Mini-yarn: Dromod

Here's a little yarn to show youse all how thick mullahs are, how thick the Gardaí are, and especially how thick the mullah Gardaí are.

A few years ago, myself and a couple of my fellow Dubs were down in a particularly redneck-infested part of The Country called Sligo, watching our local League of Ireland team assert their natural Dublin dominance over a bunch of bachelor farmers and GAA players in their off-season. We were due to go back on the supporter's club bus that night and, as such, had drank all of our money on the way down. When we explained this to a few more Dubs who were staying overnight and were trying to get us to join them, they assured us they wouldn't see us short. As good Dubs, of course, they kept their word and a good night was had by all (or so we were told.)

Their generosity though, did not extend to the rather steep train fare the next morning. We decided to chance it anyway, and were duly fucked off in Dromod, Co. Leitrim, a part of The Country that would make the North Pole look like a heaving metropolis. At this point we discovered that a few of the advance party of Dubs were risking their lives by waiting for us in Longford, the inbreeding capital of the world. They had a forged train ticket and a collection of the few bob they had left betyween them which would be enough to get us back to our fair city. All we had to do was get to Longford.

We found a good hitch-hiking spot and stuck our thumbs out. Now, Dromod is something of a one-donkey town (you should see the fights over her on Valentine's Day,) so there wasn't much in the way of traffic. So you can imagine our delight when, after hours of watching tractor after tractor pass us by, a Garda car appeared on the horizon. "They're paid to help out people like us in distress," we thought, as the car approached. We threw down our bags and waved them down like our lives depended on it.

They smiled, waved back, and drove on.

I'll be back over the weekend with a full-length post. Talk to yiz then.