The Whip Carey came back from his so-called sun holiday. Before he left, he drove us all mad talking about his exotic vacation, a trip that was to include a sojourn in a villa on the border between Croatia and Bosnia in the company of a mysterious “older woman”.

As luck would have it, his story lost both its steam and steaminess when we discovered, from our silage contractor, that the Whip was on no sun holiday but was in Medjugorje on pilgrimage with his mother. I couldn’t wait to tell Todd, my colleague at the recycling depot ,who grinned with the satisfaction of a hunter with prey in his sights.

“Say nothin’,” says Todd, “let him talk away and when he has told us everything we’ll ask him to lead us in a decade of the rosary.”

Even before the Whip returned, I was beginning to feel sorry for him, knowing he was about to make a complete eejit of himself. However, when he came in to work on the Tuesday he was very quiet. Todd and myself decided we’d hold our fire until the tea break when he’d would have plenty of time to give us chapter and verse and every salacious detail of his romantic trip. But he sat in a corner without a word out of him.

We have a late morning break on Tuesdays and were about to go back to work when Todd eventually broke the silence.

“Well Whip, how did the holiday go and how is your mature lady friend after the experience?”

The poor auld fella became worthy of his nickname and like a whipped pup with a pair of sad eyes he looked at Todd as if he was about to put him down.

“I wasn’t on holidays at all,” he said. “I was on a pilgrimage to Medjugorje with my mother. I’m sorry for telling ye lies.”

Well, talk about bursting our balloons; you could hear the wind whistling out of myself and Todd. We sat in total silence looking into the dregs of our tay.

After an eternity, I spoke. “And what was the weather like?” says I. When all else fails, talk about the weather.

“‘Twas hot,” says the Whip. “I should’ve told ye the truth, lads. I was tryin’ to act the big fella. It’s embarrassin’.”

“Sure what’s wrong with that?” says Todd. “There’s no law against goin’ out foreign to say your prayers and takin’ your mother with you. In fact, if we all did it now and again the world would be a better place. Isn’t that right, Maurice?”

“Oh ya,” says I, not meaning a word of it. “If myself and the mother were together on a pilgrimage, prayers for international peace would be needed before ‘twas over.”

“Come on, lads,” says Todd, “‘Tis twelve o’clock. We’d better get back to savin’ the planet.”

“Oh, is it twelve o’clock?” says The Whip. “Then it’s time to pray,” and pulling off his woolly cap, he blessed himself and belted out the Angelus.

Todd and myself had no choice but stand there and respond to the prayers. Not only that, about five customers came in to pay for their recycling and they too had no option but join in. Mickeen Lowry from Shronefodda, who’s as deaf as a post, stuck his head in just before we said the last amen and seeing us all with our caps off and heads bowed he shouted, “Who’s dead?”

The Whip concluded proceedings with a very solemn blessing of himself at which point Todd went behind the till to take payment from the bemused customers – who must have thought the church had taken over recycling centres, having moved out of hospitals and schools.

“Line up there now, lads,” he said. “Like all good religious services, we’ll finish with a collection.”

After things quietened down, Todd gave me the nod to follow him around to the back of the cardboard crusher.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” says he. “This is a disaster, that hoor has found religion.”

“Maybe it’s only a phase,” says I.

“Oh I don’t know,” says Todd. “He’s gone from playboy to preacher overnight. Take a look at his Volvo, miraculous medals hangin’ from the mirror in place of the furry dice and the Tipperary headband. And a luminous St Christopher on the dash where the bust of Dolly Parton used to be.”

“Well, whatever about the furry dice and Dolly Parton’s bust,” says I, “after the last few hurling performances I can see why the miraculous medals have replaced the Tipperary headband.”

“I don’t like what he’s turned into,” says Todd, “given the choice between a sex-obsessed middle-aged bachelor and a religious freak I’d be inclined to choose the former any day.”

“Thanks,” says I