My first junior championship match up in Dublin was an eventful one. Not only was Jack Mccaffrey playing for the opposition before heading to Africa days later there is an auld yarn as well.
We were the home team playing on a very warm summers evening mid week. I arrived into the dressing room to see a Physioâs bench set up and a baldy physio in his 50s beside it. He wasnât the usual club physio and I couldnât believe the juniors would spring for one given the glorified fertiliser bags for jerseys we played in. But as it was a home championship match and midweek I assumed he was a fill in for the normal physio and was idle so was giving us 30 minutes of his time before his next appointment and nobody else said a word about it and plenty of lads got rub downs and strappings.
Next thing we head out on the field to warm up and he arrives out. As I said it was a warm muggy evening and he is towelling down lads in the warm up and asking lads do they want Vaseline on their brows and what not. A damn sight more than the physio the seniors had would do on a match day.
He stayed on the sideline and was like a man on a mission any time there was an knock or a fella was slow to get up. He probably did more hard running than some of the lads we had playing the full game.
Long story short. We lost a tough encounter to local rivals Clontarf by a couple of points.
Our manager addresses us after the game and commends our efforts and says âlook Clontarf are a fine team and will go very close to winning this championship, no shame in losing to them. Just as he says it I spots the Physio with a reaction like his heart just sunk as he turns to one of my teammates and says âare ye not clontarf?â
Muggings got the dressing rooms mixed up and did himself out of a nights hard earned money.
A Chinese takeaway opened my way a few years ago. Peking is the name.
I happened to be in the local pub around the time. The locals were debating its upcoming opening.
One man said that he heard that the owner of the place was a brother of a man who used to live in the area years previously and had since passed. The manâs name was John King and the teller was trying to draw a link with Pee King, the name of the takeaway.
Another local wasnât getting it though and remarked âChrist - Pee King must be an awful age then!!â
Two brothers in their late teens were up to divilment years ago. They were coming home and passed an obliging neighbourâs house who had a young family.
They knocked on the door. âGerry, Gerry are you there? Can you help us - we need a pushâ.
Gerry being the obliging fella he was got out of bed and out to the two lads. âWhereâs the car?â âFollow us - weâll show youâ.
The two lads make they way into Gerryâs back garden and each sat on two seats on the swing he had for the children.
A yarn which I have on many years of good authority is 100% true.
My oulâ fella used to work in Hawkins House in the 1970s. It was a big open plan office block which the Department of Posts and Telegraphs were renting out. It was apparently a bit of a madhouse, every day was like the last day of school term. This would have been about 1973.
A chap called Eddie used to wander around the office every day casually inquiring what was in peopleâs bags. âWhatâs in the bag, John?â âWhatâs in the bag Mick?â âWhatâs in the bag Con?â etc. etc. If somebody left their desk, Eddie would have a root around and find out for himself what was in the bag. Eddie kept up this habit for a long time.
Another chap working there named Wilf got progressively sick of Eddieâs nosey ways. One day he came up with a fiendish plan to get back at Eddie.
Wilf brought a bag in to work. As usual Eddie comes around and inquires âWhatâs in the bag, Wilf?â
âShite, Eddie, shiteâ, says Wilf sarcastically. Wilf then gets up and leaves his desk to go to the bathroom.
Sure enough Eddie has a root around Wilfâs bag and suddenly recoils in horror. "Arrrgghh, it is shite, it is shite! Wilf had literally brought in shite in a bag, and Eddie now had it on his hand.
Eddie didnât root around many bags after that and he definitely didnât root around Wilfâs bag ever again.
Reckon Eddie was robbing sandwiches the cunt!
Weâd a few of them chaps on various sites
Nothing that a dead mouse wouldnât sort like!
And weâd a prick from Donegal always moaning â Derry wans are always late , holding up the job again FFS â- lazy cunts canât get out of bed â etc
When in fact if we were late twas the brits or RUC normally kept us at the border.
This bollox had to be stopped and thought a lesson!
We had our van out earlier one Monday
On tbe road at 6
In the contractors canteen sipping tea and ating baps waiting for our nemesis to come - he did at 7.45
We gave him theâ Mon ta fuck ya Donegal prick holding up the job-
Too much wanking again-
Kept at it
He got severely frustrated- fuck fuck ye and yere mams
Anyways we were on site stating work at 7.55 when an almighty roar from the canteen
â ye duty disgusting cuntsâ
Who?
â yeâ
Why?
â ye know why bastards
Somebodyâs after shitting into my welliesâ
Stopped his fucking gallop
Me dad knew a fella near Ffrenchpark that kept horses. One year he had filly ready for sale. He had a lot of work done on the filly and was worth a few pound. So the filly was brought to a fair in Boyle and the man and filly parted ways when a deal was done with a man from Strokestown.
My Dadâs buddy went home and life was normal. One morning about a 3 weeks or or so later the local Garda dismounted from his bike and enquired about the filly. The Garda reported that the filly had gone missing and suspected stolen. The previous owner stated not knowing anything of the animal since the sale and I suppose the Garda then stroked him of a suspect list as a scam artist or thief.
Roll on another fortnight and the man is settling indoors for the night when he hears a bit of disturbance outside, horses were uneasy. He goes out to the yard and sees nothing wrong but a horse in the stable is uneasy. On coming back up the yard, he spots an animal at his back gate and lo and behold it is the missing filly.
The following morning the man reported the story to the Gardai and in turn the new owner arrived to take the errant filly home. But instead me Dadâs man had the sale price ready for the buyer and returned him his money. The filly went on to be a mammy and a very profitable animal.
Was doing errands that led me to Carraroe earlier and got a reminder of a lovely aul yarn from Diabhal Sr.
There was a poitĂn man called JimmĂn based there that had an illegal distillery at his home house. He actually had a film loosely based on him starring Miley from Glenroe and had lads from all over the country enquiring about how to obtain his stuff (uses ranging from pissheadery right through to curing horses of lameness). The home house was conveniently located 3 miles up a bog road with a nice lake beside it. As poitĂn was illegal at the time he had a target on his back from local blueshirts and also the Garda SĂochĂĄna. He had a handy system to avoid hassle though:
He had small terriers that would station themselves about a mile up the road and whenever a car was on the way theyâd go absolutely postal. When JimmĂn heard the barking he would quickly disassemble the home distillery setup in his bath, hide it under a turf fort, would get any bottles he had lying around and then row out to the middle of the lake. He had a nice knowledge of physics so would put all the bottles in a plastic bag and have some sort of pebble that floated to the top so he could safely retrieve at a later date. The road up is an absolute bastard of a thing to traverse too and yours truly actually learnt how to drive on that road every Sunday morning post-Leaving Cert (the real purpose was for the aul lad to buy bottles rather than educate on all matters motor vehicle).
A few decades back the local Garda came and had a quick gawk around the premises after getting a tip-off from a local nosey cunt. He didnât look too hard and JimmĂn was cocky that he was in the clear. As the Garda was about to step into the car he pointed out that JimmĂn had left a Roches Stores bag full of messages at the bottom of the lake.
After that JimmĂn was to supply two bottles a week to the local station and no more would be said about it. JimmĂnâs grandson actually had a distillery in Galway that absolutely fleeces Yanks and gormless sorts.
PĂĄdraicâs family are absolute salt of the Earth. Youâd be delighted for him. Iâd get the sense some of the spirits heâd be sampling would be as strong as tap water though.
