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    The Turnip Eaters

    Well someone did say that the nutters would soon reappear again. We're known as the Turnips so I feel we should acknowledge our affection and great debt to this most noble of all vegetables



    There is a hill that lies deep in the heart of West Cork known as Turnip Mountain. It gazes down over dark green valley’s dotted with murky glacial lakes and small whitewashed farmhouses from whose chimneys turf smoke curls gently skywards. On a clear day one can see Bantry Bay from its rocky summit but on a miserable rainy day one can barely see beyond one's nose.


    Hooker sat on a ditch sipping slowly from the pint of Beamish that Black Bob had poured for him in the makeshift marquee that had been set up to stage the annual Pagan festival known as Imbolc. Beside him sat Cúchulainn and his young friend the up and coming Ulster rugby star Willie Faloon. Cúchulainn had too played rugby as open side flanker with the local team, the Turnip Mashers, the same team as Hooker had played with incidentally, but was prone to terrible fits of petulance if things were going wrong. He had been banned for life for stuffing a referee’s whistle up an orifice that required careful endoscopic removal in a nearby doctor's surgery. His insistence on sleeping with the wife or girlfriend of the losing captain in a variation of the "right of the first night" also proved somewhat unpopular, well, at least with the captains anyway. So he went back to laying waste to armies, pillaging, raping and being a general bollix all round, almost an Osprey, if you like.


    It was Willie's first time at an Imbolc, he had met Cúchulainn in Clohessys the night before having taken a trip to Thomond to see the hallowed ground and though mightily impressed it held no fear for him because he was descended from the Morrigan the most fearless goddess of war in times now long forgotten. This meant he was also descended from Cúchulainn as the great warrior himself had once spent a night of unbridled passion with the phantom queen many many aeons ago. He sneaked a look at his ancestor who it must be admitted looked quite well for someone several thousand years old and who had been killed at least once. He had heard that the Morrigan still lived and he wanted more than anything to meet the other side of the family. Cúchulainn had told him that he would nudge him if she appeared as he didn't really want meet her himself as she was pressing him for alimony and he was a bit short at present due to the recession.


    Hooker put himself in charge of the barbecue. The heat from the spit was so intense he stripped to the waist and proceeded to turn the suckling pig slowly over the crackling flames. He was joined by a Leinster rugby supporter called Dan who was well on having spent the evening in the Tin Pub in Ahakista with a local cricketer and cognoscente who was a secret admirer of Munster rugby fan despite having played tight head for Blackrock College in his time. He was also a renowned philantropist and regularly donated his small change (the brown stuff) to the St Vincent de Paul box on the bar counter which was met with universal approval by the locals.


    Dan admitted to Hooker that he was transexual singer in a well known night club in Dublin and went by the stage name "the Doob with the Lube". Hooker felt quite uneasy at this little confidence and quickly put his shirt back on again and also checked his fly. He decided that a bar of a song might be best in reply and duly sang:


    "Come down the mountain Katie Daly
    Come down the mountain Katie do
    Can't you hear us calling Katie Daly
    We want to taste your turnip mountain stew-ew"

    Dan went off in search of a drink and someone who might listen to his story. In the meantime, Hooker's wife Molly appeared to tell Hooker that the turnips were nearly boiled and to ask if he seen her pipe around. Cúchulainn nudged Willie violently in the side. "It's her, it's the Morrigan. I'm off. Goodluck."

    "Forget the weights and training Katie Daly
    And scrap the effin' scrum coach too
    All we want is you dear Katie Daly
    And some of your mighty mountain brew-ew"

    Willie had one look at Molly the Morrigan and one look was enough. The Morrigan wore a pair of cow dung stained wellingtons with the tops turned down. A pair of fine hairy legs bridged the gap between the wellies and a very tight miniskirt that barely concealed an enormous derriere. Her arms were also immense and covered in hair as was her upper lip. Her two remaining teeth held on firmly to an old briar pipe...

    Willie was home in Belfast in under two hours.

    "Our coach is here as well dear Katie
    Good ol' Tony's with us too
    His tongue is hanging out fair Katie
    Waiting for his dish of turnip mountain stew-ew"

    Hooker tenderly put his arm gently around his wife and sang softly to his wife, so beautiful still after all these years...


    "Our scrum was never better Katie Daly
    Our ruck and maul are flying too
    We were sick with worry Katie Daly
    Thank God for your turnip mountain dew.

    Old Ulaid think they'll bate us Katie Daly
    They say their time is overdue
    We'll send them packing Katie Daly
    With the help of your Turnip mountain stew."


    #2
    :D
    My computer thinks I'm gay
    What's the difference anyway
    When all the people do all day
    Is stare into a phone

    Comment


      #3
      Ah, I see, take the curse off the 'turnip' by reclaiming it like NWA, Public Enemy, Richard Pryor and co took ownership of the 'N' word to decrease its hurtful aspects. Hmmm, interesting.
      Can see it now (cue backing funk music by Maceo and the James Brown Band):
      "Say it loud,
      I'm a turnip and I'm proud".
      D'ya think Cara would belt it out at TP?

