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The Gness Holiday Diaries (Part 4)
16 Answers
“Lordy Be” as I say to Sibs and Lady J when Tone misbehaves - Lamb for the first course, marinaded in the “pipeline” Guinness and then roasted off by my daughter, bless her, using some of the Horsehoes hay off the floor as the bed to the roasting pan, and sea trout and salmon as a starter. What more could an Irish girl ask for, other than a hunk of a Kerry Islander in the sack.
That almost arrived with Captain O’Haddock as we called him, who had left Sneem as a spotty sixteen year old to migrate to Lottie Country and work in the Bird’s Eye factory in Great Yarmouth, reaching the heady heights of Chief Breadcrumber before returning to Sneem to fish illicitly, with a sideline in smuggling. His views on the EU made AOG and youngmafbog look like fervent Marxists. Anything one needed, Haddock could fish it up on a plaice, a neo-Irish version of Private Joe Walker, dressed in his fishing spivs and a green Sou-wester hat covered in spit and nicotine. I could imagine waterboatman dressed like this, the greenness intense as an alba hue.
When he was young, he was pretty hot at tickling fish and spearing lobsters, doing impressions of a bullheaded shark, or an Irish torpedo, underwater. His talent with his fingers did not extend to handling a young woman like myself and I had remembered that, putting on my special electric-eel underwear that, on the press of a button in my pocket imparted two hundred thousand volts into any such invader with “Desert Disease” (uncontrolled wandering palms). Sqad is more than au fait with this illness but Ibuprofen, Sqad, does not work in this case.
We set off for an afternoon in the creek, his tub of the boat known as “The Battered Bream” and certainly it was that, scraped, dented and covered in the equivalent of nautical Band-Aids. So were a lot of other vessels in the harbour as O’Haddock’s nautical skills and his propensity for Dingle Irish Whiskey did not mix well, at all!. In fact, the only things on his boat that weren’t damaged were the bottle and his whiskey glasses, engraved with “Grá, Dílseacht, Cairdeas” (Love, Loyalty, Friendship) and that summed old Haddock fillets up aptly.
We crashed our way out to the sound, knocking eight of the literary visitors into the water in one prang and another that left the Bus Eireann passengers stranded – what they were doing on a boat when it was advertised as a bus tour, heaven who knows. However, yours truly kept her head down, as she didn’t want to be recognised when she went onto stage for her recitals over the weekend.
A visit to Quinn’s Dingle Farm Fisheries and we had three good grasscarps, trout and salmon in less than five minutes and then we traversed the water to Aedan Brennan’s lobster pots. I must say at school I had not liked Aedan that much and got into trouble with Sister Dana and her vicious stormtrooper-nuns who had made the Garda look amateurs in criminal torture. I was caught dressing him in a pink dress and matching ribbons in his hair, with the threat that, if he did not comply after trying to grope me, his proverbials would be down his throat if he tried to stop me dressing him à la Zac.
O’Haddock went into the pot, opened it and before I knew it, the blue-brown primeval monsters were jumping out of their confines to grab him right in the goolies with their enormous pincer-claws. I must admit to rolling around the floor like mrs O (where is she?) as four lobsters hung there, dangling of his Irish crotch as if he had four Birds' Eye fish fingers attached there, while O’Haddock writhed around the deck in agony.
These lobsters would taste good, when baked off with a Boxtop-recommended Ohaddockidore sauce……..Dinner was gooood – four pints of black milk to add to my sossing and the sounds of Naomi & the Factors playing their Uilleann Pipes, fiddle, tin whistles and Bodhrán & Bones, made from DTC’s sheep’s scrotals.
That almost arrived with Captain O’Haddock as we called him, who had left Sneem as a spotty sixteen year old to migrate to Lottie Country and work in the Bird’s Eye factory in Great Yarmouth, reaching the heady heights of Chief Breadcrumber before returning to Sneem to fish illicitly, with a sideline in smuggling. His views on the EU made AOG and youngmafbog look like fervent Marxists. Anything one needed, Haddock could fish it up on a plaice, a neo-Irish version of Private Joe Walker, dressed in his fishing spivs and a green Sou-wester hat covered in spit and nicotine. I could imagine waterboatman dressed like this, the greenness intense as an alba hue.
When he was young, he was pretty hot at tickling fish and spearing lobsters, doing impressions of a bullheaded shark, or an Irish torpedo, underwater. His talent with his fingers did not extend to handling a young woman like myself and I had remembered that, putting on my special electric-eel underwear that, on the press of a button in my pocket imparted two hundred thousand volts into any such invader with “Desert Disease” (uncontrolled wandering palms). Sqad is more than au fait with this illness but Ibuprofen, Sqad, does not work in this case.
