Facebook is no substitute for the pub. But in a time of great thirst, and desperate isolation, it’s all we have.
A trip to the local can be grand when you want to meet a neighbour or friend. With Facebook, the world is your oyster. You can have as many friends in Timbuktu as you have in Timoleague.
Recently Colonel Gaddafi’s daughter teamed up with me on Facebook. A charming lady, I’ve no doubt.
It’s a long way from Libya to Lissarda, but isn’t that what I’m trying to tell you! Distance is no object with Facebook. As the crow flies, it might be a long stretch. With Facebook it’s only a click away.
Colonel Gaddafi’s daughter could be on the moon and would still have found me through Facebook. The thing is a marvel entirely.
She asked me to be her friend, and I accepted, for I felt it would be mighty rude not to do so. Who am I to judge? Whether she’s the daughter of a Libyan dictator or of the Archbishop of Canterbury, I won’t ever refuse a friendly gesture.
“But how do I know that it’s Colonel Gaddafi’s daughter?” Well simply because, that’s her name, ‘her handle’ as they used to say in the good old days of CB radio. She has a picture to go along with it.
Facebook is very straight forward like that. It’s fierce honest altogether.
Clearly Gaddafi’s daughter is a big fan of my writing in the Farming supplement, for how else could she have come across me?
She might well be doing the Farming crossword also, in search of the grand prize. And Gaddafi’s daughter might win it too, for stranger things have happened. She’s well up on general knowledge, make no mistake.
Her father was a great man in his time for supporting the Irish beef farmer.
He may have had his faults and failings, but when it came to his love of the Irish bullock he was up there with the best of them. Colonel Gaddafi bought more beef in the day than 100 jobbers, dealers and tanglers.
I remember many years ago taking a handful of cattle down to a boat bound for Libya, docked in Cork.
We were late in arriving, having encountered a puncture. By the time we arrived, the ship laden with Irish cattle was all but weighing anchor. Convinced we had missed the boat, we were downhearted.
We were turning for home when a mighty roar came from the ship ordering the vessel to halt. Then came another high ranking roar to reopen the back door and allow in our four fine Friesian bullocks.
Gaddafi adored the Friesian, he was peculiar in that way. The cattle were loaded, with great care, and before you could say Jack Robinson, money was lavished on us, the likes of which we had never seen before.
Gaddafi may have been a class of a tyrant, but in the cattle game he was an angel in a world of demons. He was a gentleman in a world of cowboys. Not surprising then that his daughter has friended up with me, for in a world quick to criticise, she won’t find me complaining.