The Hairdresser And The Pope

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The French and the Irish love horses. The French like them on a plate with some mustard so they can eat them. The Irish like them on a racetrack so they can bet on them. The Irish consider eating horses an act of cannibalism though privately a lot of Irish punters having done their dough have considered themselves a little unlucky that the French didn’t get in first.

I’ve served my time as a horsebetting martyr and can safely claim to be one of the worst judges of fourlegged animals in history. That might explain why I recently spent a week at the Galway Races without actually seeing a horse. The main reason for this was I didn’t go anywhere near the racetrack.

I did bet on a horse at Beverley, wherever that is, when I was told to do so. It won at 3/1 but I was a little concerned that the stewards might take a dim view of the fact it covered the final two furlongs on its hind legs but it must have been the cocktail hour cause all was considered above board. I must remember to send them a case of gin.

There was still plenty to keep a man occupied at this Irish version of Mardi Gras. I lost at three of the four poker venues before retiring to the pub where the black stuff was flowing, the music great and the craic out of this world. It was there I heard the tale about the hairdresser and the pope. It goes like this.

A lady from the North side of Dublin went to the hairdresser and the following conversation took place :

“Where are you going on your holidays?”
“Tony and I are going to Rome for a few days.”
“Joe and I were there a few years ago. What airline are you using?”
“Caledonian.”
“Oh we flew with them, they were awful. The plane was a mess and we were hours late. “Where are you staying?”
“The Excelsior.”
“Oh no. We stayed there. It was a dive and the food was disgusting. What are you going to do while you’re there?”
“We are hoping to see the pope.”
“Oh God. Joe and I went to see him but St. Peters Square was so crowded you can only see a guy in white in the distance.”

A few weeks later the lady went back in to the hair salon. The conversation went as follows.

“How was Rome?”
“It was great. The airline has bought a whole new fleet of planes and the flight back wasn’t too full so they very kindly upgraded us to business class where we had a ball. The hotel has been refurbished and was unbelievably luxurious.”
“Did you see the pope?”
“Oh yes. We went to St. Peters very early on Sunday to avoid the crowds. We were only there a few minutes when the pope himself walked across the square towards us. You can imagine my surprise when he came over to me, put his hand on my arm, and whispered in my ear.”
“Oh my God. What did he say?”
He said : “Jesus Christ who the hell did that to your hair?”