Irish break has me craicing up AN idyllic break in Southern Ireland with my wife, marred only by the myriad of Americans roaming Waterford’s cobbled streets.
“Stanley O’Brien from Boston,” boomed one, tightly grasping my hand. “I’m one of the County Mayo O’Brien’s. We travelled to America when we ran out of potatoes.”
I told him we ran out of potatoes and travelled to Tesco. It’s a lot cheaper.
“We traced our family all the way back to Robert the Bruce,” he boomed.
I gently broke the news Robert the Bruce was Scottish.
“Not in the movie I saw, buddy,” bellowed the Yank.
We left our teenage son and delinquent cat Mifsud to fend for themselves, with the strict instructions to contact us if an emergency arose.
Joe did. He’d run out of Pot Noodles. And, since I’d gone, the cat hadn’t anything to sink its fangs into and was gnawing the coffee table.
Mifsud lost interest when it didn’t bleed.
The wife and I enjoyed a magical night in a quintessential Irish bar, complete with Eastern European staff, fruit machines and plastic shillelaghs. “I’m supposed to put a shamrock shape on the head of your Guinness,” said the Polish barmaid, “but I’m new. Would a number ‘8’ be OK?”
“Hey buddy,” bawled our American friend at the resident musician. “How about a good old Irish rebel song?”
“I’m awfully sorry,” apologised the guitarist, “I don’t know any, but I could do a Val Doonican number with real attitude.”
“Just give us something we can all sing along to,” the American demanded.
“I’ll give it a try,” the musician promised. “Right then...Ten Green Bottles...”
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