Seamus Mullins 
Wilsford Racing Stables



Posted by Seamus Mullins on April 7, 2017 at 4:35 AM


If you are still reading this please don’t moan, complain or threaten legal proceedings, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED AND THIS IS WRITTEN ‘WITHOUT PREJUDICE’ 

If you are still reading this, have you not got anything better to do??? Enjoy, remember it’s all in jest but TRUE!, 

I thought I’d put pen to paper, well finger to keyboard, to write my farewell story, a true story, to tell you about my last Friday working at the yard.

I remember it well, I think it was a Friday, or maybe the Saturday, yes I’m sure it was Friday – about 9.30 in the morning, or was it 10.30? However, mid morning in the yard when I took a telephone call from Seamus who was at the top of the gallops watching one of the lots work or simply reading the paper! 

It went something like this “ Fatboy can you get your hand out of the biscuit tin and pop down to Amesbury to deliver the parcel I’ve left on your desk.”

My first thoughts were, bloody hell he must have a web cam in situ else how he can see me with my mitts in the biscuit tin? But scanning around I could see nothing in the office and asked;

“Just take it to the Post Office shall I?”, “No”, he replied.

“Take it round to the beer garden at the back of the pub (a well known pub but best not say which one for obvious reasons once the story unfolds you will appreciate why – cheap beer and cheap food, you know which one. No? Ok it’s Weatherspoons).Take Reggie with you. Skol, a polish chap, will meet you there at 11 o’clock, give him the parcel and ask no questions“

Strange I thought but well he is Irish. “What’s he look like I enquired?” 

“Stocky well built chap, bald bloke, always wears a vest. Even you can remember that and don’t be late?”

“Of course I can remember that, deliver to Skol the Pol at 11. Does he have a Czechoslovakian wife called Rebecca? 

“I don’t bloody well know. Why?” he asked, now getting a bit short tempered. 

“Well then she’d be known as Becky the Czechie!” 

He hung up! 

As I took my hand from the biscuit tin I looked to my desk and saw the package, I hadn’t noticed it before. I picked up the package, quite heavy and wrapped in brown grease proof paper, and went to find Reg .

As I walked past the staff canteen at 10.45 precisely, I remember that because morning break ends sharp at 10.30 so I wondered why Reggie was still in the canteen eating cake? But can’t throw stones in glass houses I thought so I said; 

“C’mon Reggie, we’ve to deliver a parcel to Amesbury, you can drive, got to be in town by 11 so let’s go”. 

“I’ll just get my wallet” he replied. Blimey, I felt a bit feint as I’ve never heard Reggie say that before – I’ll get my wallet! 

“You won’t need that we are only dropping this parcel off and coming straight back” I said 

He replied “ If we can park outside the baker’s I’ll pop in to get some lunch” .

“I thought Maria made you lunch each day?” “She does and I’ve just eaten it” he replied, still chewing the cud!

We got into Reggie’s little blue car (Chelsea’s, his daughter’s to be precise but he always seems to use it) and sped off out the yard hitting 60 mph through the Woodford valley (sorry Chelsea, I did ask him to slow down but he was thinking of the bakers and cakes and you know how he just sees red mist when he thinks of food).

“What’s in the parcel ?“ he asked “ I don’t know, I was told to ask no questions and just deliver it to some polish bloke in a vest called Skol round the back of the pub, in the beer garden” 

“I think Maria knows him” said Reg. He continued,“I think his wife works with Maria, her name is Rebecca!”.

“Bloody hell, she’s not Czechoslovakian is she?” “No you idiot, she’s English, why?” “It doesn’t matter” I replied, laughing to myself.

Reg added with a hint of caution, “Her old man is a bit of a thug though, spent time inside for GBH a few years ago. This is all a bit strange Fatboy, all a bit cloak and dagger, delivering an unknown package to a known offender, why didn’t Seamus take it himself? enquired Reg 

Thinking to myself, bloody good question, you are not as stupid as you look Reg “I don’t know” I said, becoming slightly concerned. 

At that point Reg had no concerns about the position we were about to put ourselves in as his little blue car (sorry Chelsea’s little blue car) was driving up Amesbury High Street just shy of 50 mph.

“We will never get a parking space here Reg” I said.

“Yes we will Fatboy, I always do, just outside the Bakers” 

Clearly there wasn’t a space but within 100 yards of the baker’s shop frontage three cars pulled out simultaneously, just like the parting of the waves and Reg drove the blue rocket straight in.

“I told you so” said my little fat ginger friend. “Bloody hell Reg I think I’ll call you Moses from now on” “Who is she?” he asked!. “Never mind Reg, let’s get some cake” I replied, whilst exiting the blue rocket still with the parcel held close to my chest as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did?. 

As Reg scanned the display in the bakers, he could literally seek out a pin a bakers shop let alone ahaystack, enquiring prices of almost everything as he made his way around the shop, ordering enough cakes to feed a small nation, he looked across at me standing at the door and I thought to myself, no Reg, please don’t say it, It’s not funny, I’ve heard it before, don’t say it, please don’t say it – but no he can’t control himself and in cake frenzy he bellowed out across the crowded shop floor

“D’you fancy a finger Fatboy?” 

