Lighten Up: The 'mart' of money and auld Lehane's concern

Denis is worried about the price his cattle will make in the mart... but not for the reasons you might think

I don't want to be Jimmy Rockefeller. All I want is a fair to middling price for my cattle. Is that too much to ask for?

We could be like Jimmy Rockefeller in no time.

I will be selling a few cattle in the mart shortly, and I'm extremely worried about the price they will make. Prices, I hear, are going through the roof... just look at the livestock pages of the Farm Exam!

It's Elon Musk stuff; the money is frightening.

Every fellow is a winner, even losers like me.

And that's what concerns me most.

You see, I have never been too bothered about money. Call me old-fashioned... call me what you like, but I hate the stuff.

And my whole life, my whole reason for becoming a farmer in the first place, was to escape all the pleasures of the world.

The life of the cow and the hardship of the land, and indeed the self-induced celibacy associated with it, always appealed to me.

I yearned for the simple life you see. And I got it too. Years of isolation and financial woes have stood me in good stead.

I'm proud to say the man you see before you today wouldn't be half the man he is without the education I received. If farming is the school of hard knocks, well, then I graduated with honours.

And now they tell me that cattle prices are flying.

That the job of selling bullocks at the mart these days is akin to selling the Mona Lisa at Sotheby's... that bids are coming for all quarters, and sellers like you and me are filling our pockets like Rockefeller himself.

Well, thanks, but no thanks.

They say receiving a mart cheque these days is like receiving a cheque from the National Lottery. The sums are humongous.

Well, I don't want the manager of Macroom Mart, Jerh O'Sullivan, to be popping a bottle of champagne when I come to collect my mart cheque on Tuesday.

I only want to sell my few cattle, collect my cheque and complain about my feed bills.

That has been my way all my life. The 'Poor Mouth' has been my byword.

But now I am being told that the old ways are gone and that we will just have to accept huge money for cattle — cattle that you couldn't get rid of 10 years ago!

Well, I won't stand for it and neither should you.

We have worked long and hard to get to where we are today, and it won't be taken away from us now by generous types eager to fill our pockets with cash. Not on my watch.

The life of a millionaire doesn't appeal to me one bit.

What business would I have on a fancy yacht with a bevy of supermodels and we sailing halfway across the world? Sure, I wouldn't know which way to look. I would probably end up getting a seizure of some calibre.

Aren't I far better off here in Kilmichael in the rain, farming under a constant, yet dependable influx of trouble. This is the life I'm meant to lead, and as God is my judge, I will go on leading it.

So, when my cattle enter the ring in the next couple of weeks, it will be with a cold eye that I survey the room. And God help any man, woman or child who dares bid excessively on my bullocks.

The bids will be sporadic, the sums offered meagre.

I don't want to be Jimmy Rockefeller.

All I want is a fair to middling price for my cattle. Is that too much to ask for?