Denis Lehane: Big party went ahead without me
It was driven home to me recently, when I failed to receive an invite to that big IFA shindig held in Dublin.
The IFA is celebrating its 60th anniversary this year, and to mark the event, Dublin’s Convention Centre was packed to the gills with the biggest and brightest names in farming.
Just to add insult to injury, even the brother in-law was amongst their number.But alas, there was no place for me, not even a plastic chair in the corner.
So it has been with a heavy heart that I have been undertaking my farming duties over the past few days.
I’ve been an emotional wreck, really.
The bullocks, my poor band of misfits, must think I’ve gone mad entirely, as I drop off their round bales with tears in my eyes.
And as for the sheep, my poor little flock of ewes must wonder what terrible event has befallen me.
I’m a shadow of the man I used to be.A pale imitation of my former good humoured and cheerful self.
The spring has gone from my step, the lack of an invite has made me blue.
Anyway, yesterday evening, in an effort to get over the calamity, I picked up the paper. I was hoping that by looking at the pictures and reading about it, I might forget that I had been forgotten.
As I sat by the fire in the kitchen, feeling very much alone, I looked at the front cover, to see the grandest picture of Phil Hogan that has ever been taken.
And he there in all his finery addressing the farming nation gathered in the Convention Centre, looking like the greatest man to ever put on a pair of trousers.
Phil got some big job in Brussels recently, and he was probably telling all about the fine time he is having.
And more luck to him. I only wish I could have been there to rub shoulders with such wealthy types.
Alas, all I could do was read about the happenings, and sob quietly to myself on my lonely perch at home by the fire. Nobody remembered me at all.
Of course, after reading this sob story and of hearing about my immense distress, the supreme commander of the IFA, Eddie Downey, will probably demand that they hold the party all over again, that they re-inflate the balloons, put on the party hats, and relight the candles one more time.
They might even contemplate holding it in Cork this time, so that I won’t have to worry about travelling.
Well it’s too late now.
And I don’t care if, on my behalf, another 60th IFA birthday bash is arranged for the Convention Centre in Dublin, Hayfield Manor in Cork, or even down in my local watering hole.
I won’t be going, the wounds are too deep.
The damage has been done.
The party is over.
