Classic Threads from other Boards...

[5 Sams]

...this one had me nearly spitting my tea over the computer screen....some brilliant stuff in here..

http://www.anfearrua.com/db.asp?a=topicdisplay&tid=436611&xpos=0

[downredblack]

"Had a tough 4 hours trying to load 10 of those pricks last november.... The worst jumped and landed on a 200 yr old gate, impaled itself on it.
Had to knock gate with sledge, load the lunatic on HIS OWN after that. With his front quarter ripped still managed to go through 2 ditched over a wall and another gate.
I was one happy boy when I got him to factory about 3 hours later.
I was too mean to shoot the p***k with the rifle.
Funny thing he made more in factory than the other 9 in mart,"

[Homer]

Quality stuff alright! Brings back some memories.

[his holiness nb]

Funny stuff, although I'd be very wary of this guy

"I didn`t winter any livestock this year ss. I was just up there mooching around"

[Puckoon]

Cracking stuff!

[Zapatista]

 

I wonder if Superquinn can track that cow back to the farmer? Perhaps I should take advantage of that service, that cow was dying for hours before it was slaughtered.

[GaillimhIarthair]

 
Feckin brillaint, funnier it gets the more you read through the posts.......
I'm sure there are alot of lads on here that can relate to some of them stories.................

[5 Sams]

A sewer rod with the metal bit at the end was the only job. Hitting them with a hazel wand wouldn`t even drive the fleas from the animal never mind driving the animal up a sh1t covered piece of wood slippier than an ice rink at 45 degrees into a dark sh1t covered truck.
For that you needed a sewer rod in each hand and have 5 or 6 guys acting the "helicpoter". Anything less and you had complete anarchy on your hands.You`ld start hitting them at the base of the field and not stop till you were in the truck yourself and half way to the mart.
Then you get out and beat them to the stall at the mart.
It was better exercise than 2 hours of weights.
When I die I know I`m coming back as one of them. Karma will see to that.
Yours in staying alive till I`m a thousand,
GSH.

Brilliant

[ExiledGael]

Can't stand the farming at all at all, but that's one of the funniest things I've ever read.

Any good links to some of our own classics? Was the Forkinknife one deleted?

[cavan4ever]

I remember giving a good two days chasing 40 of the f**kers around east clare one day when were testing them when I was a young fella. We had to get a fella to come and weld on an extra bar to the cattle crush as they were jumping it like champion steeplechasers. Mad baxtards indeed !!!

[DoYerJob Linesman]

Garda Sean Horgan

A sewer rod with the metal bit at the end was the only job. Hitting them with a hazel wand wouldn`t even drive the fleas from the animal never mind driving the animal up a sh1t covered piece of wood slippier than an ice rink at 45 degrees into a dark sh1t covered truck.
For that you needed a sewer rod in each hand and have 5 or 6 guys acting the "helicpoter". Anything less and you had complete anarchy on your hands.
You`ld start hitting them at the base of the field and not stop till you were in the truck yourself and half way to the mart.
Then you get out and beat them to the stall at the mart.
It was better exercise than 2 hours of weights.
When I die I know I`m coming back as one of them. Karma will see to that.



Jesus Christ, thats priceless.  Read his other posts, this boy is from a long gone age. 

[mayo51]

this has got to be the best thread that i have ever read.some classic stuff.

[Lecale2]

Good times though, starting the Ford with a 50p piece and bringing 50 times the max weight of hay down main roads being "held together" by some 12 year old local lad up on top of it trying not to get electrocuted by the overheads.

Remember it well! 

[Zapatista]

Taken from here - http://www.anfearrua.com/story.asp?id=2424

The making of a minor footballer

By the time you reach minor level, as a young footballer you will have encountered many difficulties, writes An Fear Rua...

In smaller clubs, you might have been approached at fifteen to enter the murky world of minor football. As a fifteen year old, you are in awe of these big hulking seventeen to eighteen year olds, each with the very small beginnings of a beer belly.

