What do you spend your discretionary income on? I spend mine on drink.Yep, after paying the mortgage and the bills, whatever’s left over I use to anaesthetise myself. Yeah, I lush it up three or four time a week on Dunne’s stores wine specials, Bulmer’s or Budweiser and fall into oblivion on a budget. OK , not oblivion, more a beer buzz, and not too mush buzz because I have to remain a strong role model to the care. OK so, I get a little tipsy occasionally but I spend all my discretionary income on liquor.
Saw that flash again yesterday. You’re sat there, and it’s country-side quiet, birds and flies and maybe an occasional moo , but it’s quiet and the water is flowing slowly from the Mulcare into the Shannon ( tributarising maybe ), and maybe you’re sucking on a gasper cause you’re trying to mellow out and stay in the moment , and then you see it. Luminous blue flashing low down over the water and then back again, blink and you’d miss him. I always wait and have seen him in the afternoon and evening. I call this place Kingfisher alley. It’s a nice place and you work up a great thirst getting to and from.
Further up the river came across a sulky, a piebald and seven, maybe eight wild Pavee Point urchins,
swimming washing in the river.
“Doing a bit of cycling, sur ?”.
”No, I’m driving my fucking Bentley up this small riverside trail“,
I might have said if I was brave and bold. Glad I didn’t cause there was couple of ambushers above the turn, and they charged me down offa the bike and only smiled when I grimaced. I got off lightly; there was another cyclist further up the trail who told me that they threw stones at him. (But he had those poncy glasses and cycling “gear”, so maybe he deserved it!)
Confession: I never saw a hurly until I was 11 years old. Born and reared in the smoke where we followed Liverpool and Brazil. First time I saw one was in the smelly Gaelic grounds in 1970 something, when a fat Babs Keating was taking a free in his bare feet and my father told me this was something significant. Bolox. Both of them .
So I’m a Johnny come lately hurler and that’s not allowed apparently. I’ve become accustomed to the swagger of Cork, Waterford and Kilkenny and thought that this journey to the dark side would qualify me for tickets to the final. Well, no, not really, cause I have to have sweated and toiled, humped, hooped and hollered through the bad times, played 144 times for some junior club, know GAAspeak, understand and speak Irish fluently, be well got and oh yeah…. be dead, before anyone would consider my application for Limerick’s upcoming day out at the big dance. Fuck off home for yourself, sniffle, you’d be taking more deserving person’s ticket, and so would anyone who belongs to me for the next 100 generations.