Dear Kevin

I do hope that it has not been too exasperating to find so many emails on
a political subject on the mailbase in just a few short days. Perhaps the
volume is a measure of the importance by which the subject matter is
viewed, by so many, on this side of the pond. I am however, at the end of
my enquiry as I have found the answers I was looking for, so maybe you
shouldn’t despair too much. I suspect things will get back to normal quite
soon. I also hope that it will not stop you publishing your extremely
important writings on biomechanical theory. I for one find it fascinating
although I must concede that much of it is way above my head. Perhaps one
day I might be brave and knowledgeable enough to make comment without
embarrassment or fear of ridicule.

We have conversed on only two occasions; over the suitability of my
postings. I fear on both occasions I castigated you rather harshly and I
am sorry if I caused any offence. I thought after the first occasion that
you were missing the point and I suddenly recalled an incident that
happened about twenty years ago, strangely enough to another fellow called
Kirby.

I note you have some connection with the Emerald Isle. I have too. I was
married to an Irish lass from Kilkenny for many years and spent every
holiday across on its fine shores. It’s a different place now. The Celtic
tiger has roared and it’s no longer a third world country and everything
looks much more prosperous than it did when I first visited all those
years ago. The roads have certainly improved. Anyone who drove around the
country a quarter of a century ago took their lives in their own hands. If
the inebriated farmer didn’t mow you down with his Massey Ferguson, the
pot-holes in the road would shatter the strongest of axles. No kidding, I
once stood in a crater on the New Ross to Kilkenny road and the level of
the surface was way above my knee.

The first year I was there I watched a news item on the ‘Gay Byrne Show’
which reported the sad incident of a horse and cart who had succumbed to
the perils of the tarmac. The horse had fallen into a pot-hole and it had
broken its leg. When the Guardia came along there was a short debate about
what should be done, then the policeman withdrew his revolver and shot the
horse dead.

Of course the horse owner was rather upset by the whole affair and on a
slack news day, the item became the principle story. Gay Byrne was doing a
live interview with the man, a simple chap of country stock, and he was
probing for the actual version of events. The end of the interview went
something like this.

Byrne:  And so to recap, you were just sitting there and the two policemen
had this conversation then one of them shot your horse.

Man: That he did sir. I was shocked so I was.

Byrne: That’s incredible. I can scarcely believe that. And they just shot
it in the hole?

(pause)

Man: Oh no sir they did not. They shot it in the head!

If memory serves me right the man’s name was Seamus Kirby. I wonder
perchance, if you are related?

With warmest regards

Mark Russell

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