Paddy Hannon, collected his pension every Thursday morning down in the post office in Prosperous. He was a modest man and single. We would be talking now about £7.50. a week. To celebrate the occasion Paddy would immediately head into Pad Dowling's to have a pint of Guinness or two. My friend, James Egan, was on this very same day going to horse sales in Goff's, a predacious place with a lot at stake. I mean racehorses are expensive animals. And so he was in his best bib and tucker, showered and well sprayed.
As he is passing by my avenue, a little bit on, he sees this head poking out of the ditch. Who is it only Paddy Hannon. The poor man. Obviously one pint of Guinness lead to another and he fell into bad company. Sure you know yourself!
Anyway, James sees him. His initial thoughts are fuck it, I'll keep going. But then -- suppose he dies and I'm called to witness.
So, against his better judgement and late already for Goff sales he decides to go back, pulls Paddy out of the ditch and hauls him into his car's passengers seat.
On the way home, and passing James's rather fancy farm with sleek thoroughbreds adorning all the lush fields, Paddy, heretofore silent, stirrers himself and say to James: "Do you know the old bollocks who lives in there?" An astute man Paddy!
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