We set off for an afternoon in the creek, his tub of the boat known as “The Battered Bream” and certainly it was that, scraped, dented and covered in the equivalent of nautical Band-Aids. So were a lot of other vessels in the harbour as O’Haddock’s nautical skills and his propensity for Dingle Irish Whiskey did not mix well, at all!. In fact, the only things on his boat that weren’t damaged were the bottle and his whiskey glasses, engraved with “Grá, Dílseacht, Cairdeas” (Love, Loyalty, Friendship) and that summed old Haddock fillets up aptly.
We crashed our way out to the sound, knocking eight of the literary visitors into the water in one prang and another that left the Bus Eireann passengers stranded – what they were doing on a boat when it was advertised as a bus tour, heaven who knows. However, yours truly kept her head down, as she didn’t want to be recognised when she went onto stage for her recitals over the weekend.
A visit to Quinn’s Dingle Farm Fisheries and we had three good grasscarps, trout and salmon in less than five minutes and then we traversed the water to Aedan Brennan’s lobster pots. I must say at school I had not liked Aedan that much and got into trouble with Sister Dana and her vicious stormtrooper-nuns who had made the Garda look amateurs in criminal torture. I was caught dressing him in a pink dress and matching ribbons in his hair, with the threat that, if he did not comply after trying to grope me, his proverbials would be down his throat if he tried to stop me dressing him à la Zac.
O’Haddock went into the pot, opened it and before I knew it, the blue-brown primeval monsters were jumping out of their confines to grab him right in the goolies with their enormous pincer-claws. I must admit to rolling around the floor like mrs O (where is she?) as four lobsters hung there, dangling of his Irish crotch as if he had four Birds' Eye fish fingers attached there, while O’Haddock writhed around the deck in agony.
These lobsters would taste good, when baked off with a Boxtop-recommended Ohaddockidore sauce……..Dinner was gooood – four pints of black milk to add to my sossing and the sounds of Naomi & the Factors playing their Uilleann Pipes, fiddle, tin whistles and Bodhrán & Bones, made from DTC’s sheep’s scrotals.
Answers
1 to 16 of 16
You're a dead man DT, excellent and very brave
13:48 Sat 10th Nov 2012
We now come to why I came back to Sneem with my daughter. This was apart from seeing dubious family members still living in the area, not forgetting those six feet under, except for Uncle Sean; he had his body float off in a Montgolfier balloon, out over Ireland in a Force 6; rumour had it to eventually “land” on Lundy, scaring the crap out of the Puffins. Of course, all Sneemies are related, closely, the Casey family, full of rowers and wrestlers including “Crusher” who was world champ, the Melvilles – imagine an Irish man bossing the Brit Secret Service, the Gnesses, and our ex Irish President. More on that tomorrow….as there was something else that linked us together.
But it was the literary festival I was here for, my first turn at the Sneem hotel, after the opening ceremony led by the Irish Minister o’farts, heritage and the Geltacht, one Jimmy Deenihan, who I once kissed on the number 6 Sligo bus.
Once we got over all that baza, and the Irish concertinist, Sean O’D-Dyer and legendary Cork singer and storyteller, Sean Notso Sane, acts, the real fest opened up. As it was an International & Local events, I fitted into both boats, so to speak. I was put right upfront on the list. Talking of the boats, I saw the wreckage of the earlier expedition and at least they were alive, if not somewhat beaten up and two men still with partly-deflated life jackets and fish hanging out of their pockets. At least I wasn’t recognised by them.
I was introduced with too much ceremony from Batty Burns, my old teacher and Maitre-D or whatever you call a seanachaí chair. All I know is that I, Gness, walked onto the stage to huge applause and, in going to get a high chair to sit on, I caught a pole and kicked it,thereby bringing the whole stage down with a thunderous bang, and leaving the committee in complete chaos as their limbs and papers went everywhere.
To even more rapturous applause, laughter and cries of “She’s back, the Maitresse of Maim is back with us!” I climbed on to the four foot high-stool and steeled myself, a quick slug of Jamesons, my left hand ready with a cig as I impersonated Dave Allen and I launched into my poems featuring 50 Shades, the noise behind me quietening down, the spotits on me.
Here is my final ode, in addition to the one I shared yesterday. I had DTC write this number to my brief, to “impersonate” Tony, as if you could copy a goat-man under the subjugation of myself, Mrs O, Sibs, Minty, Lady J etc. Keeps the boys out of mischief.
Gness bought a paperback
Down in Waterstones on Saturday,
I had a wee peep in her bag;
'Twas “Fifty Shades of Grey."
