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Into a Belfast pub comes Frank Reilly, looking
like he'd just been run over by a train. His arm is
in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut and
bruised and he's walking with a limp.
'What happened to you?' asks Sean, the bartender.
'Jamie O'Conner and me had a fight,' says Frank.
'That little sh!t, O'Conner,' says Sean, 'He couldn't
do that to you, he must have had something in his
hand.'
'That he did,' says Frank, 'a shovel is what he had,
and a terrible lickin' he gave me with it.'
'Well,' says Sean, 'you should have defended yourself,
didn't you have something in your hand?'
That I did,' said Frank. 'Mrs. O'Conner's breast, and
a thing of beauty it was, but useless in a fight.'
like he'd just been run over by a train. His arm is
in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut and
bruised and he's walking with a limp.
'What happened to you?' asks Sean, the bartender.
'Jamie O'Conner and me had a fight,' says Frank.
'That little sh!t, O'Conner,' says Sean, 'He couldn't
do that to you, he must have had something in his
hand.'
'That he did,' says Frank, 'a shovel is what he had,
and a terrible lickin' he gave me with it.'
'Well,' says Sean, 'you should have defended yourself,
didn't you have something in your hand?'
That I did,' said Frank. 'Mrs. O'Conner's breast, and
a thing of beauty it was, but useless in a fight.'