Last night was the feast of Saint Halloween, patron saint of feral children.
This is the day, every year, when urchins gather by the roadside to practise the traditional art of flinging eggs at cars, and when their parents stand around a huge bonfire drinking Dutch Gold and freeing the spirit of the god, Dioxin.
Once a year, on this day, even hardened atheists pray: for rain, and our prayers were answered last night when it started to rain heavily at about 11 o’clock, sending thousand of disappointed pyjama people home, too sober and too early, their celebrations in ruins, a heap of half-melted wheelie-bins and smouldering mattresses.
This is the last time we’ll see the market in its present form, open to the elements. It closes for six months while they put a giant umbrella over it.
Traders have mixed views about this, and I have misgivings myself but we’ll have to give it a chance.
Time for a coffee in Nancy’s and a chat.
The world’s funniest German is in good form. He kills us with his latest joke: Hello. Can I help you?
Things are looking grim here too. A harsh disciplinary regime means that cheeky customers can expect no mercy:
It’s a busy day. We’re off to Thomond Park to meet Ulster in a Magners League match. Bullet and myself got lucky and secured stand tickets through a kind friend.
Ulster are tough opposition, but Munster grind out a good victory, securing a bonus point for four tries and winning 24-10. How bad?
After that, what else can you do only get down to some serious partying? Saint Halloween delivered, bless him, providing rain, music and drink.
What more could one ask from the patron saint of feral children?