Our Chips Are Better Than Yours!

Of course the Professor started it all! Just back from his new found home land of the United Kingdom of Kent. 'Aell reght! Wee ad the best fish-an chips on Sunday last. Me berd, Rosie and me' He said in his best Souse accent. 'You haven't a clue about makin fish-en-chips ov-er ere mate'

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The Budda frowned and looked up from his paper. Eyes peering from above his glasses and below his heavy set eyebrows. The chilling look and the long 'Mmmmm......' was enough to let the Professor know that the Budda was not impressed. Not outraged, at least not yet, that could come later. However it did not completely deter the Professor 'All reight! Your fish ain't bad, but ye haven't a clue bout maken chips mate!' He said with a gulp, back tracking a little.

Bloody hell! What would he or the English know about making chips. We the Irish, have grown the friggin spud for eon's until the English invaded this beautiful land! An sure! Me uncle Paddy Macari from Roscommon was the first man to use, used diesel oil to cook the bloody things into what is now know as the chip...

Hello! From the bloody chipper!.................

Mc Faratha's dictionary of Hiberno-Irish says: Chipper: An ancient Gaelic word for 'the place for were da potato's cooked in good quality used diesel oil' The use off colloquially: 'Get up the yard ya muppet! A one-an-one, bleedin fast! Me mot is on for a ride tonight an I wan to get dis into her fast, and a bit of the other if I can keep er awake for long enough'.

While the Professor was rambling on about the bleedin best fisn an chips. Queen Vic, obviously suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome, da had come on since her birthday on Monday. Was flappen her mits all over the place, forgettin of course dat she was not back in London now, waving to her minions, starts ramblin on about horses!

Horses!......For firg's sake!!!

'What about the horses' she says! 'They took dem all for Waterloo.....lou' Her posh English accent quavering into high pitch on the last syllable. At being ignored, she quickly becomes distressed. Her eyes begin to roll and the mits take off and begin to flap madly up close to her ears like a gosling preparing for his first flight.

Finally at the behest of the Budda, who quickly jumps behind Queen Vic, and starts waving and lipping at the others with animated gestures 'Queen Vic! wants to speak!' finally brings chunas to the group.

Silence ensues 'What about the horses' she says again. In her best royal Londoner accent! 'They took dem all for Waterloo............lou'

Feck the peasant's who starved to death over the potato....What about the horses! We wer talkin about fish and chips and the mad thing is going on about horses.

I didn't need Field glasses to know what is coming next? 'I'd hate to work in an old folks home' I thought.

'I remember when we visited the colony' she rambles with a tear starting to form on the right eye as it rolls 'When we were children we visited with our father. In fact it was one of our south of Ireland estates, the one in Cavan, I think. We had beautiful horses and the footmen, groomsmen and a small number of very well paid servants. The 'very' was stressed to suggest that they paid their servants well.

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She continued 'Probably twenty-six or forty-one of them would meet us at the train station and take us to the main house in carriages drawn by the finest of horses'. Pausing for effect and looking at each one of the group individually 'De ones we saved from Waterloo.....lou'.

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The Professor was just about to make a comment (Sociologically speaking) when a slight whip up of the royal mit flipped his bottom jaw back into place and shut. 'And before you ask, we paid our servants well. You know! At least a shilling a year. If I remember correct.'

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There's a long pause, then the eyes roll up and into the back of her head and fail to return, arms dropping limp by her side and ga-ga takes on a new meaning.

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Unfortunately the poor old bird, forgot that she had already told us that they never paid anyone over three pence ha'penny a year.

At this point the Professor is back talking to his pint about the fish an chips, Mystic Meg is off the planet, talking to some lost spirit soul from outer space. And Willie, poor Wee Willie! Is as usual, when the going get's rough, back reading his paper and mumbling on in Greek or Latin about how bloody good Limerick is at hurling, and how he wants to get married when he is a little older, at about ninety-three.

Me! I just sit back and wonder: 'What the bloody hell I am doing here!'



The Wise One