I hear you're off to Lanigan's Ball.
*Nah man, Mayo.

Harold Pinto Beans

my last one - it was very witty.

Things happened.

An Irish judge recently commented that cyclists should pay insurance to protect people driving over priced cars.  

I suggest that idiots in powerful positions in the judiciary should pay insurance for the possible damage that they may cause to this country.

Cycling is the last vestige of the romantic, facilitating free movement with minimal dealings with capitalists, exploitative business people, bus drivers, and the self interested.

There walking the length of a promenade,
from one end to the other and back again,
or labouring in vain in some little way,
in plot of earth or garret shot right through with light,
throwing dust sheets over all the old furniture,
in that old country house somewhere far off,
and finding the labour light for the season that’s in it.
Or dwelling in folly on another thought,
giving over to the human brain to the taxidermist,
master and subject to the other organs.
So found upon a hill in a lonely place,
above all the lands of the earth
surveying the wasted days of yore,
and waving goodbye to the sun.

I had a cousin, or so I'm told,
whose name, in truth I never knew,
He was some three or for score old,
all this, no more, have I been told.

On a Thursday in the sitting room,
he was wont to say that he,
was going down to Grainger's gate,
and t'was his pleasure that none should wait.

It was said by those who knew him,
that this was but a petty lie,
and to this place he remained a stranger,
to this public house called Graingers.

I think it strange that one so old,
should be not so self assured,
as to to cover up his petty tracks,
with this pastime, of drinking black.

And what was it, that he desired,
but walk beneath the city sky,
by Clontarf, Marino, and Fairview,
O cousin, whose name I never knew