The Kerryman (South Kerry Edition)
I am going on holidays, so please leave me alone.
WORLD-CLASS REPORTER TADHG EVANS IS GOING ON ANNUAL LEAVE, SO PLEASE RESPECT HIS PRIVACY. AND YES, HE DID WRITE THAT HEADLINE.
WHEN THE SNOOKER’S ON, I’M OFF THE CLOCK. IF YOU RING ME, IT’LL GO TO VOICEMAIL. IF YOU TEXT ME, I WILL IGNORE YOU – UNLESS THE TEXT IS ABOUT SNOOKER.
It’s daddy’s birthday, and we have played a blinder for him
DEAR Diary – It’s Saturday, and it’s my daddy’s birthday. I won’t say what age he is, but it’s a milestone, and we’ve bought a nice present for him: a quad.
We also got a new fridge during the week – a sleek, silver Bosch – and we’d told them that THAT was his present. He tried to cover up his displeasure at getting a fridge for his birthday – even though it will be home to all his favourites: vinegar, ketchup, etcetera – but I know my daddy and I know he wasn’t happy.
But sure we were only playing a fun trick on him.
My uncle brought the quad out on Saturday morning, and when daddy drove into the farm yard, there it was before him, with a balloon tied to each of the handlebars. That’s two balloons, total.
The family were also there to greet him as he drove in, except for my sister, Bríde, who was in the passenger seat next to him as he entered the yard. She was there to film his reaction which, with boldy words censored, went roughly as follows:
“**** ******* **** **** ! ******* **** quad, ****** **** **** balloons.”
I’m exaggerating his foul-mouthedness, obviously – he’s not foul-mouthed – and he didn’t actually comment on the balloons. But it’s fair to say he got a fierce land.
That night, we had a small-but-nice celebration in our house, and I lost count of how many incidents happened on which someone commented one of the following:
“That might be in the diary now.”
“Be careful, or you’ll be in the diary.”
“I’d say the hooded man hiding in the dark over in the corner is taking notes for his diary.”
Not everything can go in the diary, people. Now leave me sit in the dark in peace with my finger food. And try the spare ribs. They’re nice.
A tailback on the way into Dingle, and how to avoid it
DEAR Diary – Today’s a big day in the world of Tadhgie. I’m going to see a match for the first time since March because I will be reporting on An
Ghaeltacht’s clash with St Mary’s of Cahersiveen.
But before all that, I must negotiate Dingle town – which is ludicrously busy.
The match starts at 2.30pm, and I leave Lios Póil at 1.30pm. It normally takes me about 20 minutes to get to Gallaras, so I’m on course to be unusally punctual – but then I meet a sight that I don’t think I’ve encountered in my 27 years on this sod: a tailback stretching from the Mall roundabout to Sweeney’s garage.
I’m no good at judging tailbacks, but I reckon there are at least 6,000 cars stuck on the way into Dingle. And now I’m panicking that I won’t make it to the match in time.
It takes me about five minutes to get from Sweeney’s to the hospital roundabout – which is only a stone’s throw from Sweeney’s, if you’re throwing a very heavy stone. It’s time to deploy my local knowledge and cut some corners.
I swing right at the roundabout as I can see that the tailback is stretching down as far as the next roundabout and, presumably, out the marina. I swing on to the bypass up to the top of Goat Street, and then I’m on the back road out of town. This new roadway is a Godsend – if you know about it, and non-locals don’t, which is into my barrow today.
I get to the match on time after all, and I even have time to fill out three lotto tickets when I get there. I always play the lotto when I get to a match as I’m something of a philanthropist, and I never have a problem supporting An Ghaeltacht in some form. They get on well with Lios Póil and they have lovely Irish.
It’s time to clock out for holidays. See you in a fortnight.
DEAR Diary – It’s 2.30am on Monday, and I’m finishing up the match report. An Ghaeltacht beat St Marys, and now it’s time to type up the account.
“You’re up very late. You must be a hard worker and fiercely committed to your job,” you say. All true, but if anything you’re playing down my worth to The Kerryman.
But I wouldn’t normally be up at this time writing stuff. I am going on holidays for the next two weeks, and I’m getting the last of my
Kerryman copy done and dusted. For the next fortnight, the world is my oyster, and I will make the most of that by watching lots of snooker, because I am weird.
The World Snooker Championship started on Friday, you see. It usually takes place in April and May, but something about a virus or something has delayed it this year.
Those of you who’re of sound mind won’t understand it, but this is like Christmas to me. Snooker is the most tense sport on earth, and this is the most tense tournament of the lot. Over the next 14 days, therefore, we’ll see a lot of fellas crumbling under pressure, and that’s exactly the kind of thing I love to see: other people struggling.
Anyway, while I have kept the diary going during my previous annual leaves, that won’t be happening this time. When the snooker’s on, I’m off the clock. If you ring me, it will go to voicemail. If you text me, I will ignore you – unless the text is about snooker. If you send me a message by pigeon, I will send that pigeon back with a crude response attached to its leg.
So please go away now. I will see you in two weeks.