You still think I am in the well?
Who else could I ask?
There are a couple here but they hide it well
Pursuant to the mention of âJohn Quinnâ in the whiskey thread revives a story not quite as well known as the wedding fiasco.
The unfortunate Mrs.Quinn died at a young age leaving him with a brood of about 6 if I recall rightly. John found rearing them, schoolwork, cooking and so on a bit tasking so he took to the Personals section of Irelandâs Own seeking from housekeeper upwards to comely maiden seeking companionship sort of guff. There were many who came to see what the story was, some stuck it a few months, most stuck it a few days.
There was a cohort of young mischievous pups around the place then and after a brief discussion a fictional prospect was conjured up. A neighbouring lassie was living in Drumcondra, Hollybank Road actually and we positioned Lucy there. Lucy responded tentatively at first, a widow returned emigree from the USA, Co. Wicklow originally but now residing alone and loveless in Dublin.
The mail began to buzz but we had to wait for the weekend to read the weekly report of the thriving agricultural enterprise John was managing. The photos of him were all standing beside huge bullocks or tractors (none his own)and one would get the image of a budding beef baron.
We werenât behind the bushes either, a neighbour had a glamorous aunt entrenched in the Bronx but we located many beautiful photos of her at the sights in NYC.
Our friend was practically bursting out of his jocks (if any) weâd be praising his good humour and how fresh he was lookingâŚAll coming up Jakey was generally the comment. A visit to Leitrim was set for the Bank Holiday Monday in August, Lucy to arrive on the 1pm bus that passed through historical Fenagh. There was a dandy crowd, weâd been beat in the championship the day before so drink was flying.
Our hero arrived about 12.30, looking his best with a bunch of home grown roses wrapped in the previous dayâs Sunday Press. In the days before outdoor hospitality, we were all out on the street awaiting the bus when bang on time the late Paddy Wrafter slewed her to a stop. Out hops a brother of Scalderâs whoâd boarded in Mohill to ensure it stopped in beautiful Fay-na.
Anybody else on the fucking bus roars John, mystified and embarrassed simultaneously.
A fine doll got off in Mohill reports Paddy. A burst of industrial language follows, did I get the rendezvous wrong, what went wrong etc before firing the flowers across the hedge and trundling home.
Lucy apologised the following week but wasnât heard of again.
Our parents smilingly said we were bad bastardsâŚ
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. Write a book boxty please.
That was fierce cruel Boxty.
Bad bad bad bawstards altogether 
Thatâs a great story and very well told.
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I almost felt like I was there in the middle of it.
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Bad bastards, thank god you predate Tinder
Swings and roundabouts. Only a bit of harmless fun really. Alton Towers hadnât reached Fay-na then. It still hasnât. What else would you be at?
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That never happened.
Leitrim would be well gone from the championship by AugustâŚ
and theyâd nearly have the club rounded out - a compact year
Cleaning my windows this morning reminded me of an auld doozy.
In OâBrienâs Bridge the main road through the village has a row of small terrace houses along it. Two front windows and front door job. One of the local newsbags lives in one of these, she is known locally as R.E.M and would spend half the day either standing at the front door watching the comings and goings and quizzing other passers by for gossip, or would be letting on to be cleaning the two front windows in order to get her news.
One Monday morning around 11am after a heavy enough Sunday one of the lads was seedily heading to Bonners for the Monday club. R.E.M greats him with âMorning John, no work todayâ he sheeplishly ignores her and keeps walking thick as fuck she got the dig in.
After his feed of curers he decides to head home around 7pm where he spots R.E.M out washing her two windows but is now feeling braver full of drink. R.E.M quips " work in the morning, John?"
To which he replies âhave you no fucking windows out the back?â
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This Frances Haugen and her Facebook stories.
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Mention of meeting an I/C player of yesteryear reminds me of a meeting after ChristmasâŚ.
Scalder and myself were in Priorâs in town of a Sunday evening after a removal to Aughawillan.
Thereâs a family of eccentric folk out that way who shall be, as they are, known as the StickiesâŚ.
They comprise a Mother and Father and 3 mid to late forties bachelor sons whoâs fortunes derive from hay making enterprises in the summer and supplying the locality with timber in the winter.
These are hardworking, if shall we say doughty buckos, 201 and 171 John Deers are testament to their efforts and they (the 3 brothers) enjoy a few pints on a Sunday evening in the town.
Weâre ensconced in Tom Priorâs at the counter about the 7 bell and the 3 Stickies are sitting around a table on the floor when the Hero bobbles in - well lit.
Greetings all round, howyas left, right andâŚ. Howâs all the StickiesâŚâŚPanic alert.
2 Stickies rise from seats as I summon the HeroâŚ.
FFS youâre in trouble here pal, these boys are seriousâŚA quick exit with a bit of apology is called forâŚ.
Sorry bout that lads, heâs not here, see you all later etc and exitsâŚâŚ
We all settle down, panic averted and we resume as we were. After 10 minutes, as cool as a breeze Gay Prior pops 2 Jemmys and 2 pints in front of Scalder and myselfâŚ
Who got them says I, and with that deferential nod only known to top barmen, he indicates the StickiesâŚ
I look across and the elder Stickie gives the all-knowing conspiratorial winkâŚ.
Thatâs the 5 votes in the Stickie household secured for another electionâŚ.
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A yarn of yours is a thing of delight. Like a Michael Atherton article.
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