Oisin
gone but not forgotten
Now this REALLY is a true, TRUE story:
LEAVE IT TO SEAMUS
Although he worked as a machine tool fitter, like most of the workers in that factory, Seamus Maguire had no formal qualifications. And, like the majority of the others, he had his “bit of land” and “bit of bog” where he would cut his own turf for fuel. He also had a stutter, which I will leave the reader to imagine, as I consider even attempting to emulate it in writing would be cruel.
Despite being vulnerable to ridicule from his colleagues, Seamus seemed a good, reliable sort of bloke who wasn’t afraid of hard work.
Unusually for that part of the world, the weather had been extremely dry and sunny for some considerable time when Seamus approached me to say he intended having the following day (Thursday) off to collect his turf from the bog. ‘It’s cut and dried,’ he told me, ‘so all I’ve got to do now is bring it home.’
I was working on the repair of a machine he was waiting to fit a tool on, but I wasn’t his boss, so I don’t really know why he saw the need to consult me, however I told him it would be okay as I could manage for a day without him.
As soon as I bumped into Seamus on the Friday morning I made the mistake of asking him how his day had gone on the bog.
‘Don’t mention it!’ he warned me, ‘Didn’t get a single bloody sod of turf home.’
‘Why? What happened?’ I asked in all innocence.
‘The bloody ass!’ he snarled, ‘Wouldn’t go into the shafts of the cart. There was me pulling one way and him the other. Sweating my cobs off, I was. Anyway, in the end I lost my temper and I took a spade and laid it across his big stupid soddin’ head. Killed the bugger stone dead, I did. He went down like a ton of bricks... Didn’t know what to do then… I had to get rid of him but the ground was baked as hard as the hob of hell with all the good weather.
'I couldn’t dig a big enough hole to bury the bloody thing. So, I spent the whole of the bloody day chopping him up into pieces with an axe, and burying the bugger in the smaller holes that I could dig.’
When I relayed this story to Jim Gallagher, a mutual colleague who knew Seamus far better than I did, he was totally unsurprised.
‘Sounds like Seamus,’ he said with a shrug, ‘He killed his mother-in-law’s sow.’
He immediately had my attention. ‘Intentionally?’ I asked.
Jim shook his head, ‘Well not exactly. You see, this pig was a bit of a Houdini - had a habit of going walkabout from the sty. Seamus’ mother-in-law approached him to see if he had any ideas to keep it in.
‘Well, you know Seamus’ ingenuity: The sty was in a field, next to an oul’ wooden pole carrying power lines to the village. He connected a wire from the pole, across the entrance to the sty, with the idea of it acting as an electric fence.
‘You might laugh but it worked. That sow never went on walkabout again. When the mother-in-law checked in the morning, half the town was without electricity and her sow was lying with its feet stuck up in the air.
Some bucko our Seamus is, I’ll tell you; there’s not a beast in Connacht safe while he’s around!’
THE END
LEAVE IT TO SEAMUS
Although he worked as a machine tool fitter, like most of the workers in that factory, Seamus Maguire had no formal qualifications. And, like the majority of the others, he had his “bit of land” and “bit of bog” where he would cut his own turf for fuel. He also had a stutter, which I will leave the reader to imagine, as I consider even attempting to emulate it in writing would be cruel.
Despite being vulnerable to ridicule from his colleagues, Seamus seemed a good, reliable sort of bloke who wasn’t afraid of hard work.
Unusually for that part of the world, the weather had been extremely dry and sunny for some considerable time when Seamus approached me to say he intended having the following day (Thursday) off to collect his turf from the bog. ‘It’s cut and dried,’ he told me, ‘so all I’ve got to do now is bring it home.’
I was working on the repair of a machine he was waiting to fit a tool on, but I wasn’t his boss, so I don’t really know why he saw the need to consult me, however I told him it would be okay as I could manage for a day without him.
As soon as I bumped into Seamus on the Friday morning I made the mistake of asking him how his day had gone on the bog.
‘Don’t mention it!’ he warned me, ‘Didn’t get a single bloody sod of turf home.’
‘Why? What happened?’ I asked in all innocence.
‘The bloody ass!’ he snarled, ‘Wouldn’t go into the shafts of the cart. There was me pulling one way and him the other. Sweating my cobs off, I was. Anyway, in the end I lost my temper and I took a spade and laid it across his big stupid soddin’ head. Killed the bugger stone dead, I did. He went down like a ton of bricks... Didn’t know what to do then… I had to get rid of him but the ground was baked as hard as the hob of hell with all the good weather.
'I couldn’t dig a big enough hole to bury the bloody thing. So, I spent the whole of the bloody day chopping him up into pieces with an axe, and burying the bugger in the smaller holes that I could dig.’
When I relayed this story to Jim Gallagher, a mutual colleague who knew Seamus far better than I did, he was totally unsurprised.
‘Sounds like Seamus,’ he said with a shrug, ‘He killed his mother-in-law’s sow.’
He immediately had my attention. ‘Intentionally?’ I asked.
Jim shook his head, ‘Well not exactly. You see, this pig was a bit of a Houdini - had a habit of going walkabout from the sty. Seamus’ mother-in-law approached him to see if he had any ideas to keep it in.
‘Well, you know Seamus’ ingenuity: The sty was in a field, next to an oul’ wooden pole carrying power lines to the village. He connected a wire from the pole, across the entrance to the sty, with the idea of it acting as an electric fence.
‘You might laugh but it worked. That sow never went on walkabout again. When the mother-in-law checked in the morning, half the town was without electricity and her sow was lying with its feet stuck up in the air.
Some bucko our Seamus is, I’ll tell you; there’s not a beast in Connacht safe while he’s around!’
THE END
