I’m heading to the bank tomorrow morning with a wheelbarrow, and high hopes of securing a mighty skelp of Creed’s money.
Yerra, with the old farming game gone to the dogs entirely, only for Creed and his money, we’d be in a right mess.
The man deserves nothing but praise for launching a scheme whereby €150m has now been made available to us under-pressure farmers.
And don’t ask me where Creed got the money, for I have no idea.
He might well have won the lotto for all I know.
All I do know, is that he’s offering us money, and you’d be a right fool to turn your back on such generosity.
Creed’s money could not have come at a better time, with Valentine’s Day less than a week away.
I’m telling you, thanks to Creed and his money, romance will be alive and well in rural Ireland this February.
It will be like the good old days, we will be dancing at the crossroads and getting up to all kinds of mischief.
In the Lehane house, my missus won’t know what’s hit her, with the height of gifts and cuddles.
I’ll go to town altogether this year with a card, some chocolates, and of course a bunch of first-class flowers. I’ll pick out the best bunch in the shop.
There will be no penny pinching for me this year, the only pinching I’ll be doing will be on the rear end.
I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Creed was responsible for a whole new generation of youngsters.
At the bank in the morning, when they are asking me about my prospects of repaying the Agriculture Cashflow Support Loan Scheme money, I’ll tell them the truth.
I’ll tell them the chances of the money ever reappearing are mighty slim.
“But I’ll do my best,” I’ll assure the bank manager, and at the end of the day, there is no more a man can do.
I’ll sit down across from him, and lay bare the facts of the situation. That my farming life is one of hardship and suffering, and that money is as scarce as a Mexican who supports Trump.
I’ll tell him about my tractor that won’t start, and of my half-squeezed bullocks who won’t stop tearing at the boundary ditch and causing all kinds of trouble.
I’ll tell him ’tis enough to make a grown man cry.
And I wouldn’t be surprised if he does shed a tear on my behalf. For when it comes to painting a bleak picture of Irish farming, I’m like Picasso himself.
He’ll give me a nice skelp of Creed’s money, for he’ll quickly realise that the likes of me need it most of all.
Indeed, the only worry I have is that I might be allocated too much money, and that it might go to my head.
You often hear about people who come into money, and it changes them utterly from the good people they used to be.
I suppose it all depends really on how much I’m allocated.
For instance, if it’s a small amount, that might only stretch as far as Wednesday week, I don’t think it would change me much.
However if the bank was to toss me a million euros, or something of that nature, it could well be a different story.
I might well lose the head entirely and go bananas.
We will just have to wait and see how it all pans out tomorrow, when I go to the bank to find out how much of Creed’s cash is coming my way.