” You’re doing a lot of yawning, you must be tired”, said I to Mikey Ryan. We were both above in the Arch Bar, in Liberty Square last Thursday night; our mission to break one or two open and quench our uncontrollable thirst.
“Sure nowadays, what with all this gender equality, yawning is about the only time a married man ever gets to open his mouth”, replied Mikey grinning. “No really I think it has something to do with this unusual sultry weather”, he continued, “sure if this keeps up, come next Lent, Thurles will feature on the front of the new Trocaire Box”.
“I cod you not Mikey” said I, “but out around Ballinahow, Borrisoleigh and the Two-Mile-Borris areas of Thurles, the cows are giving evaporated milk; farmers are feeding their hens on crushed ice to keep them from laying hard-boiled eggs, while the larger trees are actually whistling for dogs.
“Not trying to change the subject”, said Mikey, “but have you noticed or is it my imagination, but there seems to be a lot less flies hanging around Tipperary this year, less than previous years.”
“They probably have all gone off to Dublin like our young people, following the jobs trail”, said I, “sure there is nothing to be found anywhere for anyone in this God forsaken rural wasteland. But come to think of it I haven’t seen you around in several weeks either”, said I, “sure I thought you had emigrated”.
“Truth is”, said Mikey “wasn’t the wife one of the 20 lucky winners of half a million on the Euro Millions Lotto Jackpot recently here in Thurles, not that her win greatly benefited my bank balance. But Frau Ryan decided to take myself, her mother-in-law and our brats to Tanzania in South Africa, of all places, on a Wildlife Safari. But I hasten to add, it would have been better had I stayed at home”.
“What happened, did you get left stranded by the recent Ryanair strike”, said I.
“Oh, now it’s a long story”, said Mikey, “but I’ll give you the guts of it. Last Sunday night, while we were sleeping deep in the Tanzanian wilderness, didn’t Frau Ryan, my lesser half, wake up to find her mother had wandered off. Rushing into my tent next door, she insisted on me getting up and going outside to try to locate the doddery ‘auld wagon’.
In an attempt just to keep the peace, I picked up my Ruger, over and under shotgun, that she had bought me for the trip; took a swig of whiskey from my discreet, leather encased, silver hip flask, and beckoned her to follow me”.
Mikey continued, “A couple of minutes later, there in a clearing, not 100 metres from our camp-site, I came upon the most chilling of sights. Imagine the scene yourself; there was my mother-in-law with her fat arse up against a thick Baobab tree, and standing in front of her was a large, snarling, mangy looking lion”.
“The wife whispered to me,” Mikey continued, “Jasus, said she, what are we going to do now Mikey?’
Mikey continued “I replied, absolutely nothing dear, sure that feckin lion got himself into this mess, now let’s see how he manages to get out of it.”
THE POOR LION, GOD HELP HIM.