Greetings Amigos, here we are again to plumb the depths of our pre-cheese excavations. Week three begins . . .
The surrounding vistas of the square provided quite an opportunity to take my pen on a perambulation around the old Daler Rowney A4. In the background you can see the gallery of rancid dairy produce. A stunning ediface, the large window (through which you can spy two gallery devotees checking out some smears of yoghurt on brown paper) sometimes played host to a surprising type of fauna - this room was on occasion flooded with saltwater and filled with great white sharks. An unusual practice but a neccessary prerequisite to claiming an arts grant these days - I myself have two freshwater dolphins slathering about on a thin skin of milk in my parlour, unfortunately I have yet to receive a single cheque for my efforts. The two people wearing hard hats in the foreground are nondescript oiks, let us waste 'non plus de temps sur ils' (as they say in Monaghan.)
Oh the lee, oh the lee, oh the sweet Rosie Lee, long may it flow between you and me. You can't beat a good cuppa, can you? I remember well when the wind howled outside and we huddled together in the tea hut and wee Nially Colfer was nestled on Herr Hayden's lap and Herr Hayden ruffled wee Nially's hair and said 'Will you do a turn.' 'A what?' Says Wee Nially. 'Will you not give us a recitation and you with such a lovely voice dangling off your larynx,' says Herr Hayden. 'Oh I won't,' says Nially with a blush the colour of a splattered punnet of strawberries. 'Oh go on do, for all the grand boys and girls here today,' says Herr Hayden and we all looked at the Colferoo with visages teetering with expectation and sure what could he do but give that fine smile of his and pronounce 'Begor, in troth I will!' And with that Herr hayden slid his shovels of hands under Wee Nially's uxters and swung him onto the tabletop. Nially first composed himself by dusting the crumbs off his short pants then he lifted his eyes to heaven and gave a look as if the muses were weeping into his very soul. His right hand went onto his hip, his left hand pointed skywards and he then recited his immortal party piece: 'I'm a little teapot, short and stout . . .' By the time it had ended there wasn't a dry eye in the teahut. 'The Chairman' Kerins was so enthused by it all he stripped to the waist and bolted out onto the street screaming 'Ave Maria.' Truly if and Icelandic Eadda was ever composed with more power in it's words then I have yet to hear it.
Can you spot Herr Unterrooter Brian Hayden in this one? I can, with his tasteless shorts and haircut (although using the word 'haircut' is gilding the lily if you ask me.) The man was insufferable, standing to attention every time the Bishop of Nobber used the word 'Waffles,' and once he was on his feet he began singing La Marseillaise. Really, the nerve of some people! That big thing in the background is not a building, it's actually a rare breed of begonia, somehow I didn't quite manage to get it to look right. Still the wheelbarrows are rather pleasing.
At this point in my blogging career I'm beginning to wonder - does anyone actually read this stuff? Never mind. Goodness, there's Chairman Kerins and Broken Nose Barrett discussing which works better, a decade of the rosary or a pick axe handle. I myself always favour the latter, particularly when chasing charity muggers off my property.
Here we are looking onto the Billy Barry School of Archaeology (thank you Mr. Barrett for pointing that out to me,) where young hopefuls were trained to grip trowels and bark like dogs. Oh how I envy their mettle. The person with the mattock was a government mole sent in to draw out a chunk of halloumi for Enda Kenny's imminent lunch with the Queen. We soon showed him gate with the help of a decade of the rosary interspersed with liberal doses of the pick axe handle. Herr Uberrooter thought this drawing somewhat similar to an episode of Trumpton.