Auld Lehane's New York adventure continues
Having grown up watching American TV cop shows, naturally, my first port of call was to throw my name in with the NYPD. The cops.
I was in New York recently, with many people now wondering what the heck I was doing there.
"You hardly go to Kilmurry for the paper," one old fellow said to me after mass on Sunday.
"It's a long ways from Manhattan to Macroom," another quipped
And sure enough, they were both right.
Then another vicious rumour started. A claim that I had gone to New York for a hair transplant.
It has been noted you see that my hair has gotten quite long.
"You were bald in the summer and you are not now," remarked one elderly lady, who seemed to know more about my head than I did.
Anyhow today in order the quell the rumours and stop all the misguided talk about my head, I intend to reveal all.
The truth is, I went to the US to try and forget about farming.
Sick to the hind teeth of the whole business, I wanted to move as far away from the farm as I possibly could.
I wanted to find a new career.
Yerra over the winter, with all the rain, the bills and the talk about Mercosur, I became disillusioned with the whole thing.
And with youth still on my side, remember I'm only 55, I figured New York would be the best place for me to begin again.
Having grown up watching American TV cop shows, naturally, my first port of call was to throw my name in with the NYPD. The cops.
And didn't I get the land of my life when they offered me a role almost immediately?
"Your time spent farming and wrestling with bullocks in west Cork makes you an ideal candidate," I was informed by the police captain of a very rundown precinct.
"It would be an honour to have you onboard," he said, before offering me a gun and a badge.
And damn it all, I would have accepted it too, if only I hadn't become very homesick.
Unbelievable as it sounds, all the things that irritated me so much about the land before leaving Ireland had become very appealing now as I strolled down 5th Avenue.
They say an Irishman is the only species who can feel homesick while still at home.
Well, that was me.
I missed home terribly, even though I had only been in the US for 24 hours. The call of the bullocks with the long horns, the call of the old tractor with the wobbly wheel, were too much to ignore.
"I'm sorry captain," says I, saluting the man out of respect, "but I can hear Ireland's call. I must return to Kilmichael.
"I won't be able to become a police officer after all."
"Well darn it," says he "and you would have been so good."
Then he assured me that my place on the police force was guaranteed.
"If ever you change your mind," says he, "there will always be a cop job waiting for you here in New York City. A cop job with loads of exciting car chases and shoot outs."
I thanked him for the chance to become TJ Hooker, and then went on touring the great nation for a further spell, before it was time for me to return home.
By that stage, I was so anxious to get back that I approached the pilot soon after take-off, to see if we could get home faster.
"Yerra," says he, "tis slow enough all right. Flying across the Atlantic can wear a fellow out.
"Would you know of any lad who could fly this old bird for a spell?" he then asked, in all sincerity.
Well I had to laugh
"Look no further," says I, as I took the wheel.
"Wake me up when we are over Clare or someplace," he then requested, before pulling his cap over his good eye and falling asleep for a solid three hours.
The pilot was shattered, but he could sleep soundly. His plane was in good hands. The hands of a farmer.
Anyhow, once we were over Ballsbridge or someplace, I gave him the elbow and with the runway closing in fast, he took her down as sweetly as be damned.
We were home, safe and sound.
My adventures in New York were at an end, my farming adventures for 2026 only just beginning.
