The mood in Dromore has been described as darker than the deepest recesses of outer space since their senior football side were defeated in the county final last Sunday. Not since 1838, when an English tourist labelled Dromore as a ‘bleak poor hilly town’ in a holiday brochure, has the ‘Large Ridge’ found itself wallowing in a slough of self-pity and despair. No bins have been collected, cattle milked nor men washed since the loss four days ago and the outlook shows no sign of improvement. Housewife Katie McCarron refuses to see any light at the end of the tunnel:
“It’s buckin ridiculous now. Jaysus, I know the football is big an all in Dromore but these lads need to catch a grip of themselves. My husband, a stalwart on the team, hasn’t taken a shower since Sunday morning. He’s still in his muddied kit, just sitting and sleeping on the couch watching reruns of Starsky and Hutch. The only time he rises is for the toilet but he’s even too depressed to flush it. He’s normally very aware of his appearance and was a rather gorgeous man. Now, he just looks like an oul hobo from Omagh. Not one fcuk does he give right now about anything. He should be shot with a ball of his own shite.”
With rubbish piling up on the roads and loanans, cattle at bursting point and drunk men staggering from The Central Bar, pishing all over the place, women have given the male population 24 hours to snap out of it or they’re going to start flirting with lads from Trillick.
“I’m giving my lad another day. If no improvement, I’m heading down the Galbally Road and grabbing one of them Trillick boys. They’ll never be left in that post-county final depression, let’s be honest.”