I know that Limehouse Dick is a rascal. I know he’s an incorrigible corner-boy and dodger. I realise old Scrotum can’t stand him, and yet, for all his uncouth manners, his shuffling, mumbling shiftiness and his surly manner, he has always responded well to a sound thrashing and a small bag of sovereigns.
This time is no exception.
Once more, at the appointed time, Limehouse Dick has presented himself at my study door with a brace of the finest tickets for the forthcoming encounter between our fellows and those British chaps from Dublin. One for me and one for my young lad, who has accompanied me on these journeys since he was but a babe in swaddling.
Bless him, Limehouse Dick. I almost feel affection for the scruffy old devil. It was a most unfortunate business when he fell from the ivy outside my window. I do hope that limp clears up eventually.
Oh, by the way, I should perhaps mention that Munster have won the Magners League. A minor matter, I know, but still.
Previously on Bock: