Celtic Illumination, part 101, The Illuminati
As I mentioned before, when I access this blog, I am presented with a set of statistics. Yesterday I briefly glanced at the map and noticed that someone in Trinidad was reading the blog. It took a second or two before I realised that I actually knew who this person was. I was not going to tell you his name because I haven’t met him yet, not in the blog, if you get my drift. I was thinking about it and how we met and I remembered that we actually did meet about now, in the story that is unfolding in the blog.
It was a summer evening and we were playing cricket. Now, before you all go off thinking about the crack of leather on willow, Biggles as third man with Docker at mid-wicket, and all that jive, stop. Although in cricket there is a position on the field called ‘fine leg,’ and yes, it was invented just for me. This was mountain rescue, have you learned nothing reading these stories. We were playing mountain rescue cricket and it was a fine summer evening.
Families were wandering past, tee shirts and shorts being the order of the day. It was a very pleasant evening and people making their way to the local beach for a bit of rest and relaxation. We however were wearing full length, fur lined, parka coats with snow goggles, climbing helmets and hoods up. You’ve got to be careful when playing dangerous sports; you must wear the correct protective clothing. We weren’t eejits.
Rather than destroy trees just to make stumps and bails, for at heart we were all tree huggers, we used an old metal dustbin. The cricket bat was an ice axe and the ball a dustbin lid. You had to give the bin lid a fairly decent blast if you wanted it to sail over the boundary, which was the far side of the road. You also had to be careful; not to hook the handle of the bin lid, with the spike of the ice axe, for you could rip the arm of yourself. Someone was bowling, or as the great unwashed would say, throwing a bin lid at me. I swung at it, and I have to say, I did so in a most graceful manner. I sent the old bin lid sailing well over the boundary, for a six, just in front of a group of chaps who were jogging.
No harm was done and they smiled at our ridiculous antics and continued their jogging. It was the Valley rugby team who had started their pre-season training. I know, they were laughing at our sport and they played rugby! As they jogged past I noticed one young man, well it would have been hard not to notice him for he towered above the others. He was a good six feet six or seven, tall. He smiled at me and I smiled at him. He was an air trafficker, and he was Welsh. His father was a farmer at Tenby in South Wales. He was a lovely fellow and still is. His name is Tim Lort.
So if you would all turn towards Trinidad and wave hello to Tim Lort, the head of the search and rescue service for Trinidad and Tobago. Hello Tim. You may think it strange how life seems to work in circles for although Tim and I met almost forty years ago we shall meet again soon, for I am considering making him my champion, when I take back the throne of Ireland. I wouldn’t have to worry about being attacked by anyone and I could sleep easy in my bed, knowing that one of the most trustworthy fellows in the universe had my back.
As for food taster I would have my Indian manservant taste my food for me, which reminds me, if we are in a waving mood, why not now turn towards Mumbai and wave hello to Sunder T. Hello Sunder, and by the way if you have read the previous blog you will now know that I’m on the lookout for a half decent Indian manservant, as long as he is tall, has his own turban and doesn’t mind getting tied up and thrown in rivers.
I was going to ask you all for your help with this blog for I am having some difficulty with it. The actual flavour of media is known as a blog and what I do is known as blogging, but I do not think that that is a fair reflection of what is happening as this blog is proving to be quite interactive and the reactions this blog is provoking, are much more than you would expect from what is normally referred to as reading. I also need a new name for you lot, the readership, I can’t keep referring to you as readers, or the great unwashed, or that fecking rabble. If people who like Justin Beiber are Beliebers and people who follow say, West Ham football club, are Hammers, then if you lot are following Celtic Illumination are you The Illuminati?
People like the wonderful Ed Mooney http://edmooneyphoto.wordpress.com/ the world famous photographer, living and working in Kildare, agrees that I most probably am the true and rightful High Chief of the Clan O Neill and King of Ireland, but Ed very kindly reminded me that as an Irish King the people could remove me if I wasn’t up to the job. Well; I ask you, could that suggestion ever be entertained. I have been trained by the best and if you don’t believe me where is the future King of England being trained at this very moment. Yes, correct, the search and rescue service at RAF Valley, North Wales.
And what leadership would I bring to the throne well; the best. I would have no need for academics or counsellors as there are only two rules you must follow to be a success whether it is for your personal life, your business or country. You want me to tell you them now don’t you? Normally people get paid thousands, if not hundreds, of pounds for doing this, but I’ll tell you for free. Both points come from mountain rescue and will serve you well if you adopt and adapt.
Rule one, lead from the front. Those four words can be spun out into the tens of thousands and there’s no need to. There’s no need to say ‘Never tell someone to do something that you wouldn’t or couldn’t do yourself.’ Just lead from the front. And the second rule is that ‘The speed of the team is that of the slowest man.’ No explanation is necessary. Do you think that Tim Lort over there in Trinidad and Tobago, has time for management courses or needs lessons in leadership, or do you think that a fine fellow like that has these two rules at the forefront of his thoughts? Some of you may want to get them tattooed on your forearms. I couldn’t because of the scars from the Tilly lamps, but you may go ahead if you wish.
And to show the pure power of these words someone has actually suggested arranging a pilgrimage. According to Wikipedia a pilgrimage is a journey or search of moral or spiritual significance. A pilgrimage to Warrenpoint, well; I do suppose it’s too dangerous to go to the Woodvale Road in Belfast at the moment. However the Antrim House Nursing Home, on the Cliftonville Road in Belfast, is the place where I was born, ripped from my loving mothers arms and given to a battle hardened snatch squad of Ninja trained Carmelite nuns, to begin my training as the world’s leading Master Candle Maker, the Chief of the Clan O Neill and the true King of Ireland. (part 22 if you haven’t read it) But if this young lady does actually undertake a pilgrimage to Warrenpoint, I’m sure you will agree, that lifts this blog beyond blogging, we are now entering the spiritual, so we would want a picture of her taken outside the parochial house in Warrenpoint. Don’t worry about the priests I’ll have the good ol boys, Phelim and Peter, pull some sort of diversionary tactic.