My turkey racing days are over, but the turkeys running the country still abound, writes Maurice Neligan
AT THE close of 2008 and with apologies to the Chinese, what else could you call the year just endured? I suppose I should look back and cover the positive developments in the health service over that time but just now I can't think of any.
While waiting for my memory to function, I will tell you the story of the "racing turkey" as it has vague seasonal connotations.
Fado, Fado on a wet, dark late afternoon in the bar of Dooks Golf Club there were only two occupants. I had escaped the domestic chores mandated by the Highest Authority (HA) and was enjoying a reflective pint, and also there was Ger "the Bar".
Ger leant over the bar and, while polishing the glasses, enquired if I would like to take a share in a racing turkey. Apparently he knew a likely candidate with a good pedigree and a "giveaway" asking price of only €1,000. We would go halves and share the expenses of training, feeding and entries.
I've never been a man for the horses or the dogs but this appealed to me and over my second pint the deal was done.
Periodically, over the months that followed Ger would apprise me of the bird's progress and how it had fared at the tracks all over Kerry. It seemed our investment neither gained nor lost.
I tried to ask intelligent questions but I really was a novice and deferred to my partner who was an acknowledged expert on turkey racing. We kept our business to ourselves but curious ears began to pick up the odd fragment of our conspiratorial conversations. Occasionally we were asked outright what we were talking about. We gave nothing away.
Speculation was rife however, as we were clearly talking about a matter of great import and the questions became more persistent. One day I came home to find the Highest Authority, arms akimbo, and clearly displeased.
Before I could wish her the time of day she made some remark about a fool and his money being soon parted. I weakly enquired if some financial problem had arisen.
I was informed in no uncertain terms that the whole golf club was laughing at me and "that bloody racing turkey". I tried to explain and that it had only cost me €500, which was very good value. This almost triggered apoplexy.
I gathered that she was not in favour of the enterprise and it became an unmentionable subject. For the next few months she explained to her friends that she was married to a gullible half-wit and that, furthermore, there was a long streak of insanity in my family.
One of her friends told her that there had been a photograph of Ger and I with the turkey in the Kerrymanand this nearly finished her entirely.
All good things come to an end and one day Ger the Bar said to me in the company of others that he thought we should enter the bird in several hurdle races over the autumn.
He then blew it by wondering if we could get Mr Bloggs, a diminutive acquaintance as a jockey. The penny finally dropped. In the way of these things, of course, nobody had been fooled for a minute. The straitjacket was put away at home and peace restored.
Mind you, it was several years before the Highest Authority could talk dispassionately about turkey racing. I got many miles and great value from that bird and it was a great pity that we had to eat it.
In naming the year as that of the Pig it should be noted that the pig only represented the culminating disaster in a year abounding in calamity. There were some credulous people who believed that the "Changing of the Chief Elves" ceremony in mid-year might effect some magical restoration of our fortunes.
It didn't, matters got steadily worse. The new Chief Elf and his mates took a long summer holiday to steady the nerves and to calmly assess the direction the economy was taking. The dogs in the street could have told them but we could have told the dogs that they don't listen. They know it all and hence here we are, with paddles in short supply.
Our Chief Elf hasn't been lucky in his generals either. Our lot slept happily while the world exploded all around them and the battlefield was lost.
Banks, pigs, pensions, unemployment, medical cards, education - in normal working democracies any one of these would bring clamour for change. Over here the pigs would need to fly before that happened. Well at least the pigs are now in the equation and people are beginning to think that there might be something wrong here. The poor old pigs were bought off the table for a paltry €180 million. Pity we couldn't find €10 million to look after our little girls but then, as these Elves tell us, it's all a matter of priorities.
Happy New Year.
Maurice Neligan is a cardiac surgeon