As you get older you get crankier and you don’t care. Things really beging to annoy you.. like young fellas wearing tight trousers and no socks... what's that all about?
There’s a lovely thing that happens as you get older – you get crankier and you don’t care.
There’s a satisfying un-happiness that comes over you and because life has now pointed you in the direction of the gate, this tickling displeasure can at last be vocalised, written down and bandied about at will. It’s an outrage... What is?
Well everything really – starting with small cups that you get in hotels – little friggers of things that you can’t get your fingers into. Cyclists – individually and collectively... healthy gobshites riding around on bicycles, eating nuts out of their arsh pockets... always going too fast or too slow and always in front of something that should be gone home long ago.
Clothes Shops that only have tight trousers...
How is a fifty-four-year-old, ex ‘Skinny Jeans’ model supposed to get his leg into one of them? Young fellas in tight trousers and no socks.
Birds singing in the morning – why do they have to start singing the minute they get up and why do they get up so early?
People who wear slippers in the house – houses with pillars – houses with electric gates... and the ongoing saga of grass... yes, grass... always growing always in need of a trim. Grass is for cows or for growing in the attic.
But houses surrounded by grass for no reason, apart from giving the auld lad something to do, should be banned. Middle-aged, ex ‘Skinny Jeans’ models going about in ‘Fat-Man-Pants’, mowing, strimming and shovelling dog shite into the hedges.
Why does every dog around the country come to our house to poo – Guard dogs who lick potential Fianna Fáil county councillors... What’s all that about? ‘Cody’ – that’s the name of our neighbours dog.
An Alsatian, who, as well as not guarding his own house, he comes to our house to welcome canvassers, crackheads and Aughawillan’s selling tickets for Bananas. First Prize: Three Bananas. Second Prize: Two and Third Prize: a weekend away in Ballinamore. Bite them, Cody! That’s what I say... bite them all.
You heard me... I’m here, hiding behind the oil tank and I’m saying, ‘Bite the hoors’... But no, you lick them and then go and mess in our garden. I’m getting old and fat and I can’t take much more .
Get behind me Satin and everyone else standing in the queue... and why oh why does everything I do turn into fat? Every bit of exercise I don’t take, every pint, every sausage, every peanut... turns into blubber – like love handles on a sow.
And everything we crave is BAD... of course it is. Bad for your health, your weight and your relationship with your body. Why do we have to have a relationship with every part of ourselves? They tell us to talk to our body, our mind our overcoats... there was a time talking to yourself was banned in Leitrim... not anymore.
People who smile to themselves is weird... they do it a bit in Longford... it can make you feel a little vulnerable when the lad opposite you on the train to Dublin starts smiling to himself... and he doesn’t have earphones in or he’s not looking at his phone and he’s not just being friendly... he’s smiling away to himself and he got on at Edgeworthstown... That’s scary stuff.
The world isn’t half right and it’s getting worse! The glass is almost empty and it’s cracked and dirty... There’s nothing but Trump, May and Fine Gael and we auld fellas (The new auld fellas) are in paradise... We’re starring in our own Disaster Movie... Roscommon and Bee extinction on one side – The ‘Cavan for Sam’ brigade on the other... coming down the Arvagh Road with a skip load of hot sweets. Run, hide... Woman and children first... same sex operators next and we, the ‘Inglorious Cranky auld Basterds’ shall stay and fight for one more lost cause... we’re out of the Connaught Championship, we’re out of the Eurovision, we’re bursting out of our tight trousers and we can’t get out to the pub.
Take us – sell us to the aliens, let them do their sexual experiments on Grumpy auld lads from Carrigallen... they’ll send us back quick enough... pregnant... we’ll be able to have half alien babies with three legs and eligible to play for the County... Roscommon won’t know what hit them next year... We’ll get them elected to the County Council and declare Leitrim a sovereign state.
And then, won’t we be fairly smiling to ourselves!
NOTE: if you are having problems with Roscommons, Aughawillans, Ailians or dog’s shite in your garden – please call 1800 808080.
NOTE 1a: I will not converse with anyone who calls me ‘Sir’, ‘We’ or ‘Lad’.