      Comment


        #4
        I met Willie Faloon's da a few years back at an Ulster A vs Munster A game down in Shaw's Bridge. A true gent. From Armagh rather than Belfast IIRC. The subject of turnips and their place on the scale of ancestral epicureanism did not arise, alas.

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        Tis but a scratch.

        Comment


          #5
          Welcome back dipstick:D
          Excellence is hard to keep quite - Sherrie Coale

          Comment


            #6
            Originally posted by McCloud View Post
            Welcome back dipstick:D
            Always around Cloudie, just less time to ponder.

            Did you know that a good turnip should have a pink/reddish top and a dirty white bottom? A useful tip the next time you're in the store and it's not necessary to smell the bottom, a look will do - as with most dirty bottoms!

            Comment


              #7
              Interesting point about turnips or Swedes as they are known in Tesco's, they are as filling as potatoes, are better for you, have less carbs and you can boil them, roast them or eat them raw.
              "Majority rule only works if you're also considering individual rights. Because you can't have five wolves and one sheep voting on what to have for supper." - Larry Flynt

              Comment


                #8
                buy my pineapple and take my parsnip :) ( gwan, you know you want to give us the next installment)
                "You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!"

                Comment


                  #9
                  Originally posted by dipstick View Post
                  Well someone did say that the nutters would soon reappear again. We're known as the Turnips so I feel we should acknowledge our affection and great debt to this most noble of all vegetables



                  There is a hill that lies deep in the heart of West Cork known as Turnip Mountain. It gazes down over dark green valley’s dotted with murky glacial lakes and small whitewashed farmhouses from whose chimneys turf smoke curls gently skywards. On a clear day one can see Bantry Bay from its rocky summit but on a miserable rainy day one can barely see beyond one's nose.


                  Hooker sat on a ditch sipping slowly from the pint of Beamish that Black Bob had poured for him in the makeshift marquee that had been set up to stage the annual Pagan festival known as Imbolc. Beside him sat Cúchulainn and his young friend the up and coming Ulster rugby star Willie Faloon. Cúchulainn had too played rugby as open side flanker with the local team, the Turnip Mashers, the same team as Hooker had played with incidentally, but was prone to terrible fits of petulance if things were going wrong. He had been banned for life for stuffing a referee’s whistle up an orifice that required careful endoscopic removal in a nearby doctor's surgery. His insistence on sleeping with the wife or girlfriend of the losing captain in a variation of the "right of the first night" also proved somewhat unpopular, well, at least with the captains anyway. So he went back to laying waste to armies, pillaging, raping and being a general bollix all round, almost an Osprey, if you like.


                  It was Willie's first time at an Imbolc, he had met Cúchulainn in Clohessys the night before having taken a trip to Thomond to see the hallowed ground and though mightily impressed it held no fear for him because he was descended from the Morrigan the most fearless goddess of war in times now long forgotten. This meant he was also descended from Cúchulainn as the great warrior himself had once spent a night of unbridled passion with the phantom queen many many aeons ago. He sneaked a look at his ancestor who it must be admitted looked quite well for someone several thousand years old and who had been killed at least once. He had heard that the Morrigan still lived and he wanted more than anything to meet the other side of the family. Cúchulainn had told him that he would nudge him if she appeared as he didn't really want meet her himself as she was pressing him for alimony and he was a bit short at present due to the recession.


                  Hooker put himself in charge of the barbecue. The heat from the spit was so intense he stripped to the waist and proceeded to turn the suckling pig slowly over the crackling flames. He was joined by a Leinster rugby supporter called Dan who was well on having spent the evening in the Tin Pub in Ahakista with a local cricketer and cognoscente who was a secret admirer of Munster rugby fan despite having played tight head for Blackrock College in his time. He was also a renowned philantropist and regularly donated his small change (the brown stuff) to the St Vincent de Paul box on the bar counter which was met with universal approval by the locals.


                  Dan admitted to Hooker that he was transexual singer in a well known night club in Dublin and went by the stage name "the Doob with the Lube". Hooker felt quite uneasy at this little confidence and quickly put his shirt back on again and also checked his fly. He decided that a bar of a song might be best in reply and duly sang:


                  "Come down the mountain Katie Daly
                  Come down the mountain Katie do
                  Can't you hear us calling Katie Daly
                  We want to taste your turnip mountain stew-ew"

                  Dan went off in search of a drink and someone who might listen to his story. In the meantime, Hooker's wife Molly appeared to tell Hooker that the turnips were nearly boiled and to ask if he seen her pipe around. Cúchulainn nudged Willie violently in the side. "It's her, it's the Morrigan. I'm off. Goodluck."

                  "Forget the weights and training Katie Daly
                  And scrap the effin' scrum coach too
                  All we want is you dear Katie Daly
                  And some of your mighty mountain brew-ew"

                  Willie had one look at Molly the Morrigan and one look was enough. The Morrigan wore a pair of cow dung stained wellingtons with the tops turned down. A pair of fine hairy legs bridged the gap between the wellies and a very tight miniskirt that barely concealed an enormous derriere. Her arms were also immense and covered in hair as was her upper lip. Her two remaining teeth held on firmly to an old briar pipe...

