Happy birthday, Des

the standard three are "a tiger, a rattlesnake and a lawyer", with a
predicable answer.

I think the version I first heard was "Ian Paisley is stuck in a room
with Martin Macguinness, Gerry Adams and Daniel O'Donell..."

 

I had to google for Daniel O'Donnell.

I wish I hadn't.

 

He got a girl in trouble:


He told her mother she was smoking.

 

another classic.

 

You do know he's not the worst of them?

Ahh, Country and Irish. Worth leaving the place for.

 

very true. I had the "good luck" to grow up listening to Downtown
Radio, with the twin pleasures of the husband-and-wife country-DJ team
"Big T and Linda-Jane".

<fx: shudders, but googles>

http://u.tv/newsroom/indepth.asp?id=40680&pt=n

an every-day tale of Northern Ireland country folk...

 

"Especially not for a cheap laugh"

 

You ****. I appear to have turned my lungs inside out.

 

Big Tom and the Mainliners, Philomena Begley, Reverend Willie McCrea
MP, ...

The rich musical heritage of Norn Iron.

Dreadful example to the youngsters.

 

I've met the latter two of the three you mention. The Reverend Willie
was a friend of my grand-father's (a Baptist Pastor). I met the lovely
Philomena after she'd just done a gig in "The Coachman" just outside
Bangor; I was drinking in the public bar (it was a shit hole, but the
barman was a mate...). She came in straight from the stage, ordered and
quickly downed a large whiskey, and then disappeared off to get
changed, announcing loudly to the assembled drinkers that "these
fucking trousers have to come off, they're cutting the **** off of me".

Charming woman.

 

Bear proposed

 

all those years of swarfega-snorting have finally come back to haunt
you..

 

Or the South East.

20 years ago pretty much any Sunday market had stalls apparently
selling nothing but hooky DOD tapes.

Fucking shite.

 

ogden scribbled:

Oh ****. I hope he doesn't start the concerts to the blue rinse brigade
down south, I've managed to run away once.

 

It was somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the
drugs began to take hold. I remember "Véritable Rosbif"

Maybe it was Des what stuck his foot through that bloke's rear wheel.

 

It was somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the

Oh ****; I wouldn't wish the Donegal Crooner on anyone, even Paisley.