Auld Lehane and the secrets of eternal youth
Denis says his problems with all this anti-ageing malarkey began many years ago when he worked as a cattle drover at a local mart, in this week's Lighten Up.
I met an old friend in a chip shop the other evening; I hadn't seen him for some time.
"You haven't changed one bit in 20 years," he declared.
I thanked him, of course, but told him it was a curse, too.
Yes, indeed, I haven't changed in 20 years, and maybe 30.
As you can see from my photo, the years have weighed very lightly on the shoulders of Auld Lehane.
I am the Dorian Gray of Irish Farming. Of that, there can be little doubt.
If you care to ignore the grey hairs and look beyond my balding patch, my weak, watery eyes, my excess flesh, my high colouring, and my abundance of nasal hair, I could easily pass for a 20-year-old.
As I ease my way into the late 50s (yes, it's true... your eyes do not deceive you), my boyband good looks remain unblemished.
Untarnished by the passage of time and all the hard work I have endured on the land, I remain frighteningly young-looking.
"So what's your secret?" you might cry, you yourself ageing every day.
Well, my friend, it's no secret. There's a very logical explanation behind it.
My problems with all this anti-ageing malarkey began many years ago when I worked as a cattle drover at a local mart.
One day a man with extremely old cattle asked if I wouldn't mind hunting them into the calf ring.
I told him I would not hunt his cattle into the calf ring, for his cattle were extremely old and possibly worthless.
"We have our standards," I explained.
The mart I worked for back then was extremely exclusive.
"Oh yes, I understand," says he, and with that, he whipped out a container from his pocket. One that was no bigger than a snuff box.
The dusty contents of which he quickly and carelessly tossed into the air above the backs of his aged cattle.
As the powder landed onto their backs, it transformed the boneshakers into wonderful fat calves.
Yerra, back then, in the good old days of farming, we had powders, potions, creams and ointments to suit every occasion.
In them days, before the PC brigade took all the fun out of farming, you could do whatever you damn well liked.
Anyhow, I couldn't believe my eyes and so began to rub them in disbelief and indeed irritation too... for hadn't some of the man's old powder gotten into my eyes!
"Oh my goodness!" says he, seemingly very concerned at the predicament. "Be sure and wash your eyes out well when you get home."
I promised him that I would, but of course, being foolhardy and forgetful, I never did.
Anyhow, the upshot of the whole thing was that I gained enteral youth that day in the mart and have remained youthful ever since.
And now I am cursed with the fresh face you see before you. And no matter how much I scrub my face or what enterprise I undertake in farming, nothing has aged me, not even calf rearing!
At a stage in life when a man like me should resemble a tobacco-chewing, contented old fart, I still look like a fresh-faced teenager... It's embarrassing really.
So, if you happen to meet me sometime in the future, me likely stuffing my face with chips, please don't compliment me on my youthful good looks. Don't highlight the fact that I remain so vibrant.
It hurts me more than you can imagine to know that it is true.
Eternal youth is the cross I will have to bear, probably for the rest of my life.
