Tuesday, September 01, 2009
The Deadliest Jumper in the World
...belongs to this guy, the Bear's French buddy from Sligo. I decided that he needs to write a book, beacuse anybody who can start a story with the sentence "So when I was little I used to go out to Australia to see my Dad, because he was working in a diamond mine at the time..." just should.
But back to the jumper. Although it's technically a cardigan, and it warmed the bejaysus out of me while sitting outside The Strand bar drinking cider in Sligo last weekend. This was after our second attempt at entry you see, since the first time around I was caught with a can of Bulmers in my bag and sent on my way. I believe he's attending Electric Picnic too and as such I'm hatching a plan to make it mine.
Anyway, the Warriors Run had been on that day, so earlier on we had been cheering the Queen Maeve-bothering runners (well, I'm not sure I'd appreciate 800 people stomping around MY burial cairn) across the finish line. That night Strandhill was a freezing cold craic-fest of people, bumper cars, bright lights and carnie folk. And there were FIREWORKS! Who doesn't love fireworks? I certainly love them even though one nearly set my hair on fire one New Year's Eve quite some time ago.
Fun times! But on reflection I was definitely drunker than I thought since..(oh the shame) when the Bear and I got back to his house, I once again got sucked into watching that infernal puzzle bastard show PlayTV, and the answer was so plainly obvious this time that I...em...rang in. I know. But I hung up in fury straight away when I got automated questions about whether India was in Africa or not. Fuck you JG Murphy. Fuck you.