If there’s one thing I hate more than children, it’s their parents.
This morning I wandered around the Market, as is my habit, and afterwards went for coffee with my newspaper, where I bumped into Parkenstein.Ã‚ Now, you possibly might not be aware that this is a bit of a worried weekend because tomorrow we meet Clermont-Auvergne in the first of two crunch matches to decide who goes forward to the knockout stages of the Heineken Cup.Ã‚ Next week, we meet London Wasps at home — a tall order if ever there was one — and I have tickets for the Bullet and myself, so I should be able to bring you a few good pictures, all going well, but that’s for another day.
Limerick is looking slightly deserted at the moment, which is not surprising as a good proportion of our citizens have travelled to France for tomorrow’s game, though I’m not one of them, and neither is Parkenstein. Those remaining in the town can think of little else but Clermont, and a great stillness has fallen over us.Ã‚ The City Council has imported a giant shipment of tumbleweedÃ‚ and people are wandering around, aimlessly kicking tin cans in front of them and hurling foul language at passing urchins.
What to do?
I know! said Parkenstein.Ã‚ Why don’t we go and watch the Leinster match?
Ack! I replied.
No.Ã‚ Seriously.Ã‚ Let’s go and get a bit of lunch in one of those anonymous, bland, suburban formula-pubs with the large screens.
Oh, all right, I agreed.Ã‚ Why not?Ã‚
Why not indeed.Ã‚ I was beginning to gather up a bit of enthusiasm (which is more than you can say for most Leinster supporters) and by the time we kicked in the front door, I was snarling.Ã‚ Come on, fuckin Leinster, rip their fuckin heads off!!
Look, said Parkenstein.Ã‚ Not too crowded.Ã‚ There’s a table — come on.
And we sat down beside a man and his little son, a sight that would gladden your heart and that brought me back to the early days out in Thomond Park with little Bullet on my shoulders and my careful coaching of the dear littleÃ‚ fellow: No son, it’s Fuck You, Referee, you fuckin fool!!Ã‚ Now, try one more time …
But this father was of a different ilk: this father was the sort who go to a pub with their small son so that he’ll fuck off and annoy the other customers by running around pretending to be a fire engine, while fat fuck father watches the match in peace, the fat fuck bastard.
And you want to know the other thing that pisses me off?Ã‚ It’s parents who are too fucking stupid, or selfish, to give a shit that their pre-ADHD little psychopath is draining all the enjoyment out of your day by running around knocking over your drinks and your lunch and pissing you off shouting his stupid, soon-to-be-separated head off.Ã‚ Parents who are so fucking stupid that they go the bar and come back with a glass of fucking Coca-Cola for the little bastard, just in case he was about to calm down.
They might as well order a cocktail of psilocybin, lysergic acid, speed, cocaine and Red Bull.Ã‚ There ya go, Son.Ã‚ Enjoy yer fuckin drugs.
Bastard.Ã‚ Draining all the enjoyment out of the game.
Oh wait.Ã‚ Hold on a minute — did I say enjoyment?Ã‚ Sorry.Ã‚ It was a Leinster match.