No way Jose I am out the gap with bells on.
Foxy has signed in. I will leave it up to the lads to choose who wins, pick me I am sound.
The lads, Jimmy "the Pole", "Foxy" Mick, "Jesus" Donie, "Ciggy" Pat, "Squinty" Chang, "Spider" Eddie, "Flah" Terry and of course "Sleepy" John.
Jimmy the Pole tells the foreman he’s after getting fierce dizzy spells and can’t be trusted up anything higher than a milk crate. Every time he stands up he does a small wobble like a fella after ten pints and grabs the nearest wall. The boss looks at the state of him and says “Jesus Jimmy go home before you kill yourself and the company has to fill out paperwork.”
Foxy Mick spends the whole morning sniffing around the place saying he can smell gas somewhere. He’s wandering around like fucking Columbo going “that’s lethal bai, one spark and we’re all blown to bits.” The boss panics and tells him to head off while they “investigate” it.
Jesus Donie (he's mad for Jesus so he is in fairness to him) is walking around city dump all morning sighing and going “Jesus… sweet suffering Jesus…” every five minutes. The boss—who’s mad for the church altogether—asks what’s wrong and Donie says he feels a powerful calling to go clear his head and maybe light a candle. Boss practically blesses him out the door.
Ciggy Pat (who drives fags round the county) comes in rubbing his temples saying the smell of cigarettes has destroyed his brain altogether. He’s after spending the morning saying if he sees one more box of fags he’ll lose the run of himself. The boss tells him to go home before he goes cracked entirely.
Squinty Chang (with the casino lights) spends the morning squinting at everything like a mole dragged out into daylight. He says the flashing lights from “work the night before” have absolutely roasted his eyeballs. The boss tells him to get out before he walks into a forklift.
Down Fota, Spider Eddie comes in scratching his arm like a man possessed saying something bit him earlier while dealing with “creatures.” He starts saying it might be venom and he’s feeling a bit lightheaded. The boss wants none of that carry-on and tells him to piss off and get it checked.
So Flah Terry, who may or may not work in a well-known gentleman’s club directly across from the Heineken Brewery in town, had some of the lads call round dressed up with bubbles—big black bubbles, big leather black bubbles. That was enough to send the boss into a fit after hearing about the whole scene. The boss goes, “Look, drive on, go and see your therapist again.”
Craic with Sleepy John is nodding off standing up and nearly headbutts the kettle twice before lunch. When the boss asks what the hell is wrong with him John says the neighbour’s dog barked all night and he hasn’t slept a wink. The boss looks at the zombie state of him and says he’s no use to man nor beast today. John's got it going on like.
Chat ta ya later, off ON THE FUCKING PISS BOYS.
