I apologise for the following: The background to this is important, so bear with me as I bore you with trivial detail; The Divvil is in the details auld stock….

There was a time whereupon a former Crew (note previous post in the Dickler blog) that used to do various jobs at particular times during the year (Bank Holiday Weekends to be exact). At the time most of the crew would travel to the location of the wet work in Small commercial vehicles (Or Vans). The reasons for this is common knowledge to anyone who started their driving in the late eighties at the usual age (around 17 or so) but I’ll list the mains ones::

1. The insurance on a two seater van like a Peugeot 209 or Fiesta Van (or for those more upmarket like meself the Ford Escort van) was a hell of a lot cheaper than a car for most young male drivers starting off.

2. Because if all else failed in regard to accommodation you could sleep in the mattress in the back provided you were upmarket enough to have the escort (or even heaven forbid the most luxurious Hiace or Transit….)

3. Those of us who couldn’t afford a car got the work vans from our parents rather than the family car to get away on weekends like this.

The net result of all this was that a convoy of up to six vans of varying shapes and sizes used to travel to these remote locations prior to the commencement of the wet work.

These Away wet jobs usually involved the consumption of copious amounts of various liquids for as many hours as possible before collapsing into the vehicles in question.

On this particular away wet job, the hit took place during the Cork Jazz Festival weekend in October, Location was Kinsale where we had developed a rapport with the locals to give us a reasonable alibi. This particular job had involved bringing various girlfriends wives etc. as cover (We were also beginning to settle a small bit to the extent that said “Wimmin” inevitably stirred up enough shit that they had to be brought along, anyway it was of the age where Hormonal influences made most of the decisions, or in other words the small head was doing the thinking….It was a wise woman that said once to me that males had two major organs but only enough blood to run one of them at any particular moment…). Because of the female element, accommodation in a B&B had to be found for the weekend. The only one available at the time of booking was in the Village of Ballinspittle, approximately 5 or 6 miles from the town of Kinsale. Now Ballinspittle is a most dull godawful spot, known to most of our “aykwals” (to coin a traditional phrase) for one reason and one reason only, A Bloody Moving Virgin Statue thingy.

The following conversation takes place after a rip-roaring session lasting approximately three days at approximately 11:00 in the morning of the fourth day. The two lads in question, A lieutenant named “Sir Jester” and “The Slats”, a lowly private at the time, had been dragged out for a walk at that ungodly hour, by their respective “Wimmin” to see the famous statue, for the purpose of which only “Wimmin” will know or understand but mainly I presume to keep the lads out of the pub for an hour or so. The two lads ended up standing in front of said famous bloody moving Virgin Statue, gazing up through weary bloodshot eyes and the conversation goes summat like this:

“Boss, so that’s the famous moving statue ha?”,
“Tis man, Tis…”,
A 30 second pause…..
“Jaysus I don’t know boss, It’s not doing too much jumping now”…..
“You’ve no faith man…, Christ shut up I’m dying….”
Another pregnant pause…..
“Jaysus boss, she’s starting to talk to me..”, N.B. THIS WAS SAID IN INTONATION MOST DEEP AND SERIOUS…..
“What, WHAT? What in the fuck are you goin on about, SHUT UP for fucks sake….”
“Honest Boss She’s talking to me….”
“What’s she saying sham,?
“She says that’s its time for a cure……”