It has been a most unsatisfactory week. It all started last Tuesday. I rose early, as is my want. A cup of coffee and a slice of toast with an ample coating of peanut butter for my loved one was in order. I came up with the aforementioned and offered it to her, walked round the bed and hopped in to be adjacent to her. Lying there supine, I felt a violent stabbing pain in my left shin. I could not work it out. Was it a thrombosis, was it a burst blood vessel. What was it, there is only bone and flesh and veins down there. I hopped out and looked in the mirror, could see nothing in the half dark and got under the sheets again and lay there talking to her, when there was another violent stabbing pain in my right inside thigh. out of bed again, switched on the light and pulled back the sheets to discover a half dead wasp, everybody’s worst thought, crawling slowly across the bed. With me screaming, my Selene picked it up and threw it out the open window. Note only goddesses can do that. The pain went after an hour and the itch started and is still with me 7 days later.
On Thursday we got the news that a colleague of my daughter having taken his 2nd jab three weeks ago and having slowly declined, collapsed at home and was taken to hospital, lumps found on his neck, liver and kidney function failing, massive amount of fluid in the heart where they quickly drained off 2 litres. The doctor remarked that it was possible vaccine injury. The poor fellow, father of four kids has been in an induced coma since. On the same day news flashed through the town of a 21 year old athlete, fit as a fiddle with 20 strings, was in hospital in Dublin having had two successive strokes after his 2nd jab. Can anybody tell me that it was not vaccine induced. Can anybody agree, the nearer to home when the grim reaper strikes, the more will 2nd thoughts be around.
On Saturday Daughter no 2 had coffee in Sligo Yacht Club Cafe and discovered their menu which appeared delicious. Sea food in all its shapes, oysters ,lobsters, mussels, fish and all sorts of roe. We booked a table for 5 for Sunday lunch and travelled the 40 miles to Rosses Point in eager anticipation. Selene wanted sea weed for the garden, we were early for lunch, so down to the beach with bags aplenty, Selene, Daughter No 2 and Grandson No 2 were busy on the pebbles filling the bags whilst I rode shotgun in the biting sea breeze. Three women, one a striking blonde in a bright pink cover all carrying a large bag full of swimming gear, a more fuller woman and a full bosomed friend came down the slipway towards us. Pinky saw Selene beavering away slipping a few pebbles into her bag.
Immediately she shouted at us that it was against the law to remove pebbles from the beach and definitely seaweed removal was verboten. My women continued their task whilst I took up the cudgel. Show me the rules i said, there are no signs to say that. Blondy rambled on referring to local byelaws. Unsure of our ground and being in a strange place,. we packed the last bag, I thanked the three and we headed back to the car. Daughter No 2 adept at cell phone controls, looked up the law and found we were in our rights. Picking seaweed for domestic use was allowed, for commercial harvesting you need a licence. Fuck it we said, we had after all got what we wanted. Into the car with still 30 minutes to go before our culinary treat, we stopped at a wayside bench to take the air and who should come along but Pinky Blonde and buxom mate. They must have decided that the slipway was not ideal for bathing and they were off to find somewhere else. I stopped them and politely told Blondy that she was talking a load of shite and mentioned that she would be wise in future at keeping her nose out of other people’s business and that it it was fuckers such as her that was making the world a horrible place. They scurried off muttering byelaws. I felt satisfied having vented my spleen.
Off we went to the Yacht Club cafe and still early we walked around the place. At some time in the past the local council and some concrete had fashioned a swimming pool out of the natural rock formation, open to the sea but sheltered from currents which signs said were strong out there. To get to this spot was not easy, climbing over rocks but there was a handrail of sorts. Myself and grandson No 2 persevered and reached a kind of viewing platform with a wall overlooking the pool and lo and behold there was Blondy, but no longer pinky, about to put on her swimming costume. In the buff her form could be described as meagre, sparse and certainly not how women should be. I have seen bigger tits on a mouse. All she really needed was a pair of briefs. There was nothing to hide in the top half. She could have passed as a skinny bloke. No wonder she appeared anxious, acidic, a shithouse. The buxom one was just buxom and needed top half reinforcement. I opined loudly that I was just minding my own business and quickly ushered my eight year old grandson away from this terrible sight. Not only was it a massive shock to him but it reminded me how lucky I was at Selene finding me.
Back over the rocks we went and into the restaurant. We were choosing the wine when the waiter came over, another skinny type with a mask over his face hiding the falsetto tones emanating from his possibly luscious lips, mincingly he said to my daughter “Have you your Covid passport”. My daughter followed with a negative. “I only need one so that I can serve you”. I said take that friggin’ rag off your face so I can hear you. He lifted the bottom half and talked through his chin. What kind of a world are we living in when all it takes is one pricked fucker in a party to allow entry. The others could all be dying of Covid but at least one diner is “Safe”.
We left and hungrily made our way to the car and drove out of this Protestant enclave of Rosses Point hopefully never to return. Do not get me wrong when I speak of this Protestant enclave, I do not dislike the boys, in fact I would rather have them than most Catholics. They keep themselves to themself, are exceptionally good at being chameleon like but they do not have post colonial craftiness like their Catholic look alikes. They are in the main self-reliant, not needing help from the state probably because of rich inheritance whereas the Catholics rely to a great extent on handouts from Dublin whether they need them or not. The status quo from a hundred years ago still exists. Give me a man with no trappings, no religion, no sect and he is the man to deal with.
By the way my brother who is on death’s door with stroke after stroke, fitted pacemaker and varicose ulcers, 60 fags a day and as many pints as he can get, besides being double jabbed, has turned to religion and goes to church as often as his crippled legs can take him. Calling for God’s help when it possibly is too late is a cowards way out. Old Peter does not just look at the last week of a man’s life, he has a record stretching back to the womb. Are all you fuckers who have been jabbed just waiting for Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard to come true.
Here is the first verse of about 33 verses to this poem, read the rest yourself in your own time whilst you have time.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, the lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, the plowman homewards plods his weary way, and leaves the world to darkness and to me.
God bless you all.