In time of labor discord and generalized aimlessness, there was no better opportunity of occurrence for the week of St. Patrick. Indeed, I say that true. What is it to hallow St. Patrick for but a day? An affront, to be sure. For this reason, I commit bibulous acts of veneration toward the twin saints of Patrick and Jameson for a period not in the lesser of seven days.
The veneration has not reacht cessation, which is the reason for my arm propping myself erect against this brick wall. The brick does not offer a smooth writing surface and it suffers from extreme verticality, so I will ask for pardon if the quality of the writing is compromised and the parchment is mottled with drink.
Drinking to forget one’s ills is the Irish school of therapy. It is a sound school of thought, but I was reminded by a lingering head injury of the grave problems still extant with the footballers.
The men at the union speak of an impasse with the collective of footballing barons. Baset on previous experience, I groked that it is only a matter of time before the Pinkertons are dispensed to employ their manner of truncheon persuasion to force an understanding. Pinkertons possess a sort of economical savagery, like a learnt jungle cat or a bear who receivet extra training from the circus. My path has intersect with them at past juncture. Some did succumb to haymakers, but it is difficult to subdue an entire fleet.
It was my first position of employment. Mother O’Sullivan said she wisht that I wait until I reached year five before I was called to the working world, but it was lean times for my parents and twenty three siblings. McGlocklin’s Waistcoat Manufactury took me in and gave me a starting wage of four lengths of thread and a quarter bag of flour per month. I thought this adequate, especially considering the promised holiday bonus of ham-flavored cornt beef. In time, the morale of the workers was hurt by 28-hour workdays. Soon, a union was formed. The leadership approached the McGlocklin paterfamilias with the demand that a window be installed in the factory and that his sons resist their constant urge to ash their cigars in the machinery fuel intake.
Swiftly, the Pinkertons were summoned and 12 men were shot. To make up for the loss in production, workday hours were increased to 30. But the hail of artillery punched a hole in the wall of the factory, so it was as though the workers were allowt a window. We considert this a grand triumf.
Loins have been girt for the clash that is to come. To this end, I have been grinding the haymakers to the bone. I thought this sufficient. But a swarthy man – I presumed him a Jew – told me there were financial considerations as well. I should make monetary protections for my future. Usually it was the drink that serves as my bulwark against events to come, but he advised against this. Therefore, it has been that since the last footballing season came to a close, I have sought for ways by which I can augment my earnings. Strongmen competitions are a possibility, but many now discourage besting rivals through sheer pummeling, wishing only to highlight non-violent feats. Pusillanimous piffle, I say.
The more I searcht, the more I saw that a ruffian’s appeal should not be discount for moneymaking ventures. I gleant that many an institution were inclinet to compensate known pummelers for little else than granting their likeness to a placard endorsing their product.
It seems I may be able to pay many of my bar tabs this way.
I want more like this!
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