Babestation girls offer solace on days when the pub is as quiet as one of Trump's ex-wives
The next two months of the Six Nations will be a great escape from the terrible news of the week. There are more wars than ever. Donald Trump is building walls and Theresa May might send troops to guard Newry.
But there were far worse and far more dangerous events unfolding in Mayo.
It seems Mayo people received calls from Babestation phone lines. Babestation is a TV channel with topless women gyrating like a winger trying to avoid tackles on his way to the try line.
Mayo Minister Michael Ring warned off the Babes who offered to go to Mayo to apologise in person. There he stood sentinel, like Sexton and Murray, ready to take down all of those who seek to deny Ireland's cause. "We don't want them," he said.
Aren't we lucky to have such staunch defenders? Donald Trump wouldn't ban them. He's very fond of topless models. Well, he doesn't drink or smoke and we all have some weakness. Even The Gooch has trouble kicking off his right.
It seems the most common question asked of the telephone Babes is, "What are you wearing?" The girls are togged out in the green lingerie of Ireland by way of making up to our country for those awful calls to Mayo. Word has it the girls will add a dental floss strip of red along the soft border come next summer.
I am always on the look-out for portents and omens. This wearing of the green by the Babestation girls is surely a sign Ireland will win the Six Nations. It's called the Law of Attraction.
I'm writing this in the pub. January is quiet and customers are as scarce. The door opens as slowly and creaky as vampire's coffin. I down tools. He's gone.
Two hours of Babestation talk and the Six Nations is too much. And all for €4.10. The Babes would have charged 20 times more for the chat.
He did tell me the story of a man who called the missus when he heard there was such a thing as dirty talk to be had on the phone.
He asks, "Will you moan for me?" "Right so," says she. "Well firstly you forgot to put out the bins and you never put your socks in the washing machine and I have to do all the cooking while you're over there at the match enjoying yourself and the dog has the mange and..."
And sure you know the rest yourself.
We will still go, though. I'm getting ready for Cardiff in March when the daffs dance by the Taff. The few secret pounds has been deposited in a pair of unisex Wellington socks.
This column is not just about sport. There are travel hints and security tips. I know a woman who carries her money in her bra for safekeeping. Ladies, if you are carrying a lot of money to the big Six Nations games, make sure to take an extra size. All I know is bra sizes are like buses, with an A or a B after the number like the 46A. Go to D or even Double D if you have plenty of cash.
But, as Robbie Burns wrote, "the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley."
The man in question asked for anonymity. But in these days of fake news, it is of the utmost importance that we back up our stories.
The man's name is Dave Browne. David was a fine rugby player in his day for Abbeyfeale and Bective. He was also a most excellent chairman of Writers' Week and he is so good on the piano it was said "he could knock a tune out of a set of false teeth sitting on a kitchen table".
He was on his way to Lansdowne Road for a big game and carefully placed his tickets in an envelope. He had to stop off in Limerick to attend a funeral and dutifully left a Mass card on the coffin.
Dave mixed up the envelopes and it seems the gate keepers in Lansdowne Road were not amenable to accepting Mass cards as a means of entry to the stadium.
He had to go back to the mourners, who were sorry for his troubles, it being Limerick and all that. They obliged by allowing him to sift through the Mass cards, and he found his tickets in the very last one.
Tip 2. Write TICKETS on the front of the envelope. Lick the flap so that if they are stolen you can prove they are yours by getting the DNA in the gum saliva-tested
I dearly love my home town but in the dead of winter there are times when the pub is as quiet as one of Donald Trump's ex-wives.
I don't even have to make up stories like, "Johnny is just after dropping out, and you'd never guess? He can let me have his tickets and flights and hotel for a tenner".
Now I just sing "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go."
It's cry freedom. Sometimes I feel like a hamster walking round and round the wall of death on the inside of an egg. I'll miss Edinburgh next week and this could be one of the games of the Championship.
Let's hope we will be roaring on a winning Irish team. And if we do win, the Scottish commentator might well declare in an high voice, "They'll be dancing in Babestation tonight".