This weekend I was home, and I spent it mostly in the west of Ireland. The talk was, mostly, of the shitening economic shite, but then Ireland came on field in Cardiff and just bate the Welsh, who if you were to believe their New Zealand coach, says that the Welsh hate us something awful. After Steve Jones missed the last kick of the match to hand Ireland victory, well the ‘hate’ isn’t reciprocated, but sure what would that Aussie coach know?  Anyway,after consuming  barrels of the black stuff I went off the to the Cliffs of Moher, in Clare. The cliffs, rising over 700 feet, are the last wall of defense between Ireland and the Atlantic and all else beyond it. They are inhabited by puffins, clinging tight to the sea wall, battered by the elements and tourists throwing rocks. The puffins shouldn’t be the only targets; Clare County council charges eight euro per car to park in the bleedin car park. But we weren’t going to let rip-off Ireland ruin the fun. Plus I wasn’t driving.

We went back into Miltown Malbay, located firmly in the 1950s. Inside in Hillery’s we got the best seats in the house, up on the window sill. The match was something else. At half time we were trailing by six points to nathin, but Junior said we’d be grand. He wasn’t drinking so I accepted his wisdom. Plus he speaks Irish to ex-Taoiseachs. Anyway, after all the roarin and shoutin and fightin and scrapin and smoking and roarin and drinking and shoutin of the first half, didn’t the owners of Hillerys lay on a feed of sandwiches. And didn’t they only put brown sauce into the grated cheese sandwiches. As long as you live you won’t ever ate better. I reckon that’s exacty what Declan Kidney, the Irish coach, gave the Irish fifteen at half-time; brown sauce sandwisches. The boys came back out, played their hearts out, held on, won out and we all went bananas. Bravo Ireland.