Penis Gourds and Blowpipes

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Miles was a convalescent. Discharged from hospital more than a month ago, he had been allowed to leave London and overwinter in a summer holiday cottage above Kilkieran Bay, Co. Galway. Eileen spoke fluent Irish and was supply teaching at the local “all Irish” school. Miles watched daytime TV, sometimes took a stroll and tottered down to the pub in the afternoon. As if living in sin while working for the nun’s was not bad enough, Eileen and Miles lived next door to the priest. It was his first parish. The two sinners, the priest and the postman formed a very strong quiz team and toured the local pubs together in the priest’s car.

The only similarities between Miles previous ‘life’ in a small city in Nigeria and his current life in extremely rural Ireland was the constant stream of hilarity. Miles had taught four and five year olds in Nigeria and barely a minute passes in those circumstances without some event of unsurpassed mirth. The Ireland was the same: most business was conducted with some degree of overt or inadvertent humour. The Irish thrive on their own clichés.

Miles sat supping his Guinness, literally too weak to stand at the bar. The door opened and a head declared loudly that the assembled drinkers should immediately come outside, “to see the black man.” In a small village, people will look at anything (and bet on it). Three of the four drinkers left the bar, followed by the barman. Miles joined them. And there he was, outside the shop, none other than ‘a black man’. And not only that, but a black man’s wife, and the other two components of a black nuclear family. Miles was there, not because he found anything the slightest bit interesting, amusing or even vaguely acceptable about gawking at strangers on the basis of their ethnicity, but mainly to see what the locals would do or say.

The site of the Americans at the side of the road was perhaps the funniest thing Miles had ever seen. Clearly the other ejacula from the bar thought the same because the embarrassed silence could be heard all the way to Carna. No comment was necessary or even possible.

The ‘black man’ himself was dressed in what must be assumed his native dress of white Arran-knit peaked cap, white Arran-knit sweater, white Arran-knit scarf, green trousers which could well be called ‘slacks’ and shiny black brogues. With slight variations –addition of mittens, bobble hats and beret for cap – the rest of the family were identically attired. They were posed as if for a family portrait. The boy mechanically waved at the drinkers. “Howdy Folks,” said his father, grinning toothily. Less than a minute later they had entered their hire car and were gone.

The silent drinkers shuffled back inside.



http://s7.zetaboards.com/PPooDD/topic/8422011/1

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