The Big Book of New Irish Comedy
...well, I do have to admit that some of the old dears were a bit taken aback at the idea that their new Church of Ireland vicar would need a personal assistant to run a parish as small as Kildiggery and Mourne. After all, it only has fifty-seven souls still clinging to their mortals. But what the old geezers don’t understand is this. Mrs. Vicar has a bit of bother with her health, you see. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, she’s rather fond of the juice and, blimey, it’s not easy trying to run a parish with herself up in the scratcher all day as pissed as partridge.
Anyway, Rosie’s a nice girl. She can even type. Back in Bournemouth she was a barmaid before her hubby ran off with a reserve policewoman. So I don’t see what all the clucking is about. She brightens up the place, she does - and, believe me, this place could do with brightening up. The rectory must’ve been built the time of Stonehenge and there’s some kind of ivy growing all over it. You can’t hardly see out the bloody windows. The blooming trees don’t help either, and you can barely hear yourself think with the damn crows – Lord, do they make a racket!
First thing I did when we arrived was borrow a shotgun off Michael O’Sullivan next door and let them have it for about two hours with both barrels. Trouble is, the buggers keep coming back…
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