The Leader, Samhain 1988

The story so far: Andy, the owner of the disco in Dunfanaghy, has been eaten by a giant lasagne. No one has witnessed his horrible de– mise and the police are baffled. A spaceship piloted by aliens whose an– cestors were Pictish warriors in ancient Scotland has become stranded on nearby Horn Head... Trevor McCardles had had a hard day. He pointed the wheels of his trusty Bedford lorry homeward over the N56 between Falcarragh and Dunfanaghy. It was 7.30 on a fine summer's evening and Trevor, who operated a small vegetable delivery service to local shops, had finished a hard day's work and was looking forward to a long soak in the bath. Trevor had, as is common with most people who live in areas of outstand– ing natural beauty, become long since immune to the wonders of nature flitting past his windscreen. This evening, however, he was filled with a newborn awe for the landscape around him. He marvelled as if for the first time at the many hued slopes of Muckish. He experienced pinnacles of ecstacy at the sight of newborn lambs gamboling up grassy knolls. "By George", he said to himself, "just look at those snowy-fleeced lambs gamboling up those grassy knolls". He hummed one of his favourite tunes, Daniel O'Donnell's "Donegal Shore", as he steered the Bedford around a particularly tight right-hander. "By Golly, Trevor old boy, that was a fine bit of driving", he congratulated himself. Trevor's driving was about to be put to the ultimate test for as he exited the corner, he noticed with alarm that the road ahead was totally blocked. He didn't have time to realize it, but what was blocking his path was a 617 ton blue, yellow and red lasagne. There wasn't room to brake. The Bedford lurched sic– keningly into the heaving mass of mince, cheese and tomato puree, in– stantly adding a hideous "je ne sais quoi" to the hideous Italian concoction. Something wasn't right. Something definitely wasn't right. Steve Jolley, gifted geologist and raconteur, pondered over the geological map of Horn Head which he had been painstakingly compiling for three years, and it just didn't fit. He didn't like to admit it, but the rocks had been seri– ously tampered with. The rocks were on the move, by God. 700 billion years of almost imperceptable movement had suddenly, with 24 hours, given way to the most cataclysmic change. And the smell. The smell of mince by God. Mince. by Martin O'Hara 11 Down in Dunfanaghy, detective chief Superintendent Ernie O'Re– illy and Sergeant Liam Deary sat in the Chief's study and pondered. The Chief was sprawled in his chaise longue and deep in contemplation of the week's disturbing events. The two men had been silent for some time when the Chief suddenly lifted his head and regarded Deary. O'Reilly was in bad shape and it showed. Deep worry lines criss-crossed his face like Martian canals. His eyes held a jaundiced pallor. "Go Deary", he said in his typically economical manner. "Go man, I must play". The Chief reached for his fiddle. Back up on Horn Head, his pickled turnip sandwiches finished, Steve Jolley had fallen into afitful slumber beneath an outcrop of banded pelites. Just behind the outcrop the stranded hulk of an alien spaceship called "The Bonny Albatross" lay, like a stranded whale. Inside the space– ship Captain Henry Borthwick couldn't believe his luck. A bloody geo– logist;just what he needed to help him locate lithium for his dormant engines., had walked right into his hands. "Whit a stroke i luck", he chor– tled to his chief engineer Dougal McBrayne. "Things are lookin' up McBrayne. Am going doon tae git him". ,Steve Jolley awoke with a start. In front of him stood the incongru– ous vision of a Scotsman in full national dress. Captain Borthwick, his kilt waving proudly in the breeze and his silver starship commander's tammy glinting in the evening sun, stood facing Jolley. Then the last Pictish clan Chieftan left in the known galaxy said "hullow earthling". Steve tried to scream but all that emitted from his mouth was a gust of picked turnip-scented breath. Alone, Chief Inspector O'Reilly and his fiddle were locked in a mael– strom of frenzied creativity. Notes tumbled and whirred off his fretboard as O'Reilly sank deeper and deeper into one of his meditative trances. "He's fiddling again", said Deary to the Chief's housekeeper, old Mrs. Waterson. "Lord save us Sergeant. The master hasn't reached for his fiddle in nigh on ten years. Dear God, whatever can be afoot". To be continued.... Monica aims for Top So determined is Monica to achieve fame through her music that she recently took the unusual step of driving the 40 miles from her home to Gay Byrne's holiday cottage in Dungloe, where she pre– sented him with a demo tape she made in a recording studio in Letterkenny. Says Monica - "He was not there when I arrived, but he drove up. I had a little speech ready to say but I forgot it. I think he was stunned to see this woman standing there asking him to listen to a demo tape." Every so often a singer emerges on the music scene with that extra something that makes people sit up and listen. Some people call it "talent," but it's something that's very hard to define. Recently such a singer appeared on the local scene in Donegal and has been getting rave notices. That singer is Monica Devir , from Stranorlar. But Gay was very nice about it and Monica's unusual approach brought dividends when a member of Gay Byrne's radio programme rang Monica to ask her to appear on their talent spotting slot. She sang Jimmy McCarthy's acclaimed song "Ride On" and was highly praised. Now Monica hopes that the exposure she got on RTE will help her get that elusive break. If she's playing in your area, make sure to go along to see a great singer and definitely a name to watch out for in the future ..... . 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