Friday, 31 May 2013

No Computer. No Compute!

My PC died a  while back.
And with it went a lot of my stuff, which I hadn't backed up.
Photies, stories, songs.
All my favourite things.
And then the lappy I was using died last Saturday.
That's why I haven't been about so much.
I'm on borrowed time, or to be more precise, borrowed computers.
Daughter No.2 moved out yesterday into her first apartment.
It was a sad day. She took her laptop with her.
I will miss them both.
(It's just for the summer, the moving, not the missing!)
I need a computer of my own.
Please send donations.
In return I will sing. Or not.
I will try to get to all of your blogs whenever the opportunity arises.
Remember, I love you all.
And I have been drinking, so excuse all spelling mistakes.


(Lenny will be in Dublin with the silverware on Tuesday, HH!)


  1. i wondered wtf you'd gone to, sugar! xoxoxoox

  2. Ah, now that does suck a lot. I hope they let you dig your heals in and buy yourself a new PC.

  3. Och, poor wee Máirtín. Perhaps less time spent drinking alky hole with the plumber might find a new Mac Pro sitting afore yis as you read my words. As it is the noo you will once more have no choice but to return to your youth and becoming Horsey, horsey dung boy for your pennies.

    Perhaps some time on the wagon will help you to remember your roots, poverty does that for a man at times. However, what sort of a friend would I be if I didn't come to your aid and offer some sort of assistance to get you back up and dribbling drunken pish on the interweb at 4am every morn?

    Please find enclosed a cheque made out to cash. I hope you will accept
    the sum of £17.56, which will enable you to buy a decent shovel, grand enough to toss dung 26 hours a day until you have earned your own money to buy a new laptop.

    I did consider buying you a nice shiny Toshiba, but I know that you would prefer to be a man (all be it a very wee one) and break a sweat toiling for your money.

    I'll understand if you're not in your usual place next to me at the bar of an evening, it will be very quiet without your blather, but think nothing of it. Deep down I will be extremely happy knowing that the blisters on your hands and the smell of shite fae your boots is all but an emerald pathway to self satisfaction.

    By the way, I had a word with a few of the lads, when the laughter had died down (eventually) the hat came out and a good whip was held by those closest to you. Donated to the Limerick cause we now have the following:

    Kevin Gilmartin - An oul inner tube for your wheelbarrow.

    Frank McIlliney - His da's oul leather belt to keep your trews out the shite.

    Ciaran O'Malley - A large wad of chewing tobaccy, hardly used.

    Callum Doyle - An oul bucket to sift the shite.

    Brendan Murphy - (Still laughing, will get back to him when he calms down)

    Jimmy Brady - He said "Máirtín who?"

    Tam Donnelly - His uncle Padraig's jaiket to keep the rain of your back.

    What would a man do without good pals to hold him up in times of crisis, eh?

    Ghod speed with your shovelling wee man, I'm away on Monday to finalise a few things, hopefully you will be out following the horses and earning a very large pile for when I get back.

  4. Thanks for all your help Chef, I took your advice as well as your cheque and have been shovelling non stop for the last 12 hours. Already I have a mound of dung taller than Sally McCoists snack box and it's still rising. Strangely enough herself has made me take a bath out in the scullery before I am allowed into the house, and it isn't even the end of the month!!


  5. Ya, pint so, ya feckin bastid.

  6. Gonnae do us all a favour here son, gonnae stand down wind of the bar while I'm having my supper, eh?