It was cold wet windy night. The forecast was for gales and flooding. The kind of night when sensible people lock their doors, pull the curtains and sit warming themselves in the glow of a flickering TV.
Not me. I had to go out. I’d arranged to meet someone at precisely some time between 7:15 and 8:00. But how? There would be drink involved so I couldn’t take the car. And I flatly refuse to use taxis since they tried convince us the national maximum fare was a minimum. I thought of my local publican.
Now Con has a reputation for being, shall we say, less than generous. It is said the crows flying over his house bring packed lunches. It is said he hates breathing out. It is said he owes himself money. It is said if he owned the Alps he wouldn’t give you a slide.
But I tried anyway. Good man, Con. Are you working tonight? I’m finishing at 7:00. Any chance you’d be able to pick me up after that and drop me to the pub? I have to meet a lad and it’s kind of important. He grumbled a bit but agreed.
The following morning, through the haze induced by the barrel of his beer still bubbling around in my belly, I seen him at the shop. Ah Con. Thanks for the lift last night. You were a lifesaver. He muttered something about the money he’d made out of me wouldn’t have covered the petrol he used. Ah me bollix, says I, if it weren’t for us making up the crowd the bar last night would’ve been as empty as Dáil Éireann outside of budget day.
Back home, the builders gave me a small can of petrol and I decanted a couple of hundred mil into an old medicine bottle. I knocked up a new label on the computer, put it in a box and wrapped it with left over Christmas paper. I dropped it off to him in the pub that afternoon saying that’s just a little thank-you for yesterday.
I left before he opened it but I have no doubt the contents are in his car by now, the bottle put away safely and the wrapping saved for next December. He may have managed to salvage some of the sellotape too.
If you would like to make a comment, please fill out the form below.
Addictions Advertising Back to school Banks Blogs Builders Characters Charity Commentary Crappenings Driving Economy Education Environment Estate Agents FAQ Farming Friends Fun Gaeilge Gardaí Guest blaggards Health HSE Immigration Internet Irish identity Jokes Kids Kildare Law Life Literacy Local Media Mothers Movies Neighbours Occasions Painting Pet Hates Pets Photgraphs Photos Plonkers Poetry Polish Politicians Politics Pubs Pub talk Racing Radio Relatives Religion Science Shopping Snippets Spam Sport Tech stuff Time Transportation Travel Travellers TV Uncategorized Weather Wildlife Women Work
Excellent! I’m sure he appreciated the gesture.
And you may get yourself a bicycle for future outings…
“It is said the crows flying over his house bring packed lunches. It is said he hates breathing out. It is said he owes himself money. It is said if he owned the Alps he wouldn’t give you a slide.”
Hmm. He’s not my uncle by any chance? Purplish nose? Veiny?
Caro - I have a bike. But that night was just too bad to use it. Honestly, you wouldn’t put your mother-in-law out in it, even if you thought she’d stay out.
Sam - I think you’re confusing him with Seán Hayes, otherwise know as the Purple Haze.
The thirst is a ferrible thing!
This one should carry a guffaw warning as well.
Trí ní nach féidir a mhúineadh; guth, féile agus filíocht.
No wonder Irish has a large number of names for mean people
Grannymar - Yes it is that. Around here folks call it the drought. Thirst is too soft a word.
Aonghus - We have may more for this guy. I might list them all one day. Another of my favourites is that if he dropped a penny it’d hit him on the back of his neck.
I can’t imagine what woman would marry a man that stingy.
He’s single, right?
I do hope he did put that spot of petrol in his car and not think it was a little tipple you had offered him and drank it instead.
Medbh - He’s married. Three kids. He’s very good to them - every year, without fail, just before Christmas, he takes them to see Santy’s grave.
White girl - I wish!