Lighten Up: Heading to Gigginstown to replace 'Fertile Paddy'
Denis meets the main man at the Gigginstown House annual Easter sale.
I have emptied out my pockets and searched under the carpet.
Every cushion in the house has been vigorously shaken, and I have rattled the very last penny from my piggy bank.
All my cash is now on the table. I'm ready for Gigginstown, and this year, I intend to do business.
Last year, the only thing I could afford at the high-flying Michael O'Leary Angus Bull Sale was a burger.
Having forgotten my cheque book back at home. Having left the damn thing high up on the mantel piece, I was under the misguided belief that my word would be good enough to purchase cattle.
But, alas, 'my word' didn't get me very far.
Money talks in O'Leary country. And 'the word of auld Lehane' carries very little collateral on the fertile plains of Westmeath.
I failed to purchase a bull. I failed to launch. And my few cows back home were crest fallen on my return.
Paddy, my stock bull, who alas now has more years on him than either of us cares to mention, lived to fight another day.
And while I have nothing against age, I have to draw the line when it comes to pulling your weight around the farm.
And right now, the only thing Paddy the bull is pulling is grass.
Paddy eats a lot, but does precious little else.
Without wanting to be crude, in these days of great sensitivity, Paddy is about as useful when it comes to breeding as a flip-flop is when plodding through a muddy field.
Paddy has forgotten the very reason why he was put on this farm.
He was put here to breed, not to feed.
A great boy back in his day, but alas, like Genghis Khan or Spartan Missile, his glory days are well behind him now.
The glory days of 'Fertile Paddy' are like the days of Harp, the Ford 3000 and Sally O'Brien.
The upshot of it is I need a new bull.
Fertile Paddy needs to go, like last winter's hail and wind.
"So why don't you go to a local mart?" you might cry, "and buy a handy bull, rather than heading up to Gigginstown and spending the day rubbing shoulders with the great and the wealthy?"
And sure there, in your rambling old question, is precisely the answer.
The whole reason for going to Gigginstown is to rub shoulders with the great and the wealthy.
No offence to the local man, but I am sick of the local man.
I feel it's high time I placed myself in a better class of company.
Yerra auld Lehane, like Paddy the bull, needs to hit the highway.
The struggle to secure a bull is only half the battle.
I too need my spirits lifted.
Fertile Paddy, I dare say, even in the autumn of his life, could probably eventually get around to romancing the cows.
It's not that he has lost interest entirely; it's just that it's no longer an overriding focus for the old boy.
Grass, as I mentioned earlier, is now his number one priority, and ration too, if he finds an unlocked door.
Paddy might be slow when it comes to servicing cows, but he's like Houdini entirely when it comes to unfastening doors and sniffing out goodies.
He has a hunger, alright; it's just in the wrong place.
Anyhow I'll be heading to Gigginstown this Saturday and hopefully this year I will soar like an O'Leary plane leaving Farranfore.
Fertile Paddy needs to head to the departure lounge.
His boarding call, I believe, is about to be announced.