                  Willie was home in Belfast in under two hours.

                  "Our coach is here as well dear Katie
                  Good ol' Tony's with us too
                  His tongue is hanging out fair Katie
                  Waiting for his dish of turnip mountain stew-ew"

                  Hooker tenderly put his arm gently around his wife and sang softly to his wife, so beautiful still after all these years...


                  "Our scrum was never better Katie Daly
                  Our ruck and maul are flying too
                  We were sick with worry Katie Daly
                  Thank God for your turnip mountain dew.

                  Old Ulaid think they'll bate us Katie Daly
                  They say their time is overdue
                  We'll send them packing Katie Daly
                  With the help of your Turnip mountain stew."

                  Great read. Good to see old Cuchalainn make an appearance. Reminded me of the 'Pint of Plain' scene in At Swim Two Birds, with a pit of Pynchon dropped in.

                  Comment


                    #10
                    My retired uncle in Canada recently wrote to me and asked me how things were...


                    Dear Uncle

                    Last of the Mohicans, I think not. Longest maybe! Here in NAMA land all is generally well despite various rumour mongering by Moody's et al. What an appropriate name for a credit ratings agency, do you not think? Yes, we are up to our tonsils in hock to der Deutsche Mensch but who is really more scared, whose panties is in a bigger twist, or whose bums are squeakier?
                    Well you might wonder Uncle, as perhaps you have not supped from a frothy pint of stout for some time now, sitting at the old wooden counter in Hannie's with the hens running back and forth between your turned down wellingtons. Few words are spoken but those that are are full of meaning as the old clock on the wall tick tocks interminably away. Tick Tock, tick tock...but I digress.
                    It is plainly obvious to all here in Cork that it's the people west of the border, a peculiar class of hominid known as the Kerryman who are ****ting their pants. But they are not worried about subprime securities or derivatives or the like. They are not concerned by the savage austerity measures being imposed on them by the Blueshirts and Communists and that ****ing pansy Spenda Penny, a bollix if ever there was one and a Mayo man to boot.
                    No what is of concern to an Ciarraíoch is the progressive decline of Gaelic football in the county and even more so the footballers themselves. Shure you have fellas with spiky hair standing on top of their heads with tattoos of Mikey loves Lenka and Monika on their arses and elsewhere. Whatever happened to Josie and Masie, you might ask. Yes, that's right, they're all gone to Australia to keep the unemployment figures down. How could one forget?
                    Paudie O'Shea summed it all up one night at a darts meeting in Kruger Kavanaghs looking out the window at the Great Blasket. Turning back from the mist shrouded island he muttered two words and Paudie was highly articulate when he wanted to be.

                    “****ing animals."

                    Was all he said as he turned back to his pint of Guinness resting sedately on the old toilet cistern. if you sat on this toilet in a particular way and looked through the hole in the wall by the toilet paper hook where neat squares of the Cork Examiner had been impaled, (just in case, God forbid, you wanted to wipe your arse), you could see Charlie Haughey's holiday home on the little island of Inishvickillane. The same man who told us to tighten our belts in the 80's whilst tugging at a button on his Charvet shirt while good old Terry was tugging at something else underneath the podium.

                    Paudie was right you know. All sorts of fancy sports, rugby, soccer, pocket billiards for those with time on their hands and so on have led to the demise of Gaelic in the county. You can see the haunted look in the older mens eyes as they wend their way home at night from the pub, their heavy woolen coats pulled tightly around them as they face into the bitter South Westerlies, cigarette peering from a slit somewhere between upturned collar and pulled down cap.
                    The old man eventually reaches home and as passes the living room he peers in. His eldest son is sitting with his Polish girlfriends watching Munster playing Leinster in Thomond Park. Sweet Jesus he mutters silently. Monika breaks into a song about some fields in a town in Galway and whips off her Munster jersey.
                    "Mo chorp don diabhal" he splutters. No bra, corset, vesht or a bit." Lenka sees the old man and winks at him out of the corner of her eye. He falls back against the stairs, gasping for breath, heart pounding.
                    Maire, his wife who is just returning from a Legion of Mary meeting hits him over the head with her umbrella. She drags him into the kitchen and shoves him onto his knees. Together, they recite the rosary and several acts of contrition. She insists that he goes to confession tomorrow to beg for forgiveness of his sins.
                    Lenka then enters the kitchen. She asks Maire, if she has any spare batteries. Maire, goes to the drawer and gives her two Duracells. Lenka inserts them into the 10 speed platinum impulse vibrator and Maire tells her that she has another torch in the drawer if that one isn't working.
                    " 'Shure ‘tis a dark enough night out there, you know. God love us.”
                    Last edited by dipstick; 14th-January-2013, 19:36.

                    Comment


                      #11
                      ;) Dowtcha dipstick.
                      Bagáiste ar phriacal an úinéara.

                      Comment


                        #12
                        So that's why the Duracell bunny is always smilin'...........

                        Comment

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