You learn a lot living on a farm. As a young lad growing up in the west, life lessons came thick and fast. It wasn’t hard to know when you learned one either. Possible indicators would be a clip on the ear, a kick in the arse or the Wavin pipe slung around the back of your calves. As a rogue child myself, life lessons were more prevalent for me than for others. I was curious and energetic. A perfect combination, as I used energy to bolt when my curiosity got me in trouble.

I was also outrageously gullible. My mother, who hated me watching television during the day, used switch off the box and tell me the crows knocked it off by sitting on the electric lines. Of course I believed her. I used spend half my day flinging stones at the crows so I could go back to watching whatever tickled my fancy on the plastic box.

One fine summer’s day, my father was topping the field beside the house when the topper struck a big pile of pebbles that had accumulated after two years. After my father gave me an unmerciful root up the arse, my mother was forced to tell me the truth. I felt betrayed.

Shortly after this fiasco I got a pet duck called Archie. He was a wee trooper who had an unfortunate habit of walking into my grandmother’s house and leaving a personal parcel on the floor. One day, after entering the hen house, I found poor old Archie had kicked the bucket. I was inconsolable and buried my loyal duck in my grandmother’s garden (which she was furious about).

Shortly after Archie’s emotional farewell, Halloween season came with its selection of weird, wonderful and unrealistic movies, one of which outlined the process of bringing the dead back to life. The part of my being that distinguished between reality and stupidity crossed wires. I ended up digging up the duck.

My theory was simple: dig up Archie and repeat a ritual that I had seen on a low budget Halloween movie to bring the duck back to life.

Ignoring the howls of laughter from my 14-year-old cousin and the physical exertion of the mission, I ploughed on. After some time, I pulled the bag containing the six-week-dead duck from the ground.

As I proudly strolled into the kitchen swinging the bag containing Archie, my mother, facing the pile of dishes in the sink, seemed agitated.

“Jesus, what is that smell”, she moaned.

My cousin, still grinning, piped up: “That would more than likely be the dead duck this idiot is after digging up”.

My mother whisked around and looked at me and the bag I was holding. Evidently not impressed by my excavation skills, she lunged toward the cutlery drawer to grab the wooden spoon.

Sensing the danger, I dropped that bag and darted out the door.

“Gerry, get back here you little shite”.

My father had heard the commotion and now entered a sturdy gallop, following me out of the house. With an immense piece of skill, without breaking stride, he swooped and picked up a wooden stick that was lying on the ground.

With the raging Anti-Christ now hot on my heels, I bolted like Forrest Gump. I figured my chance of outrunning my father would be better in an environment with extra terrain, which the nearest field provided.

Whatever assumption I made was false. As the ould man chased me through the muck, a high pitched roar came from the house. It was my furious mother: “Redden his little arse, Johnny!”

My arms heavy from all the shovel work, my legs heavy from all the running and arse weary of the belting it would get from the wooden spoon should I be caught, I made one last attempt at escape. Noticing a tree close by, I used the last bit of energy I had to take a run and jump.

As the tree approached I began to prepare myself for lift off. I said a silent Hail Mary to myself and began my countdown. Five, four, three, two, one: I jumped with all my might and extended my arms hoping I would attach myself to the tree. As I flew through the air I felt my hand clench the branch.

But did it work you may ask?

No, it feckin didn’t.

My father pulled me down from the tree. I was about ten years old before I could sit down pain-free after the incident. The outline of the wooden spoon can still be seen on my glutemus maximus to this day.

Life lessons come thick and fast on a farm. Within a matter of months I had learned that crows don’t influence television signals, my grandmother hates ducks, my father was not as slow as I thought and if something is buried for six weeks, there is little chance of it being brought back to life, no matter what a flopped Hollywood film tell you.

“People get a kick out of my stupidity”- Dolly Parton.

“I get kicked for my stupidity”- “Ger Murphy”.

*Ger Murphy is a 23-year-old Arts student from Castlerea. A big passion for sheep and football he is the proud owner of a Roscommon u13 Division four title, and was also the water boy for the Roscommon minors.

Read more

Football and farms: the perfect match?