Cork on Ice – it really does kick ass
My bum story began last Saturday, when I made the regrettable move of taking the youngsters to that blasted Cork on Ice business down in Mahon. This gliding on ice malarkey has become very popular.
So off we trotted to Mahon, with me, the fool that I am, promising to “give the ice a go”.
Being the hardy farmer that I am, I presumed that I’d be gliding successfully on the ice in no time.
I thought I’d be like your man Torvill (or was it Dean?), twirling and swirling all over the place.
So we arrived, we got our skates on, and waited for our turn to come. Before a new herd of skaters is allowed onto the ice, the previous herd have to be cajoled off.
And once the herding up of the previous skaters was complete, this fellow on skates with a yard brush in his hand appeared in the rink. Smart as you like, he started to sweep up all the scraps of ice that lay around here and there.
A gifted fellow with a brush, if ever there was one. A man who would surely be a blessing on any farm on a frosty morning.
Next thing, the gates swung open, and out came a tractor, a Landini Mistral 50, with what looked like a diet-feeder behind it.
Well, I was mighty interested now. Anyway, the job here was to pick up all the loose ice on the rink, which the tractor did with ease.
So between your man with the yard brush and the tractor, I felt right at home. Then the time finally came for us to take to the ice. The gates snapped open, with me leading the charge.
Foolishly, I made for the ice the way a hungry bullock makes for a fresh meadow of grass. I galloped on, blind to the danger that glistened beneath my feet.
Within a second, I was gone. I was now ass-skating.
My youngsters, embarrassed by their old fellow, helped me back onto my feet, and in fairness to them, they came to my rescue many times on that fateful day. But of course, I couldn’t hold onto them forever.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I bounced off numerous people before falling to the ground on several occasions. And by the end of our session, my bum was stinging and my left wrist had also seen better days.
On my return home, did my missus fill a nice warm bath for me, on account of my various aches and pains? She did, my backside! She only laughed. How I suffered at Mass on Sunday morning. I was a saint really to attend, because between my swollen wrist and my swollen backside, I was a pity.
How I managed to kneel down and look as dignified as I did is something only the man above could answer.
And worse again, with our carol singing starting up next weekend, and me banjaxed entirely, how can I possibly perform?
A swollen backside won’t stop me from singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, but the sprained wrist is a mighty problem when I’m supposed to be the man with the guitar.
My trip to the ice has left me feeling an awful ass.
