Nenagh for me was the 80s.
I spent an entire childhood, it seems, waiting for the bus to rev up, propelling us from its dark midland abyss to a western nirvana.
Vegetable soup, big spoons and small bowls. Too much pepper, drinking milk from the table jugs, (not my mum’s - but her idea) and a withering look from a local at the urinal.
I began compensating when older as my quarterly jaunt to Ennis became more lucid. Vodka, magic mushrooms, and on one or two rather uncomfortable occasions, speed, helped entertain on the achey commute to Ennis.
Nenagh never changed though. It wasn’t quite the full stop. It was more of a break in the journey, being herded into an undisclosed hotel, with the old boys heading straight to the bar, their counterparts sitting and waiting, sucking on soup and forgetting…
“10 MINUTES!!”, shouted the bus driver, aurally dissecting half of us and ressurecting the rest.
Heaving , back on the bus, everyone in the same seat - all good.
Nenagh is Irelands comma.
Goodbye Nenagh, all I miss is that car park, my screaming aunt and a need to pee.
But now you are doing something I might enjoy?
Cursed art!
JP Keating
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