If farming was an Olympic sport, I'd win gold
If mending broken fences or dragging full buckets of milk across a yard was an Olympic sport, our Denis says he would come home with gold.
There is no doubt about it, but if mending broken fences or dragging full buckets of milk across a yard was an Olympic sport, I'd probably come out on top.
The gold would go to Ireland and to your old pal Lehane, from up the mountain.
And as Ursula von der Leyen, or someone else of that calibre pins a gold medal to my jumper, 'De Banks' would be played out over the tanoy.
And with tears streaming down my face, I would dedicate my victory to all in farming.
For while the Scandinavians might be good at ice skating, and the Russians good for lifting, it takes a very special individual to succeed in the business of farming.
I'm pretty unique; you'd have to accept that, if nothing else.
I remember, back years ago when I milked cows on this farm, it was said that there was none better than myself at attaching the milk cluster.
I could attach a cluster to the pap like Christy Ring taking a ball on the hop.
Regardless of the whip of her tail, or the strength of her back leg, I'd have that cluster on and be out of harm's way quicker than 'The Ballineen Bullet' herself.
I was a master of the milking stall, and would have my herdeen of 20 cows milked in two shakes of a lamb's tail, or at the very least in a little over an hour.
I was the Michael Phelps of the dairy industry, with arms swinging and legs flailing.
If there had been a medal presentation after the cows every morning, I would surely have been on the top pedestal.
But alas, time marches on.
The milking stall, the playground of the poor, was eventually pushed aside by those who milk in state-of-the-art facilities.
And fellows like me, the Jesse Owens of our day, were forced out and confined to the history books.
But my farming talent wasn't only confined to the milking stall.
I remember back in the 80's when it came to making hay, it was said that none could match auld Lehane, who could sniff out a change in the weather faster than Eamonn Coughlan left the starting blocks.
I'd be up on that tractor turning hay one minute, then suddenly I would switch to raking it in.
And before the day was over, rain would be falling, but our hay would be saved all thanks to my quick reflexes.
Like Simone Biles on the gymnastics floor, my timing was always exquisite. My performance flawless.
The hay we saved was so good that horses galloped to victory and cattle put on muscle, merely from a knowledge that the stuff was in the yard.
The square bales we made in the 80s were a sight to behold, in the field or on a trailer.
They were Olympic-standard hay bales, to say the least.
But alas, that too came to an end with the arrival of the round baler.
And sure, now almost everything gets a wrap.
And you don't know what you have until a cold day in December.
But that didn't faze this Olympian farmer either.
For even today in my twilight years, when you'd think gold medals in farming were behind me, I maintain I could still make the podium for being able to spot a winning bullock from a herd that looks like it contains no winners at all.
For that's my greatest gift.
A talent for spotting a winner where everybody else only sees a loser.
