Every day is Xmas when you smoke fine cigars

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Created on Monday, 15 December 2014 11:24

Written by James Leavey

Every day is Xmas when you smoke fine cigars  

I was strolling through Dublin the other day with a sprig of holly in my wallet and a large bunch of mistletoe tucked into my belt at the rear...where the bah-humbug antis can kiss my arse.

'And how's your good self?' screeched the wrinkled crone with the cunning eyes and the shaky hand as she tried to relight my Montecristo no.4 near the Molly Malone statue in Grafton Street.

I had been temporarily distracted by the Yuletide crowds bearing gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh...the plastic versions from the Pound Shop.

'I'm farting through St Michael's finest linen drawers,' I answered. 'Now give me that cigar back and smoke one of your own.'

'But I haven't got one, or the means,' she countered, reluctantly handing back my precious stogie.

'Oh for fuck's sake...here's some Euros...treat yourself. Now leave me alone.'

Truth is, she reminded me of my late mother...who preferred Sweet Aftons from Dundalk.

My mother's family name was Leavy, a reduced form of Dunleavy. Turns out I am a distant relation of the notable American humorous writer, J P Donleavy. If he was dead when he heard this disturbing news, he'd be turning is his grave.

But I'm delighted to report the great man, whose racy novel, The Ginger Man, was a major influence on my teenage sex life, is still sharing the air with me on this planet. Naturally, when he learns of our tenuous link he'll probably put a gun to his head.

For when the wild rover
Thinks his reputation is over
Cos some distant fucker starts farting in clover
He'll go off on one like a feckin nova

Jaysus. It's enough to make a man take to the drink and the cigars. Not me, you eejits, I'm way ahead of you.

As is my pal, Mr Guy Hancock, and the boys manning the pro-smoking barricades at the DCE in Ireland's fair city, God love 'em.

Merry Xmas. Keep on puffing