Thurles housewife, Mrs Axelle Ryan, alarmed by the fact that Irish prices were now 40% higher than the average across the European Union; armed with a revolver enters a Thurles bank with the intension of relieving them of all cash deposits. Ordering all the banks customers to lie on the ground, she passes a large Walker & Hunt Duffle bag over the counter demanding that it be filled with cash.
Once the object of her intention was acceded too and her bag returned, now bulging at the seams with cash, she turns to a customer on the floor and asks, “Did you see me rob this bank?”
The man honestly replied, “Yes Madam, I did.”
Mrs Ryan shot him in the head, killing him instantly.
She then turned to the couple lying next to the now deceased male, and addressing them both asks, “Did either of you see me rob this bank?”
The female lying on the floor replied, “No Madam, I didn’t, but my husband did!”.
“I see Thurles Municipal District Council has purchased a new sign, currently pointing in the right direction”, said I to Mikey Ryan, as we headed down Cathedral Street, for ‘The Arch Bar‘ yesterday, to drown a slight thirst.
“Surely everyone in Thurles and its environs knows where the feckin Swimming Pool is in Thurles, by now”, said a shocked Mikey.
“I would think it’s something to do with the sudden influx of foreigners coming into Thurles, from the Ukraine and other places”, said I, and then of course people might be attracted to come down from Dublin, on the train, to make use of the facility.
“Some local monkey will end up swinging out of that after sniffing a bit too much white powder some night” said Mikey “Anyway people would be better off paying no attention to those feckin council signs”.
“Why do you say that”, said I, somewhat confused.
“I’ll tell you why”, said Mikey, “a Thurles Garda friend of mine was sitting in his squad car, watching for speeding vehicles, near Two-Mile-Borris last week. He sees a car ‘puttering’ along at 3km and decides that this car is almost as dangerous as a speedering young lad, before pulling it over”.
As he walks up to the car a little old lady rolls down the window and asks “Is there something wrong officer?”
“Well, yes,” says my cop friend, “Why are you driving so slowly?”
“I’m following the speed limit,” says the little old lady, very confused “the sign back there says Turnpike 3km.”
“You’re mistaken ma’am”, said my cop friend “that sign was to tell you that the distance to the Turnpike is 3km, the speed limit here is 60km.”
“Oh deary me ,” says the woman very embarrassed, “I am so sorry officer, I promise I will pay closer attention to the signs in future.”
“At this point”, said Mikey, “the Garda notices the other passengers in the car; three other elderly women, all very pale faced and wide-eyed, clutching their armrests with white-knuckled hands”.
“Ma’am,” asks my now concerned cop friend “are your passengers alright? They look somewhat shaken.”
“Oh, they’ll be fine, dear,” says the elderly woman “we just turned off the M7 and M8, Dublin to Cork route, which said 259km.
Three years ago, Thurles housewife Mrs Brooklin Casey a part-time well known, investigative, free-lance journalist; packed her overnight bag and headed to Afghanistan, to study the culture and treatment of Afghan women, under the then Taliban regime.
On arrival Mrs Casey was shocked to discover that all married women in Afghanistan were expected to walk a minimum of ten paces behind their chosen male spouses.
Brooklin asked her guide, Mr Abdul-Badi, why and he said, “Because women are considered to be of a lesser status in Afghan society.”
An outraged Mrs Brooklin Casey, 5 days later, left Afghanistan; arriving home to Thurles, to flood Irish newspapers and magazines, each hard pressed for news; dispatches condemning the Taliban regime’s treatment of married women in their capitol city of Kabul.
Last year, following further armed conflict in Afghanistan, she decided to return to report on the further violence in the region and was surprised to see all women walking some ten paces in front of their spouse.
She turned to her guide who again luckily was Mr Abdul-Badi and this time she asked, “Why has this custom regarding women suddenly changed?”
Four Thurles wives were waiting for a bus on Liberty Square in the town; on Saturday last.
As they waited the subject of each of their individuals social classes in local Tipperary society, became a topic for discussion.
The first wife Mrs Taytum Kenny says, “I’m a YUPPIE; you know, Young, Urban, Professional.”
The second wife Mrs Stefani Brown says, “I’m a DINK; you know, Double Income, No Kids.”
The third wife Mrs Arleth Hayes says, “I’m a RUB; you know, Rich, Urban, Biker.”
All three now turn to the fourth wife and one of them asks, “So what are you?” Mrs Amelia Gilroy replies, “I’m a WIFE; you know Wash, Iron, Fold, Etc.”
[Note Please: Any resemblance to the Jackie Collins’ novel and television mini-series ‘Hollywood Wives’ is purely coincidental.]
Episode 1.
Thurles Wives
According to Thurles born Mrs Brooklin Casey, (who claims she heard it directly from the horse’s mouth), her neighbour and also housewife Mrs Harper Penelope McCarthy, got home from work rather early yesterday. [Not that it matters, but Mrs Casey was anxious to point out to me that Harper McCarthy was high up in the Civil Service, and works a flexitime schedule, which allows her to choose when to start and to end her average working day].
As she turned the key in the latch, she was startled by a strange, rather high pitched, screaming noise, emanating she felt sure, from her upstairs bedroom.
Pounding up the creaky stairs, she located her husband Mr Waylon McCarthy, lying totally naked on their bed, drenched in sweat and breathing with short, quick breaths.
‘What’s wrong?’ a concerned Harper asked.
‘I think I’m having a heart attack,’ whispers Waylon her husband.
Harper rushes back downstairs to get her iPhone from her discarded handbag and just as she begins dialling, one of her children; five-year-old son Jaxon McCarthy comes down stairs shouting, “Mummy, Mummy, Aunty Shirley is hiding in the walk-in wardrobe in your bedroom and she has no clothes on”
Harper slams the mobile phone down on the hall stand and storms back upstairs into her bedroom, rushing past her husband, latter still naked on their bed, but breathing showing signs of improving.
Harper slides open the black mirrored sliding wardrobe doors and there, sure enough, is her sister Shirley, totally naked; cowering in one corner, on the floor.
‘You rotten bitch’, Harper screams, ‘there is my husband having a heart attack, and here you are running around naked, playing hide and seek with the kids’.
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