There was a curate, Fr Pat Nugent, in Kilanena parish who had the church authorities up in arms. He rode a powerful motorbike whilst visiting his flock, leathers and all. His sermons were bright, if a little earthy and the older generation spent hours tutting at his antics. He enjoyed a pint and the Craic, and why shouldn't he. Where is it written that he can't he human (apart from celibacy)
Oh and he was the dirtiest, filthiest, son of a B*tch when he played rugby.
We played Gort in a "friendly" one Sunday afternoon and as usual it was a little frisky to say the least. In one particular phase of play the "game" stopped for a little bit whilst steam was being let off.
One bruiser caught hold of Fr Pat and knocked him to the ground with a meaty haymaker.
"Jesus Christ, that's a priest you eejit" says one of his team mates.
"Oh My God, sorry father" said the thumper as he picked him up and stood in front of him
Fr Pat smiled that tolerant smile that only priests can and promptly nutted him breaking his nose.
"Bless you my son" said Fr Pat
Priceless
