this sporting life

 

"I have a rat in the house," I told my feminist cousin Pauline.

"A pet?" she enquired.

"An interloper," I explained.

"I have the number of a rat catcher," she said. "He's very good. Really excellent."

"I will take that number from you now," I said without demur.

After some brief stage business fishing up a piece of paper and a pen and going through the contacts list on her mobile phone, she wrote out a phone number and a name, handed the paper to me.

I read the phone number and chuckled, one of my evocative rueful ones.

Pauline knew immediately.

"It's the number isn't it?" she said.

The number finished with three 6's.

"Well," I told her, "I could thank you and pretend I'm going to ring that number but we both know it's not going to happen."

"I could ring it for you and set up the appointment," proffered the feminist cousin.

My gentle pre raphaelite features became a bit poignant.

"Pauline old pal," quoth I patiently, "the problem is not ringing the Ipsissimus. As every horror movie aficionado knows, the problem is having an Ipsissimus in the house. The real trouble starts if you invite them in. I think I'll stick with the rat."

no truth in the rumour

 

There is no truth in the rumour that the music combo styled Boyzone have renamed themselves Middle Aged Man Zone for their comeback performance. No hang on...

night of the big windbags

 The Irish weather service, styled Met Eireann, have spent the last few weeks doing their best to drum up a bit of panic about some storm or other.

"This will be the worst storm in Irish history with winds in excess of one hundred miles an hour," they screamed in one of their more restrained press releases.

At a certain point during the build up, my old pal Rowena remarked over Tiffin: "I wish RTE would just shut up about the rain."

RTE is Ireland's national television fraudcaster, a leftist cabal financed through compulsory taxation on the citizenry and accountable to no one except the people trafficking, drug dealing, child abusing IRA terrorist mafia which control it through the boardroom and the trade union movement.

"They're never going to shut up," I told her, "because they're trying to convince suggestible people like you that climate change is real. If you get a moment to think for yourself, the jig is up."

So to the storm.

It was a typical Irish storm with a splendid wind rifling the fields in mystic darkness and some lovely atmospheric special effects vis a vis crashes and thumps.

The next day, I emerged into my garden to review the post apocalyptic landscape and I suppose with somewhat rueful resignation, to begin the task of repopulating the earth.

There were a few broken branches on the lawn.

Sounds of traffic reached me from the street.

I detected a notable absence of dishevelled sexy bims at my gate pleading: "We're the only ones left, you must give me a child James for the good of humanity."

There had been a storm certainly but hardly the worst storm ever.

Not even the worst storm in the past year.

An outdoor table and chair standing undisturbed beneath the cherry tree, greeted me like an old friend.

They had not stirred an inch to the left or to the right during the worst of Mother Nature's onslaught.

"That's some hundred mile an hour wind," I murmured thoughtfully, "if it can't even budge a little table and chair."

Later at the supermarket, Mrs Merchison approached me in the checkout queue.

"Wasn't the storm terrible?" she exclaimed.

"Ah it wasn't that bad," I ventured.

She hurried away as though I'd hit her.

noblesse obleedinhell

 

Breezed into Aunty Teresa's full of the joys.

She looked up from the inauguration of  the new American President playing fitfully on the TV.

Normally I'd enjoy such footage, ie the preening leftie TV pseuds of bankrupt media groups doing their sick parrot routine over an election result they don't like but for some reason this year my heart isn't in it.

"Oh not this," I said.

"What's wrong with you? Your man got in," mused Aunty Teresa brightly.

I sighed, a deep soulful one from central casting.

Presently the words came.

"It matters not what I say or write about Mr Trump," I intoned warmly. "People still insist I'm his greatest supporter. They'll probably write it on my tomb stone. Heeler The Peeler... Trump Supporter... Hic Iacet."

Hic Iacet indeed bold readers which of course is Latin for: "Sorry. I've been drinking and spilt some on my jacket."