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The Gness Holiday Diaries (Part 2)
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Two Garda Síochána officers stood menacingly over the car, if you could call the Trotter-mobile that we were travelling in a car, it was more like something that you would see Ratter and Carakeel travelling in, wending their way through the tight-arsed lanes of North Devon, their wolves in the back.
One was female, the other, one of the first men, other than my fellow passengers and crew that I had seen since landing, both Gardaí dressed in their two-toned grey ill-fitting uniforms, something that ought to feature in my forthcoming reading on “Tony’s 50 Shades of Grey Paint”, the effect destroyed by the neon-nuclear green jackets, a colour that would make great curtain fabric for my guest room back at the château, Gnessthrop House.
In front of them was a temporary, large, royal-blue sign with white lettering “Garda - Timpiste i ndéanamh; Gness scaolilte” or “Police – Accident in the making – Gness on the loose.” I ask you, what untold brazen Baldric cheek.
The female approached me and I levered down the louvered window.
“I guess that you are Gness then?”
“Aah, yes Maam. What’s the reason for this?”
“Well first of all to welcome you back to Kerry, secondly to advise you that we have advised all local men, be they farmers, fishermen, postmen, electricians, undertakers or priests to go to ground for the next six days, unless they are into sado-masochism or Opus-Dei style flagellation.”
“He’s a man, standing next to you and in uniform too.”
“Sorry, to tell you but he’s a castrato. Your second cousin, Caoimhe, nobbled him six years ago when gutting sea trout thinking that his member was a cod piece.”
“Good gal that she is; nice to see the Gness family living up to family traditions.I hadn’t heard about that one, just the knobbling of Farther McCreary at the altar during communion in Glenbeigh.”
“Be on your way, and keep your elbows and knees to yourself and there’ll be no trouble or visits from us. Here’s a bottle of Guinness to keep you going.”
The police officer flicked off the top of the black bottle with her teeth, spitting the metal cap at her eunuch mate. I smiled, accepted her gift and said, I’ll try, Officer. Little did she know that there was more to Gness male-maiming than elbows and knees, and that the lesser species usually did it to themselves. Just ask Tony.
Two hours and two pubs later, ostensibly for a gness-wee in the porcelain bucket, we made Sneem, the darkened streets masking the tartan decorated house, the rest in ever-so-subtle bright hues of the rainbows guaranteed to help and Irish man or woman home when tanked up on whatever hooch that they had been drinking. Redman and Rowan would be in ninth heaven here, Sqad too with the recommendation of Ibuprofen and his commissions accruing from the sales through Keogh Donal’s Sneem pharmacy (and many others conveniently serving ABers).
The cottage was nice and warm, the karenmac hewn peat fire smouldering, the paraffin lamps lit, the Guinness beer barrels that served to double up as chairs, topped with their black Guinness cushions, the original oil painting by Seamus O’Toole of the Mother Mary smashing up Joseph’s attempt at indoor carpentry on the living room wall, the familiar Gness testicular-smashing shillelagh above the fireplace with its remnants of various Paddywak’s and MicMak’s goolies hanging off the firm, hard ebony shaft with their silver tags of where and when the act was enacted.
This was home.
Then there was the coffee table with a glass of Bantry water, six cans of Guinness lying there ready to be opened and one of these new fandangled Guinness surgers.
“What the hell is this?” as I looked at it.
My daughter, bless her, fixed up the Guinness glass on the base of the surger, having poured it, then pressed the surge button to pass me the smoothest of Guinnesses.
“Holy Mother of Allah, the havoc I can wreak with this on AB men, Brilliant. Baldric, Excelsior, Sqad, Factor, in addition to the regulars, watch out!
To be continued.
One was female, the other, one of the first men, other than my fellow passengers and crew that I had seen since landing, both Gardaí dressed in their two-toned grey ill-fitting uniforms, something that ought to feature in my forthcoming reading on “Tony’s 50 Shades of Grey Paint”, the effect destroyed by the neon-nuclear green jackets, a colour that would make great curtain fabric for my guest room back at the château, Gnessthrop House.
In front of them was a temporary, large, royal-blue sign with white lettering “Garda - Timpiste i ndéanamh; Gness scaolilte” or “Police – Accident in the making – Gness on the loose.” I ask you, what untold brazen Baldric cheek.
The female approached me and I levered down the louvered window.
“I guess that you are Gness then?”
“Aah, yes Maam. What’s the reason for this?”
“Well first of all to welcome you back to Kerry, secondly to advise you that we have advised all local men, be they farmers, fishermen, postmen, electricians, undertakers or priests to go to ground for the next six days, unless they are into sado-masochism or Opus-Dei style flagellation.”
“He’s a man, standing next to you and in uniform too.”
“Sorry, to tell you but he’s a castrato. Your second cousin, Caoimhe, nobbled him six years ago when gutting sea trout thinking that his member was a cod piece.”
“Good gal that she is; nice to see the Gness family living up to family traditions.I hadn’t heard about that one, just the knobbling of Farther McCreary at the altar during communion in Glenbeigh.”
“Be on your way, and keep your elbows and knees to yourself and there’ll be no trouble or visits from us. Here’s a bottle of Guinness to keep you going.”
The police officer flicked off the top of the black bottle with her teeth, spitting the metal cap at her eunuch mate. I smiled, accepted her gift and said, I’ll try, Officer. Little did she know that there was more to Gness male-maiming than elbows and knees, and that the lesser species usually did it to themselves. Just ask Tony.
Two hours and two pubs later, ostensibly for a gness-wee in the porcelain bucket, we made Sneem, the darkened streets masking the tartan decorated house, the rest in ever-so-subtle bright hues of the rainbows guaranteed to help and Irish man or woman home when tanked up on whatever hooch that they had been drinking. Redman and Rowan would be in ninth heaven here, Sqad too with the recommendation of Ibuprofen and his commissions accruing from the sales through Keogh Donal’s Sneem pharmacy (and many others conveniently serving ABers).
The cottage was nice and warm, the karenmac hewn peat fire smouldering, the paraffin lamps lit, the Guinness beer barrels that served to double up as chairs, topped with their black Guinness cushions, the original oil painting by Seamus O’Toole of the Mother Mary smashing up Joseph’s attempt at indoor carpentry on the living room wall, the familiar Gness testicular-smashing shillelagh above the fireplace with its remnants of various Paddywak’s and MicMak’s goolies hanging off the firm, hard ebony shaft with their silver tags of where and when the act was enacted.
This was home.
Then there was the coffee table with a glass of Bantry water, six cans of Guinness lying there ready to be opened and one of these new fandangled Guinness surgers.
“What the hell is this?” as I looked at it.
My daughter, bless her, fixed up the Guinness glass on the base of the surger, having poured it, then pressed the surge button to pass me the smoothest of Guinnesses.
“Holy Mother of Allah, the havoc I can wreak with this on AB men, Brilliant. Baldric, Excelsior, Sqad, Factor, in addition to the regulars, watch out!
To be continued.
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