Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Our summer of love

Never mind Haight Axbury, dope and flowers in the hair - all that was pure bollox when compared to our summer of love in 1983. Endless sunshine, new-found wealth, the end of exams, the beauty of Kerry, scores of pints, a little bit of draw, a Championship winning Dublin team and of course Gerry vomiting over the side of the boat and scaring all the fuckin fish away.

Why is it that there's always some gobshite who wants to ruin everyone's fun?

There we were, with the flyfisherman of the year (himself boring the arse off all of us with stories about plankton, before of course he went on to try to light the fire on the beach without matches - "I learnt this in the seascouts - useful if you're stranded in Antartica" - fuck all good if you're stuck in a field with him in Mallow though), and Gerry decides to barf in the water all the way out to Skellig Michael. Fungi the Dolphin is still feeding on it 27 years later.

Anyway, needless to say it was meat again for dinner that evening.