He ain’t heavy, he’s The Brother

We still haven’t left our in-the-sun idyll – our taxi is due to pick us up within the hour – and we’re not due back in what even the little lad is at this stage describing as “rainy old Ireland” till close to midnight.

With a 2 o’clock throw-in at McHale Park tomorrow – and the minors taking the field at midday – the time between touch-down at Chez WJ and lift-off in Castlebar is going to be short. Were I to have to get behind the wheel tomorrow morning, I’d be the kind of road-going hazard that would make Gaybo a good deal more than excirah and delirah.

Which is where The Brother comes in, at 8am sharp (and, believe me hombres, when The Brother says 8am, he means 8am), to ferry me across the country in his SUV and back again tomorrow night. Had he not offered to do so, I can’t see how I’d’ve managed to make it there tomorrow. Thanks in advance, Bro.

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