nud1e
Registered user
Are you all sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.
Back in the mists of time, before the Celtic Tiger was conceived and G/Ss were yet to come, when petrol was dear and roads were bad, drink was cheap and bar food a packet of crisps, a time when your fathers were young and your mothers must sought after, when Ireland was still holy and condoms banned, and I was young and carefree as was Gerry C.
Life was good, not brilliant mind but not bad either, the days seemed drier, the summers warmer, I had money, not a lot but enough, and few responsibilities.
'Twas Sunday morning, a crossroad some 3 or 4 miles north of Dundalk. On the side road, the Avenger Garda patrol car purred with subdued power as its driver waited for a gap in the traffic before joining the main Belfast to Dublin.
Suddenly the somnolent fabric of the morning was ripped asunder, shredded and blown away as dust by the 4 bikers speeding south.
Garda R and his "stout" sidekick sprang into action and began the determined pursuit, their peaceful and languid personae cast off like the superhero's clothes. Justice will prevail, wrongdoers will be punished, Avengers will take wings and fly. Faster and faster, mile after mile (literally), the pursuit continued with the mighty Avenger exceeding 90 mph, until the felonious four, slowing for the 30 limit, were overtaken and overwhelmed.
One excitable Garda leap from the car and ran to greet the bewildered quartet. "We had to do 90 to catch you" he exclaimed. "What speed were you doing?" he demanded, as his less excited colleague ambled to join him.
Having checked the "out of state" registration, our excited custodian of law and order requested that we follow him to the local Garda station that he might show us its interior. It was a cunning ruse.
No sooner had we deluded four entered this bastion but we were charged with dangerous driving, an indictable offence, and asked to post bail or be detained in the cells until the next day when the court would sit.
But we had an appointment to keep, and perhaps more importantly no money to meet the bail requirement.
Fortune, however, seemed to favour us for one of our number has his cheque book. "Would the sergeant take a cheque?" No, the sergeant would not take a cheque. We were at an impasse with the oppressed four reluctant to stay, and the overworked officers unwilling to accommodate overnight guests.
"The filling station around the corner might cash a cheque" said an onlooker, and so I was agreed that the cheque book owner would be transported to the filling station in the custody of one of the attendant Garda. And so it came to pass.
At the filling station, there was some uneasiness in cashing the cash until the companion Garda offered his assurance that the cheque would be good.
So the miscreant BMW four posted their bail and carefully made their way South to keep their appointment.
But enough of that for now. I'm dry and tired and we'll continue this another night.
Back in the mists of time, before the Celtic Tiger was conceived and G/Ss were yet to come, when petrol was dear and roads were bad, drink was cheap and bar food a packet of crisps, a time when your fathers were young and your mothers must sought after, when Ireland was still holy and condoms banned, and I was young and carefree as was Gerry C.
Life was good, not brilliant mind but not bad either, the days seemed drier, the summers warmer, I had money, not a lot but enough, and few responsibilities.
'Twas Sunday morning, a crossroad some 3 or 4 miles north of Dundalk. On the side road, the Avenger Garda patrol car purred with subdued power as its driver waited for a gap in the traffic before joining the main Belfast to Dublin.
Suddenly the somnolent fabric of the morning was ripped asunder, shredded and blown away as dust by the 4 bikers speeding south.
Garda R and his "stout" sidekick sprang into action and began the determined pursuit, their peaceful and languid personae cast off like the superhero's clothes. Justice will prevail, wrongdoers will be punished, Avengers will take wings and fly. Faster and faster, mile after mile (literally), the pursuit continued with the mighty Avenger exceeding 90 mph, until the felonious four, slowing for the 30 limit, were overtaken and overwhelmed.
One excitable Garda leap from the car and ran to greet the bewildered quartet. "We had to do 90 to catch you" he exclaimed. "What speed were you doing?" he demanded, as his less excited colleague ambled to join him.
Having checked the "out of state" registration, our excited custodian of law and order requested that we follow him to the local Garda station that he might show us its interior. It was a cunning ruse.
No sooner had we deluded four entered this bastion but we were charged with dangerous driving, an indictable offence, and asked to post bail or be detained in the cells until the next day when the court would sit.
But we had an appointment to keep, and perhaps more importantly no money to meet the bail requirement.
Fortune, however, seemed to favour us for one of our number has his cheque book. "Would the sergeant take a cheque?" No, the sergeant would not take a cheque. We were at an impasse with the oppressed four reluctant to stay, and the overworked officers unwilling to accommodate overnight guests.
"The filling station around the corner might cash a cheque" said an onlooker, and so I was agreed that the cheque book owner would be transported to the filling station in the custody of one of the attendant Garda. And so it came to pass.
At the filling station, there was some uneasiness in cashing the cash until the companion Garda offered his assurance that the cheque would be good.
So the miscreant BMW four posted their bail and carefully made their way South to keep their appointment.
But enough of that for now. I'm dry and tired and we'll continue this another night.
