“Good God your haemorrhoids would turn to polaroid’s, if you had to stand outside in that bitter cold, for any great length of time tonight. So, tell me, any news, gossip or scandal that I should be made aware of”, said I to Mikey Ryan, as he tried to attract the attention of Pat Hayes, above in the Arch Bar, Liberty Square, last night.
Attempting to hold two conversations at the same time, Mikey replied “Not much; give us two of your best pints Pakie like a good man, before we die of the thirst”. “No not much now, however I did hear on the grapevine that the Peelers were above in Upperchurch, Wednesday last, not sure what exactly they were about”, said Mikey now turning towards me.
“Probably Poitín makers, sure they are world famous for manufacturing that ‘pure, clear, elixir of life’ in that hilly area”, said I, “I wonder were they buying or raiding, did you hear”.
“Don’t know, all I heard was that two members of An Garda Síochána, stopped off at a farm to interview some old local farmer, who was greasing the nipples on the front loader of his tractor. They told the farmer that they believed that illegal activity was being carried out on his farm and they needed to inspect his property,” said Mikey, before swallowing half of his pint glass in a single gulp.
“On the other hand, he could have been operating one of those illegal ‘Grow Houses’, used to propagate cannabis herb”, said I.
“Don’t know that”, said Mikey, “what I do know is the farmer said okay officers, but please don’t go in that field over there clearly pointing out the exact location”.
“Then the Sergeant, I understand, just verbally exploded”, said Mikey, “aggressively stating he had a search warrant, which gave him the complete authority to go wherever he wished on this property, with no questions asked. “Do you understand”, he bellowed, waving his identity card and search warrant under the farmers nose. According to locals, the farmer just nodded politely, apologised, before shaking his bald head and continuing to work with his grease gun” Mikey continued.
“Typical Gardaí” said I, “so what happened next”.
“Well”, said Mikey, “the Gardaí moved off, but a short time later, the old farmer heard loud screams. On raising his eyes, he spotted the two cops running for their life, being chased by his massive Hereford bull, which boasts having the longest horns in Munster. From the farmers vantage point, with every step, that bull was rapidly gaining ground on the Gardaí, and it seemed likely that they could get badly gored, before the men could reach the safety of a nearby high wooden fence”.
“The old farmer threw down his grease gun”, said Mikey, “and ran to the fence while yelling at the top of his lungs, your search warrant, your search warrant, show him your feckin search warrant!!“
“You better give us the same again Pat, when you’re ready”, said I.
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