a light interlude
Strolling down Newbridge main street in warm sunshine.
I am hailed by the proprietor of Clarkes Menswear, an emporium specialising in the dissemination of jumpers, shirts, trousers, neckties, et al.
"Hey Heelers," quoth Vivian Clarke, for it is he, "I was reading the Leinster Leader this week. They mentioned us in an article."
"You shouldn't be buying the Leinster Leader," I told him firmly.
"I never buy it," sez he, "someone showed me the article."
"What did it say?" wondered me.
"It was a lad writing a feature about Punchestown Race Week," explained Vivian. "He was talking about the hospitality tent and he wrote that it would be full of Clarkes. It was the way he put it. It was like he was sneering at us. I'd tell that fellow where to get off soon enough."
"Who wrote it?" sez me.
"Tommy Callaghan," answered he.
Tommy Callaghan the sports editor.
The noble Heelers nodded in recognition.
Having been fired from the Leinster Leader two years ago, I retain a vague memory of some of the galoots who still prop up that declining organ.
I furrowed my brow furrowedly.
"He probably didn't mean any harm by it," I stated in mollifying tones. "Tommy Callaghan is one of those unfortunate people who was born with his sense of humour up his arse. He occasionally tries to write humorous articles but it's not his strong point. He was probably just trying to be funny. You shouldn't take it personally. Not even the Leinster Leader and its Brit owners the Johnston Mess could be deliberately setting out to offend potential advertisers. I mean they're brain dead scum but they're not actually deranged."
Vivian still looked a bit vengeful.
"If I see him," he said, "I'm going to tell him that no one reads his f---ing newspaper since James Healy left it."
"Mr Clarke," sez me. "You have quite made my day."