THE HICKEY WEEKLY
	Lost for Words I was in an awful panic for the last few days. I couldn’t think of a thing to put down on paper. On Friday night I tried fourteen times to put one word after another but the more I tried the less progress I made. Eventually I adjourned to the local hostelry where, in time honoured literary tradition I sought inspiration at the bottom of an empty glass.     My friend Tom Cantwell noticed I wasn't firing on all cylinders and enquired as to the cause of my droopin' shoulders and my sour face. I upped and explained my predicament, "Tom, it's my column for the Farmers Journal; I'm stuck. Every week without fail I have some story to tell, some pearl of wisdom to impart or some bit of devilment to relate, but whether it's the time of year, the male menopause or the early onset of brain death, I can't think of one word to put on a page." Cantwell, who knows somethin 'about everythin', immediately diagnosed my ailment, "Maurice," says he, "you are sufferin' from a condition called writer's block; it afflicts all manner of scribe from the literary giant to the common scraper like yourself. It is caused by the dryin' up of the creative juices. "Is there any cure for it?" I asked. "From what I know," replied Cantwell, "such a blockage can be released by any one of three things; a sudden burst of inspiration, a traumatic event, or a significant intake of drink. In your case we can eliminate the first two; you haven't time to wait for a sudden burst of inspiration, and even if you should suffer a traumatic event this minute, by the time you'd get around to writin' about it your press deadline would have passed and Madame Editor would not be impressed. Therefore, the only option left is the generation of inspiration with the help of significant quantities of alcohol. So, could I suggest that you buy a round immediately; a pint and a small one will do me nicely." Cantwell is a hoor, he intended to benefit handsomely from the side effects of the treatment he had prescribed for me. If drink could write books then I'd have written enough to fill a feckin' library. I bought Cantwell his pint and his small one but I didn't have much confidence in his skills as a writin' coach. I was on the brink of givin' up on this week's column but I was saved by the news that Hainey Delaney of Moyganny Upper was dead; you can't beat a good funeral for yarns, scandal and gossip. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not rejoicing in the death of poor Hainey, indeed my sympathies go out to all his family, especially those over 18 and livin' in this electoral area, but death came to him at the ripe old age of 97. Hainey was a legend. His proper name was Dan but he got his nickname late in his life when television brought the show, "Green Acres" into the kitchens and parlours of rural Ireland. One of the stars of the particular show was one 'Mr. Hainey,' a wheeler dealer who bought and sold all kinds of fandangos and contraptions. Even if you didn't know what you were lookin' for Mr. Hainey would have it. Dan Delaney was his equivalent in our locality. He had a sort of a scrap-yard and store where you could buy anything from a box of bulk washin' powder to the startin' handle for a jumbo jet. Thanks to "Green Acres" Dan became known as 'Hainey Delaney' and the nickname stuck to him. Hainey's funeral was a huge event generously lubricated by a constant flow of yarns and drink. The story of his life was quite amazin' and had a coincidental twist to it. He opened for business in the late 1950s after he found himself in possession of a consignment of US army surplus in the form of axles and wheels for army jeeps. These were ideal for horse drawn carts and hay floats; the whole lot sold in a few days. He built the business up from there relying for his success on surprise, variety and quantity. News would travel fast that Hainey had taken delivery of a huge load of a particular item and whatever he had would be bought and put to some use. One time he laid hands on a load of parachutes and within minutes they were snapped up by every dressmaker in the place. As a result the sales of tights, weddin' dresses and communion frocks plummeted in the locality and didn't recover for about five years. In the course of the funeral sermon it emerged that Hainey was a very promisin' writer in his younger days but his career came to a full stop thanks to a sudden and devastatin' attack of writer's block. Imagine that! If you see me manning a stall at the next car boot sale, you'll know what happened.