Well I just left her to it,
And at eleven I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The very sight filled me with dread.
Cami on, her left hand held some rope;
And in her right a Tilly whip!
She threw them down upon the floor,
And then she began to strip.
Well thirty years or so ago
I might have had a peek;
Just like her mate Ann, Gness has weathered well;
Exploding Cake, she’s sixty one next week.
Watching Gness bump and grind
brought back family stories so much grimmer.
My grandma with her plumber went from bad to worse;
She managed to topple off her Zimmer!
She struggled back up, upon her feet
A couple of minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said
That he must dominate her!
Now if you ever knew my maiming Gran,
You would see just why I spluttered,
I’d spent the last two months in traction
For the last complaint to Gness that I’d uttered.
Gness stood there nude, just naked like,
Bent forward just a bit ….
“Dominate me” - I took a pace to brace myself
And stood on her little left tit!
Gness screamed, her teeth almost shot out;
My god what had I really done?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
“Step on the other one and your massive bollies are gone!”
Well Folk, I won't tell no more
What happened on that day.
Suffice to say her Irish red hair
Turned “Fifty shades of Grey”.
Looking forward until tomorrow!
But it was the literary festival I was here for, my first turn at the Sneem hotel, after the opening ceremony led by the Irish Minister o’farts, heritage and the Geltacht, one Jimmy Deenihan, who I once kissed on the number 6 Sligo bus.
Once we got over all that baza, and the Irish concertinist, Sean O’D-Dyer and legendary Cork singer and storyteller, Sean Notso Sane, acts, the real fest opened up. As it was an International & Local events, I fitted into both boats, so to speak. I was put right upfront on the list. Talking of the boats, I saw the wreckage of the earlier expedition and at least they were alive, if not somewhat beaten up and two men still with partly-deflated life jackets and fish hanging out of their pockets. At least I wasn’t recognised by them.
I was introduced with too much ceremony from Batty Burns, my old teacher and Maitre-D or whatever you call a seanachaí chair. All I know is that I, Gness, walked onto the stage to huge applause and, in going to get a high chair to sit on, I caught a pole and kicked it,thereby bringing the whole stage down with a thunderous bang, and leaving the committee in complete chaos as their limbs and papers went everywhere.
To even more rapturous applause, laughter and cries of “She’s back, the Maitresse of Maim is back with us!” I climbed on to the four foot high-stool and steeled myself, a quick slug of Jamesons, my left hand ready with a cig as I impersonated Dave Allen and I launched into my poems featuring 50 Shades, the noise behind me quietening down, the spotits on me.
Here is my final ode, in addition to the one I shared yesterday. I had DTC write this number to my brief, to “impersonate” Tony, as if you could copy a goat-man under the subjugation of myself, Mrs O, Sibs, Minty, Lady J etc. Keeps the boys out of mischief.
Gness bought a paperback
Down in Waterstones on Saturday,
I had a wee peep in her bag;
'Twas “Fifty Shades of Grey."
Well I just left her to it,
And at eleven I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The very sight filled me with dread.
Cami on, her left hand held some rope;
And in her right a Tilly whip!
She threw them down upon the floor,
And then she began to strip.
Well thirty years or so ago
I might have had a peek;
Just like her mate Ann, Gness has weathered well;
Exploding Cake, she’s sixty one next week.
Watching Gness bump and grind
brought back family stories so much grimmer.
My grandma with her plumber went from bad to worse;
She managed to topple off her Zimmer!
She struggled back up, upon her feet
A couple of minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said
That he must dominate her!
Now if you ever knew my maiming Gran,
You would see just why I spluttered,
I’d spent the last two months in traction
For the last complaint to Gness that I’d uttered.
Gness stood there nude, just naked like,
Bent forward just a bit ….
“Dominate me” - I took a pace to brace myself
And stood on her little left tit!
Gness screamed, her teeth almost shot out;
My god what had I really done?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
“Step on the other one and your massive bollies are gone!”
Well Folk, I won't tell no more
What happened on that day.
Suffice to say her Irish red hair
Turned “Fifty shades of Grey”.
Looking forward until tomorrow!
// I impersonated Dave Allen and I launched into my poems featuring 50 Shades//
Talking of 50 shades ................ I received this on an email yesterday - brilliant. Very naughty (for my prim standards! ;) but very funny :)
TO ALL MEN ...........
The novel "Fifty Shades Of Grey" has seduced women - and baffled
blokes. Now a spoof, Fifty SHEDS Of Grey, offers a treat for the men.
The book has author Colin Grey recounting his love encounters at the
bottom of the garden. Here are some extracts...
