Written on the occasion of my very important visit to the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne.
Fae the land down under
Fae the latest blunder
The Parly’s shut
I hear it’s fallin doon
Just as well
That ah’m oot o’ toon
Nats and Tories
Are rattling their sabres
Ah so whit
Ah’m watching Neighbours
Ah’ve a new hat
It’s got loads o’ corks
Ah’ve a braw villa
Paid for by the Warks
It’s nae junket
It’s fair hard work
Keeping a face
Withoot a smirk
There’s snow at home
But ah don’t care
It’s day three and I’m sitting here with a smile the size of Cork on me bake. Jaysus but it’s been deadly so far.
Tuesday was brand new and I was laughing me cacks off at the faces of the English eejits who thought they were all in on this steamer for Sweet Wake to romp the first. You’d have thought their Queen had found crap in her cornflakes.
Serves them bleedin right. They were jumping on a bandwagon that wasn’t theirs only to find that the poor thick Paddies had pulled the wheels from under them and had all piled on to Nicholl’s nag instead. Lovely so it was.
Then didn’t Brave Inca go and win as well and we started the hooley of all hoolies.
I was circling over Shannon before me afternoon snack, off me face by the start of the last race, futhered by the end of it and absolutely stocious by dinnertime. Joe Mangled so I was.
Man but I was gumming for some scran to soak the black stuff up. In the end I lost count at two steak pies, a bit of beef, a gansey of mash, ten pints of plain, two plates of ice cream and a wafer thin mint.
Jaysus I was so full that I could only manage half a pack of Jaffas and a couple of Bushmills for dessert then a Bill Murray before I hit the hay. To be fair the Peggy Dell in the room was atrocious but I was so ossified that I couldn’t have cared less.
I had a head on me alright the next morning but a quick dump, a shave and a Paddy Power and I was right as rain. Well I was till I got a dose of the scutters and left the bog looking like the Somme and smelling like Best Mate. It was Guinness apple tarts all the way to the course I tell you.
Another fine day Wednesday was too though. I did Newmill and Star de Mohaison and me pockets were heavier than a priest’s conscience. Of course cousin Donal and the Buncrana boys did the last of their euros on Moscow Flyer and the sentimental gobshites were last seen heading for the easyJet standby desk, their wallets as empty as Tony Dobbin’s ballbag. As useless as tits on a bull the lot of them.
Ah Cheltenham is deadly so it is. Even the bleedin bookie’s benefit stealing home at 33s in the last couldn’t take the shine off it.
I spent the night with Barry Geraghty who was buying black and burgers for every bucko he knew. He scooped his share as well so if you are after backing Ambobo in the stayer’s hurdle then you’d better be hoping that either he had a right good dose of the diuretics or had brekkie at Eddie Rockets.
Ah Jaysus there I go talking about food again. I had half a pig between a few baps a good hour ago but I’m fair gummin for some more. There’s a grand carvery next to the champagne tent and I could do some proper damage over there.
Hungry? I could eat a bus driver’s arse through a security grill.
See youse at the track.
Jayus I love the smell of a scam in the morning. First Tuesday of Cheltenham and there’s already a whisper for a hit on the sods with the satchels. A whisper? It’s a bleeding roar.
You’ll know that every Paddy is supposed to be on Sweet Wake in the opener, convinced that he’ll rattle up like a good thing. Ah sure and Mr Meade is supposed to be setting us up for a week of black stuff and dancing. Or at least that’s what we want the Jammy clients who aren’t on God’s side of the sea to think.
Sweet Wake is a decent nag all right but sure she might just be terrible unlucky. Oh it will break our poor oul Irish hearts if she is, so it will. Me arse and Katty Barry!
Sweet Wake has as much chance of winning as I have of being named anorexic of the year. It’s not got a baldie.
A scam? Does the Holy Father himself wear a big hat with a swastika on it? Youse better believe it.
Or maybe this is all just a bit of craic to put the plastic Paddies off Sweet Wake so the real things can clean up and we’re not backing Paul Nicholl’s nag at all? Ah work it out for yoursels. You’ll know by a quarter after two anyways.
The craic was deadly down here last night, every last man talking fluent Guinness. Jaysus but the place is black with Irish. It’s busier than a priest’s trousers at first communion.
Me cousin Donal and the Buncrana mafia were the biggest gobshites in town as per usual, knowing every winner of every race and promising to buy up every hoor in London if Missed That wins the second. Dense as bottled shite the lot of them.
If Ruby can’t bring Mr Mullin’s nag home with every other horse looking at its arse then they will be home long before St Paddy’s and not have the price of a doxie between them. Feckin eejits
For meself I liked the look of Monet’s Garden in the same race but I’ve been put off a bit by the fact that Tony Dobbin is riding the thing. Dobbo’s had a few jumps too many recently if youse catch me drift. Never out the bleedin saddle that one. Nah the ape is too used to coming second these days. Monet’s Garden, Rose Garden… Dobbo will trim any bush as soon as look at it.
And have youse heard about JP McManus? Word is the big man is going to be laying a million English pounds on Brave Inca to win the Champion. Beef news begorrah, steal me custard creams and call me peckish. A million smackeroos? Respect to the big fella but me Gary Glitter would be would be going like a threepenny sponge if I had that kind of money on a nag. Mrs O’Farrell would also be after me mickey with a cutty knife but that’s another matter.
Anyways, I’ll need to be going on account of how it’s nearly lunchtime and me stomach thinks me throat’s a Protestant and starving it out of spite. I’ve had nothing but a packet of Jaffas and a package of tatos since breakfast and I’m as weak as a salmon in a sandpit.
Hungry? I could eat the lamb o’ Jaysus through the rungs of a chair.
See youse at the track.