Sunday, March 13, 2005

Party At The Poor Relations

Party at the poor relations last night.

Is that so?

Sha. Sure, they're in a sad, awful set of circumstances now. Come down a few notches from their days in the capital. They've settled in a state named for the Blessed Mother herself; but, sure, the land is more desparate barren and tyrannical, like, than ever.

Creatures!

'Tis true. God forgive me, but I says, Not much good the Blessed Mother's name has done for those over there. Himself says "Sure, it's no different than purgatory." And, sure, I says to Himself, After seein' the lot of those poor relations, I'm done complainin' about our own situation. Den, he says, "As well you should be done complainin'." Well, I had to crack his pole for that one. Still, 'tis true.

Ah, but, y'know, they're still great ones for trowing a party.

Is that the crowd from the Hill?

'Tis. Sure, most of them -- the regulars, y'know -- were there. The place was packed like cows in a pen before milkin'. A great throng it was, from the babies to the old ones, with plenty in between. An' half of them in parlor singing the old songs. Himself was singing the loudest, though he's a voice like a crow.

An' one of the Hill boys was on the piano. He'd play only so long as they had some porter in front of 'im. But, no sooner was the glass empty than the music'd stop. Then, they'd send someone, quick as you like, to fill the glass again, and he was back into "The Rose of Tralee."

Boys!

Well, an' they say he plays for those country singers in Tennessee, if y'like, at what they call the Ol' Opry. Y'know, the ones who yodel enough to set your hair standin' on end. By God, what those Yanks do to perfectly good reels and airs.

An' how about that other one -- the man with the tail of a pony.

Oh, sure, he wouldn't miss it for the life of 'im. Sure, we met him coming with great armloads of porter, an' whiskey and ale to boot. His own wee ones joining in the load.

Is that the way?

'Tis. An' don't let those gray hairs fool you: he's every bit the trouble he was as a lad. Sure, they all have gray hairs now, but they still have the look of hooligans just after or just before doing some mischief.

Well, did you close out the party?

Oh, no, not at tall. Faith, I can't keep up with 'em. An' not a drop of tea to be found. Nothing but somethin' they called "ice tea".

God spare us!

Sha, it's a strange a thing as you've ever seen -- tea as cold as a bitter chill -- not fit for drinkin' at tall, at tall.

But, I'm sure they were up half the night, singin' and carousin' and wakin' the dead. Tree or four in mornin', I'd say, before they chased out the last of them, den tried to clean up the great mess of bottles before the garda came 'round.

An', sure, Himself was in no position to drive -- half-punched with the poteen, with the car seat full back, singin', full-troated like, "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen" -- an' meself behind the wheel the whole time.

Ah, but, he's a fine, lovely man.

That he is.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Reminds me off a famous Irishman, known to drive drunk occasionally, who coined the phrase, "I'll drive off that bridge when I come to it."

3/14/2005 05:33:00 PM  

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