A Big Hand For Stapo...

I dont know how old this hoor is, and frankly, I dont give a damn.
But it's his birthday today, so...
Happy Birthday Stapo.

Stapo is one of a rare breed of Laoismen- slow to anger, quick to help.
A remarkable father, son, and husband.
And, as anyone who has the privilege to be one will tell you, an exceptional friend.

I remember helping himself and his family move from the wilds of Inchicore to the wilderness of West Wicklow, the endless renovations, planting the first (crooked) drill of spuds in his organic smallholding.

I remember craic-filled nights in Katie Lowes, drunk and sick with laughing, at the blues session (or country, or trad, or whatever you are having yerself, Missus) that he got going there, himself sitting pretty and smiling behind his battered oul' drumkit.

I remember, one night in Katies, being mistaken for a brother of his, and feeling proud of the fact.

I remember the parties, the kindnesses, the often-ignored good advice, the endless good-humour, the annual Christmas Day dinner invitations, the pleasure of his parents company, the invariable welcome to his home and hearth, the free beer.....

But I always fucking forgot his birthday, until this year, so once again, Stapo...

Happy Bleedin' Birthday.