Into a Belfast pub comes Paddy Murphy, looking like he’d just been run over by a train.
His arm is in a sling, his nose is broken, his face is cut and bruised and he’s walking with a limp.
“What happened to you?” asks Sean, the bartender.
“Jamie O’Conner and me had a fight,” says Paddy.
“That little squirt, O’Conner,” says Sean,
“He couldn’t do that to you, he must have had something in his hand.”
“That he did,” says Paddy,
“a shovel is what he had, and a terrible Iickin’ he gave me with it.”
“Well,” says Sean,
“you should have defended yourself, didn’t you have something in your hand?”
“That I did,” said Paddy,
“Mrs. O’Conner’s breast, but it didn’t help much.”
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