And languished with a Redman beer in the sex stall
While a Triggs breeding licence stamped with wax
Hung framed above him high on the Bluestone wall.
As more AB clients at the Goat Breeding junction
Queued now with some Baldric chagrin
Ibex Erectile dysfunction
Appeared to have more than set in.
Minty and Lady J coaxed Tony and his goats by being placid,
Then Mrs O began to roar and bawl,
But Tony and his goats remained quite flaccid;
They wouldn't rise at all.
Said Minty " My little mating earners
Have turned out a veritable nibble farce"
And growing ever starbuckone sterner
She couldn’t miss and kicked Tony in his arse.
Tony and Goats glanced sideways, ever so nervous,
At the AB-Ed’s certificate and badge on the wall.
"Now I'm in the AB Civil Service
I'm supposed to do feck-all".
A second kick, so well placed, into Tony’s crotch by Lady J
Got everything once more hard and moving again
And the Goats out of their Horseshores’ hay.
Nannies covered and readies flowing to our female middlemen.
The moral of this long-winded story
If you are going to keep a Tony and his goats
Kick them all so often to keep them randy and amatory
And never let them slack near Nungate’s or Lady A’s regal moats.
What a lovely holiday this has been, the fun and games, the number of memories resurrected from deep in the old grey matter. True fun – see you soon folk, when I stagger off the Pope's plane (do we have any AB pilots - other than seadogg & sloopy?) to make it home to you.
Talking of farce and fun, this conveniently brings me to my second reading to the Festival, earlier this morning before we head back to AB land, my discourse on Goat Herding, the principle text being:
“The Fundamentals of Goat Rearing”
My Tony, ever-armed with a Saab wagon
Owned six randy old effing goats
Like their boss, their prowess, 'mid the bracken
There was every right for the goats to gloat.
The she-goats of the AB nation
Tony would see that they'd have a ball;
For a small remuneration
For Minty, Lady J, Sibs, me and all.
Like a karenmac haggis around the mountain
Tony’s reputation certainly spread,
And nanny-goats past countin'
With Alba-twine were duly led
The goatish bucks could fairly rise
They serviced large and small
A goatman in heat looking for the shooty prize
Tony pranced around their stall.
His goatish prowess was discussed across AB Land
Amongst the Sloopy River and the WyeDyed hills.
In places like Nungate Towers and the Ibiza strand
Tony, so well known for his bum and ibex thrills
When Minty and Lady J came to tape him
He was on the floor wanting more
Gals like desktops aspired to ape him
In every Welsh Waitrose grocery store.
Some AB troll no doubt jealous
Told a Mod of the Ab-Ed State,
Who with PC and I-pod, over-zealous,
Arrived at Tony's front gate.
" An illicit goatish escort agency has been reported,
I must check out the thread and call".
"I'm guilty" Tony retorted
"My bum's against the wall".
The Ed went through exacting Chuckficken tests
With MarkRae invasive techniques old and new,
And passed them all, despite their purple Tony vests
And with sunnydave colours too.
Tony registered his goats with Minty in good Auld Reekie
As a stud-goat keeper, he could now walk tall:
His rear end truly large and bibble cheeky
AB status he had sought, despite those who hoped he'd fall
Now trading with brazen ummmmm impunity
Tonyav could plainly see
His golden Venator opportunity
To double up his “tiggs and tinks” mating fee.
The Gness shed goat-house he had recently slated
With excelsior mating lights and all
And the price (in AOG Euros) clearly stated
The Board fixed upside down on the 4getmenot rubble wall.
Soon came an old AB reliable
Douglas Highland-Moo with female goat and chequebook too.
Tony’s new operation seemed more than viable
But wait 'till Gness tells you;
That the Minty’s Herdsman decided he'd relax
And languished with a Redman beer in the sex stall
While a Triggs breeding licence stamped with wax
Hung framed above him high on the Bluestone wall.
As more AB clients at the Goat Breeding junction
Queued now with some Baldric chagrin
Ibex Erectile dysfunction
Appeared to have more than set in.
Minty and Lady J coaxed Tony and his goats by being placid,
Then Mrs O began to roar and bawl,
But Tony and his goats remained quite flaccid;
They wouldn't rise at all.
Said Minty " My little mating earners
Have turned out a veritable nibble farce"
And growing ever starbuckone sterner
She couldn’t miss and kicked Tony in his arse.
Tony and Goats glanced sideways, ever so nervous,
At the AB-Ed’s certificate and badge on the wall.
"Now I'm in the AB Civil Service
I'm supposed to do feck-all".
A second kick, so well placed, into Tony’s crotch by Lady J
Got everything once more hard and moving again
And the Goats out of their Horseshores’ hay.
Nannies covered and readies flowing to our female middlemen.
The moral of this long-winded story
If you are going to keep a Tony and his goats
Kick them all so often to keep them randy and amatory
And never let them slack near Nungate’s or Lady A’s regal moats.
What a lovely holiday this has been, the fun and games, the number of memories resurrected from deep in the old grey matter. True fun – see you soon folk, when I stagger off the Pope's plane (do we have any AB pilots - other than seadogg & sloopy?) to make it home to you.
No need to hide DT. Though I think you may have been in Sneem this week? Would Dermot and I paint the statues? Well probably the bloody Panda and the metal tents! Never Crusher though....where do you think I get my strength?
And you obviously know about our two famous priests. ;-)
Thank you for this.......Gx
And you obviously know about our two famous priests. ;-)
Thank you for this.......Gx
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