Sunday, 5 June 2011
F3 - Cycle 34 - WHY IRISH EYES ARE SMILING
To celebrate the 'lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer', Doc came up with a weird and wonderful collection of words for this week's wacky F3 challenge:
banana, iguana, elbow, flaming, and pogostick.
He invited us to leap from the restraints and shackles of conformity and release our inner absurdity, together with a side-order of the bizarre! Well, this is what you get from me.....
.....please, enjoy! ;-)
WHY IRISH EYES ARE SMILING (THE REAL REASON!)
Watching the TV reports from Monygall I’d given a wry smile as Barack sipped it down, good and straight. The master of diplomacy, he’d hidden his inner feelings but Michelle had other ideas and her face gave the game away.
To be sure, I’d give them points for at least trying. A few days earlier, Liz had just smiled enigmatically and declined a pint of the ‘black stuff’ when it was shoved under her nose. She wasn’t going to give the media any chance of witnessing HM with a white moustache, no sir.
So, at the end of her tour of the Guinness factory, when one of her entourage quietly asked for a ‘carryout’ I was happy to oblige; seems the lady has taste, after all. It got me to thinking, though. Shame she can’t let her hair down in public, poor lass. I bet a few pints and she’d blend in very well with the festive atmosphere and the 'craic'.
I wasn't altogether surprised then, a few weeks later, to witness something a little unusual during the big procession at the start of the Street Performance World Championships, here in Dublin. Amid the artistes giving of their best, who was that old gent giving a ‘fillip’ to the old fire-eating trick by consuming a flaming banana? Surely not - I thought carriage-driving was more his style?
Still, if he was here, then it stood to reason she'd be here too. It gave me an idea and I ducked into Fitzgerald's before I headed over the Liffey. The crowds were jostling my elbow, but I’ve handled enough pints in my time to be able to make sure I don’t spill a drop of ‘black gold’, so I eased my way through with two glasses and singled out the diminutive colleen getting into the swing of things and shimmying those hips like an iguana.
I stepped over and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Here, get that down you, lass!”
Her silver hair, immaculately coiffed, shone like a halo in the sunshine; it suited her far better than any diamond tiara she might have had dredged up from her collection in the Tower.
She spun round and there was something mischievous in those sparkling eyes of hers as she graciously accepted the glass I offered her and swiftly downed half a pint in one go.
Then, nodding towards one of the attractions, she wiped a gloved hand across her mouth to mop up the residue as she handed the half empty glass back to me with a comment I shall take to my grave.
“Excellent! Would you mind holding this, one’s awf to have a go at that!”
The last I saw of HM Queen Elizabeth that day was watching her sporadically bounce up and down through the crowds, hopping down O’Connell Street on a pogo stick.
They say it has restorative powers and until now I’d have said that was just a marketing tool, but perhaps there is something magical about Ireland’s most famous export after all!