Fifty SHEDS Of Grey
We tried various positions - round the back, on the side, up against a
wall...
But in the end we came to the conclusion the bottom of the garden was
the only place for a good shed.
She stood before me, trembling in my shed. "I'm yours for the night,"
she gasped, "You can do whatever you want with me."
So I took her to Nando's.
She knelt before me on the shed floor and tugged gently at first, then
harder until finally it came.
I moaned with pleasure.....................................
......
Now for the other boot!!
Ever since she read THAT book, I've had to buy all kinds of ropes,
chains and shackles.
She still manages to get into the shed, though.
"Put on this rubber suit and mask," I instructed, calmly.
"Mmmm, kinky!" she purred.
"Yes," I said, "You can't be too careful with all that asbestos in the
shed roof."
"I'm a very naughty girl," she said, biting her lip. "I need to be
punished."
So I invited my mum to stay for the weekend.
"Harder!" she cried, gripping the workbench tightly. "Harder!"
"Okay," I said. "What's the gross national product of Nicaragua?"
I lay back exhausted, gazing happily out of the shed window.
Despite my concerns about my inexperience, my rhubarb had come up a
treat.
"Are you sure you can take the pain?" she demanded, brandishing
stilettos.
"I think so," I gulped. "Here we go, then," she said, and showed me
the receipt.
"Hurt me!" she begged, raising her skirt as she bent over my
workbench.
"Very well," I replied. "You've got fat ankles and no dress sense."
"Are you sure you want this?" I asked. "When I'm done, you won't be
able to sit down for weeks." She nodded.
"Okay," I said, putting the three-piece suite on eBay.
"Punish me!" she cried. "Make me suffer like only a real man can!"
"Very well," I replied, leaving the toilet seat up.
"Pleasure and pain can be experienced simultaneously," she said,
gently massaging my back as we listened to her Coldplay CD .............
Talking of 50 shades ................ I received this on an email yesterday - brilliant. Very naughty (for my prim standards! ;) but very funny :)
TO ALL MEN ...........
The novel "Fifty Shades Of Grey" has seduced women - and baffled
blokes. Now a spoof, Fifty SHEDS Of Grey, offers a treat for the men.
The book has author Colin Grey recounting his love encounters at the
bottom of the garden. Here are some extracts...
Fifty SHEDS Of Grey
We tried various positions - round the back, on the side, up against a
wall...
But in the end we came to the conclusion the bottom of the garden was
the only place for a good shed.
She stood before me, trembling in my shed. "I'm yours for the night,"
she gasped, "You can do whatever you want with me."
So I took her to Nando's.
She knelt before me on the shed floor and tugged gently at first, then
harder until finally it came.
I moaned with pleasure.....................................
......
Now for the other boot!!
Ever since she read THAT book, I've had to buy all kinds of ropes,
chains and shackles.
She still manages to get into the shed, though.
"Put on this rubber suit and mask," I instructed, calmly.
"Mmmm, kinky!" she purred.
"Yes," I said, "You can't be too careful with all that asbestos in the
shed roof."
"I'm a very naughty girl," she said, biting her lip. "I need to be
punished."
So I invited my mum to stay for the weekend.
"Harder!" she cried, gripping the workbench tightly. "Harder!"
"Okay," I said. "What's the gross national product of Nicaragua?"
I lay back exhausted, gazing happily out of the shed window.
Despite my concerns about my inexperience, my rhubarb had come up a
treat.
"Are you sure you can take the pain?" she demanded, brandishing
stilettos.
"I think so," I gulped. "Here we go, then," she said, and showed me
the receipt.
"Hurt me!" she begged, raising her skirt as she bent over my
workbench.
"Very well," I replied. "You've got fat ankles and no dress sense."
"Are you sure you want this?" I asked. "When I'm done, you won't be
able to sit down for weeks." She nodded.
"Okay," I said, putting the three-piece suite on eBay.
"Punish me!" she cried. "Make me suffer like only a real man can!"
"Very well," I replied, leaving the toilet seat up.
"Pleasure and pain can be experienced simultaneously," she said,
gently massaging my back as we listened to her Coldplay CD .............
sorry - been rugby watching, sibs - (alba will approve).....the tech q - well I reported myself as I accidentally put my name there....
Should I call gness tomorrow to warn her about her little left boob? Or just let her discover her diaries have been replicated. One more day to come at least......though I have a copy of the poem sitting here and have been chuckling away at it earlier this afternoon!
Should I call gness tomorrow to warn her about her little left boob? Or just let her discover her diaries have been replicated. One more day to come at least......though I have a copy of the poem sitting here and have been chuckling away at it earlier this afternoon!
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