Three festivals every week for a year. Mark Graham acts the goat in Kerry
RECENTLY I was interviewed about my festival quest by a glamorous-ish young wan and she had some difficulty getting her head around bucket singing and bog snorkelling. “Some people have too much time on their hands,” she suggested. “Not at all,” I replied. “Some people just like having a laugh.” I think we’re genetically wired to seek out a bit of a buzz and knock some lolz out of it.
In Killorglin, Co Kerry, they’ve been at it for generations, worshipping goats and buck lepping under licence since 1613.
As I drove into town last Friday, a DJ blasted out The Birdie Song from the back of a gig-rig while two ladies with the largest, blingiest ear hoops I’ve ever seen performed the antiquated actions. Dixie Quigley told me that you should always be wary of girls who have hoops that you could fit your fist through in their ears. The Irish Olympic boxing squad could have driven an open top-bus through these earrings, had someone been willing to pay for the diesel. I spotted a rotund, sun-burned dude, stripped to his waist, lying prone atop a pile of rugs he was hawking at the side of the road. He was like a bright red entrepreneurial bull-seal in Farah slacks and slip-ons.
From 40ft below King Puck you could get the unmistakeable stench of male goat. Eau de Bad Boy Bubby. He made an apt monarch for a weekend that saw the assembled masses acting the goat underneath him.
It could be argued that he makes a better public representative than either of the Healy-Rae pair (Jacheal, as I like to call them), who don’t hold themselves with the same regal decorum or enchanting odour.
The clientele gathered in this usually picturesque town were twitching with anticipation, ready to ruck ’n’ roll until the pubs finally closed their doors at 3am (they only closed their doors).
HAPPY PUCK
That all might sound like hell to glamorous-ish girly TV presenters, but it sounds like a big ball of smelly, hairy fun to me. It worked. It didn’t feel rough or intimidating, and as we rubbed shoulders in Falvey’s with the festival crowd it seemed as if there were as many locals wishing one another a “Happy Puck” as there were blow-ins. I’m definitely going to go Puck myself again, maybe even next year for what will be the 400th anniversary – the year of the goat.
TRACTOR PORN
There was another old-skool shindig in Moynalty, Co Meath, last weekend at the Steam Threshing Festival. The modern equivalent of this activity would be doing hot yoga in a combine harvester. I found myself chatting to Hugh Brown who, unsurprisingly, was surrounded by birds. Hugh was displaying his prize-winning cock. A Japanese Yokohama, lovely plumage. There was set dancing, raffles, wood chopping and more tractor porn than a decade’s worth of John Deere calendars.
The public announcer was legend. After he’d announced the winner of the “Guess how many sweets are in the jar” competition, he thanked God for the weather and for “things that could have gone wrong, not going wrong”. I had visions of children falling foul of threshers or rabid donkeys. A “tunnel of goats” announcement would not have been out of place. This scenario may have Xposé-type ladies gagging and reaching for cocktails that don’t have real, live cocks at the end of them, but I found it quaint, romantic and fun. Daycent folks out for a bit of sport and a plate of steaming colcannon.
I think I’m getting a taste for the rural rí-rá agus ruaile buaile. It’s providing some needed balance before the blow-out Electric Picnic promises to be. This weekend I’m hitting the All-Ireland Hen Racing Championship in Kill, Co Waterford and wait for this . . . a Cow Dung Festival in Mayo. Yeehaw!
Safe travels, don’t die.
