PICTURES OF PORTLAOISE

I am running through the beech tree fields, running
with my friends. It is our Olympic race and through
the troughs of snow we plough barefooted. Runners
are too slippy for our journey. There are no podiums
or medals for this race, just the joy of being with my
friends and the tingle of competition in my bones.

The player you become, the coach you become,
indeed, the person you become is strongly
influenced by your childhood experiences, the
influence of your parents, teachers, coaches and
your roots, where you grow up, where you come
from, your neighbours, your people.

I grew up in St Brigid's Place, Portlaoise....

It's only when I begin listening that I hear her,
even though the sound of her has been there for
a while. She wasn't even at Madden's Bridge
when she was in my head without me knowing it.
That's what started the stirrings in my trousers.
Isn't that a curious thing! The way she's always
dressed is one reason - with the tight white
trousers on her. Another is the moves of her -
that non-stop up and down on the horse.
And then the shape of her arse in the skin-tight
trousers. Every time she goes up with the horse's
trot the outline of her is plain to see. I wonder if
she feels anything when she goes down on the
saddle. God she must! Up and down. Oh Jesus,
I'd better straighten myself out.

HOMEPAGE