IMF MILFs?

On the running front things are just tipping over. About 4 miles a day to free up enough calories for an evening beer.

Unless you live under a stone you’ll have realised that our Emerald Isle has a bunch of foreign IMFs (as opposed to MILFs) snooping around our finances. Not a MILF among them – mores the pity. (You have no idea how much I wish it was a bunch of MILFs).

6 of them got off the plane from guess where? You won’t believe this. From Kabul. They were in Afghanistan for the last 6 months. Makes you wonder.

This doesn’t mean much in the general run of things but does seem to make the jokes about Ireland less working men’s club and more Radio 4. That said, there is an impending feeling of doom based around our next hair shirt budget (due in about 2 weeks). I get the feeling we won’t even have a hair shirt at the end of this whole thing.

As a child of the 70’s and 80’s I don’t feel the austerity too much. Sure, I won’t be getting a new Audi for Christmas but I now live in a society where you don’t have to buy your olive oil in the chemist shop and you can buy a proper coffee nearly everywhere. This sure beats waking up with frost on the inside of the bedroom windows.

So, fuck it, bring it on.  It can’t be worse than collapsing at the end of a marathon.

Anyway, to distract from the misery porn of 21st century Ireland sit back and listen to this W. B. Yeats beauty.Those were the days;  where the only thing we had to worry about was the faeries stealing our children.

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

 

That said, my childhood favourite is The Faeries by William Allingham

My father used to recite it to us.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.

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One response to “IMF MILFs?

  1. Excellent stuff. Those IMF geezers won’t do any worse than the present shower – sure, they don’t give two hoots about the man on the street, but neither did the government and neither would any of the present opposition.

    For fuck sake, how come we never had a real proper politician to pick from???

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