Will someone think of the children

Oh, go on. You’re dying for an excuse to look at it again.

It is 20 seconds into the pleasantries between Dromid and Derrytresk before one pair arrive at the foot of the Portlaoise steps. The gentleman — seemingly fearing this meeting of minds is about to disperse without his input — is keen to vault the hoardings and join in. A girl — his daughter maybe — performs a gallant blocking job to keep him out of harm’s way.

A sad example of what this codology visits on our youth or a hopeful sign the next generation is blessed with an ounce of sense? You tell me.