You see them walking moodily around the school, making sarcastic comments at teachers you're still afraid of. You watch in frustration as the girls in your year, especially the one you fancy, almost throws herself at the six foot one midfielder. A rage builds inside of you that you can't let out till you're at home in your bedroom and your mammy wonders have you been drinking too much cocoa at night.

The star minor footballer is a lad who is respected by old and young alike. He is the great white hope of the parish, the fella who'll bring back the county title when he gets to senior grade, barring he gets lured by some crowd to play Aussie Rules or ... worse ... to a soccer club in England. Cue screams and howls of protests from the auld bucks at the counter of the local pub who mutter to themselves that the pup was never any good anyway nor neither was his father before him.

So you have a lot to live up to. As you begin to go to the minor training sessions, a strange thing occurs. Those same lads who are eighteen or so, begin to recognise you at school and grunt a greeting towards you as you walk nervously past them down the corridor.

However, with the big lads noticing you, the 'wan' begins to as well. She comes up and actually talks to you. Her eyelids start fluttering, the sly grin, and the fidgeting of the hair nearly make you run for a bucket of water to cool down with. You stutter like a diesel car on a frosty morning as you talk about how the science teacher is such a so-and-so for having giving out to the 'wan' for a bad test result. Then...awkward silence ...

This awkward terrified silence is like sitting in a dentist's knowing you have to get three teeth pulled. You begin to sweat like Christy Moore playing the old National Stadium as you panic about the next topic of conversation. And then the question you have to ask her... are you going out on Saturday night?

A surprised glance at you confirms your fears that it was the wrong question, but she tries to remain cool.
'Of course I am.' 'Why?'
'Well I thought we might meet up at the nightclub.'
'But there's not a hope we'll get in.'
'Sure we'll try it', says you, beginning to get courage back.
'We'll see, it's only Tuesday after all. See you in the next class.'

You have a Homer Simpson 'd'oh' moment as you realise you have asked her not only three days too early, but maybe even two years early as well. And there is the small matter of the Championship derby match on the Sunday morning you could be making your debut in.

By Friday, you are on Cloud Twenty, never mind number Nine and you know that something has got to give, either the 'wan' or the football. Now, at any other age it would be a foregone conclusion that you would ignore the match and go out with the girl. But at fifteen or sixteen the aul' brain is still not functioning in that kind of way. Remember you have only played under twelve football three years earlier. What are you to do?

Reluctantly, you decide the pride of the jersey and the parish is more important and you approach the 'wan' cautiously. You tell her you forgot you had a match on Sunday morning and you can't go out the night before. You wait for the slap, or worse, the tears, but they don't come. You're happy enough see that she has a relieved look on her face and you arrange to go out some other time.

Fast forward then to Sunday morning and the big match. You're nervous as a kitten togging out in the dressing room. Some of the other fellas look suspiciously hung over, though they're not supposed to be drinking. You put on the jersey and try to remain calm as the red-faced trainer goes bananas in front of you talking about pride in the parish and all that guff.

You walk out onto the field and take your position. You note your opposite number is six inches taller than you. Despair sets in. How are you supposed to beat this lad? You see your daddy and mammy looking at you with pride or maybe worry from the sideline. Your mammy blesses herself. Now you're really worried.

But then salvation of a sort. You hear someone shouting good luck to you from another direction. You scan the crowd for a messenger of hope, and you see her. The 'wan' is there with a parish jersey on. She gives you a smile and a thumbs up and you're walking on sunshine. You give her a wave back and your marker looks at you with disgust, but you don't care. This fella would probably be more interested in the internal workings of a Massey Ferguson 165 than a member of the opposite sex

By then you're distracted by cheers and shouts. The referee is about to throw up the ball. You go for it and the game is on.

Ah yes. You're a minor footballer now...

End

Pure magic. Can you relate?

[hitzelsperger]

jaysus that limousin thread bring back the memories alright. spent many a summers day and night chasing the hoors, they could jump fences better than any national hunt horse. reindeer would have been easier handled!