Half Man Half Hobbit

My Grandmother, God bless her cotton socks, turned 90 at the weekend and what a session that turned into, she’s an absolute whore for the vodka and redbull. It was my mother’s mother so all the Proudfoot clan were there in force. There hadn’t been that many Proudfoot’s in the same place together since Bilbo Baggins’s going away do. It was like a hobbit convention, short arses and hairy feet everywhere. In typical old Irish fashion the session started off with a quick bit of mass. Lord forgive us for the sins we are about to commit. The priest, it has to be said, was none too pleased to find none of the extended Proudfoot clan was willing to serve mass for him. My brother reckoned he was just looking for the rub and I had to agree. It was my understanding that the mass was to be a celebration of my Grandmothers life instead it turned into a litany of all who were dead belonging to her. With a smile on his face like a dog with two cocks, the priest read out, in chronological order, those closest to my Grandmother who have beaten her to the grave. It included her husband, her daughter, her own parents, her sisters and brothers, granddaughters and grandsons. It was a real case of ‘happy birthday Eileen now here’s a list of all your dead’. Things cheered up considerably once the mass was over, and we gave her 90 bumps, Jaysus I’d say she’s not the better of it yet. Up with the body, down with the tits, up with the tits and down with the body.

Like the happiest funereal procession ever witnessed we retired to a hotel for some food and a bit of a shindig, screaming she’s not dead at all she’s not dead at all, she was only asleep, praise the Lord, Allah, and anyone else you can think of. The photographs took the fuckin’ biscuit though. My Grandmother was put sitting in the middle of the room while a veritable throng of people milled about her taking her picture, as though she was some exhibition in a museum, hey look at the freak that lived to 90, quick take her picture before she dies. I was waiting for a bus load of Japanese tourists to file past snapping everything in sight. Not satisfied with photographs of the good lady herself the throng circled the room taking random photographs of all and sundry. Starting with the older generations first. I can see the exhibition now ‘and here is a pictorial presentation of the soon to be dead’. When everyone was sufficiently photographed or the film ran out the pictures eventually stopped. The grub was had, more drink was had and Grandmother left us to it. She had mass to attend to that evening. She’s 90 you know so I figure the thinking at that age revolves around making peace with him upstairs, and two masses a day can’t hurt eh.

The Proudfoot clan drank on into the wee small hours, left the hotel and ended up in Nober, with all the Noberiginies. The craic was had, the people did rejoice, the Lord did grin, and there was much merriment and feasting off the land. I awoke the following morning with an Arran jumper on my tongue. Half man, half hobbit.