At this point, the four elderly ladies serving, with an average age of 105 all took a step back from the counter and a sharp intake of breath. So once again, thinking himself a comedian, he shouts 

“Fatboy, d’you want a Viennese finger?” The ladies, realising they are off the hook, step back to the counter pretending nothing had ever happened having had their excitement for the day. 

“No thanks Reg, let’s go else we will be late”. 

Dragging him from the bakers, struggling to get him out of the double doors, not simply because of his backside but with his two carrier bags of cake which we promptly deposited in the back of the blue rocket, we made our way to the pub (Wetherspoons for those still thinking which one!).

As we approached I said to Reg, “Let’s not mess about in here Reg, straight through the pub to the beer garden, deliver this parcel and back to the yard. If this bloke has form then best play it straight”

“Ok “, he said “Keep it simple” he continued. I looked at him and thought ‘simple’ definitely being the appropriate word. 

We entered the pub, I went in first and led the way directly towards the beer garden. Nobody else was in the pub so we hardly went unnoticed by the three young members of female bar staff who looked at us in the hope of some business, well, serving us anyway! 

Remaining focused and looking straight forward I continued to follow the signs to the beer garden whilst still clutching the package to my chest. 

In the vain hope of drumming up business and relieving her boredom one of the young ladies enquired “Can I get you anything gents? 

Before I could get the words out ‘No thank you we are not stopping, we are just giving this parcel to someone in the beer garden’ my little fat ginger haired oppo replies; 

“Yes please two cream teas to the beer garden”

“Bloody hell Reg, two cream teas!!! We are not stopping and you have enough bloody cream cakes in the back of your car to host a bloody street party outside, why d’you want a cream tea as well?”

He replied “ I need to eat when I get nervous.” So I said “Don’t worry Reggie we’ll deliver this package to Skol the Pol and we’ll be out of here.” “What if it kicks off?” he asked. “Reg, we are simply delivering a parcel and that’s it”, I assured him.


I sat down with my back towards the bar door and placed the package on our table and at this point Reg noticed white powder on my chest where I had been clutching the package.

“Whats that then? “ he enquires. Surprised I look down to see rather a lot of white powder on me. “How should I know?” I said almost defensively.


“Smell it” he says, “Taste it” he says, now exhibiting signs of getting rather nervous (I can see another cake coming on here to ease his nerves). Mind you I was getting a little worried myself at this point.


“Reg I don’t know what it is, I’m not going to taste it and certainly am not going to sniff it. You sniff it as if it’s what we think it may be I wouldn’t know what it should taste like or smell like”

Leaning forward across me, placing his head against my chest, he places one finger over one nostril (like an old pro’ ) and sniffs as hard as he can – so damn hard he nearly inhales my Seamus Mullins tee shirt at the same time.


Bad timing, very bad, very very bad timing as the young waitress at this precise time decides to walk through the door with our two cream teas to a vision of Reggies head in my lap appearing be doing something he shouldn’t.


No matter how much I tried to explain that it was not as it seemed, the truth that he was simply trying to snort some white powder on my tee shirt didn’t cut much ice either! She turned on a sixpence and disappeared back into the pub still with our cream teas on her tray. She was obviously very concerned and upset as I could hear the china tea cups clinking together before she banged the tray down at the bar – most likely resigned and left the same day!

All this had gone unnoticed by the red haired crack sniffer because he was still trying to pull my tee shirt from his right nostril. “Well Reg, what do you think it is? Is it cocaine or something, surely the Boss is not dealing in cocaine? Could he be growing plants in some of the empty stables?”


“Good shiiit” muttered and mumbled Reggie. He had gone into a comatosed state. Only then did I realise how much powder was on my shirt as he resembled Casper the Friendly Ghost with white powder all over his face. He had, what I now considered to be, crack cocaine in his eyebrows and a complete white face, the only colour left in him was his red hair.


“You alright Reggie, snap out of it me old mate?. Skol the Pol could be here at any minute”


At this point I could see Reggie was indeed trying to make an effort to snap out of it. However, his efforts by rubbing his eyes with his clenched fists simply made him go from resembling Caspar the Friendly Ghost to Chin Chin the giant panda, still with red hair!


Beam me up Scotty I thought to myself . “Come on Reg I need to get you out of here, let’s go”. He now began to act in a drunken state, slurring and laughing “I’m a celebrity, get me out of here“ he said between fits of laughter.


Bloody hell, he got louder and louder, he had definitely put something he shouldn’t have up his nostril, this was going to take some explaining to his Mrs ( and Barb his Mum, if the powder didn’t kill him she most certainly would).


And who says lightening doesn’t strike twice, well it did in Wetherspoons beer garden that morning as boom, the bar door opened and a muscle man, in a vest , built like a brick sh… (outhouse) appeared with two henchman – one who immediately barred the escape exit ( a six foot wooden gate with immediate access back to the high street) and the other, the door back to the bar whilst Skol sat at the table – inquisitively looking at my companion, the red haired panda!


Play it cool, play it cool Rodney, I thought to myself.


“Good morning Sir, I have your package here“ At this point I lost the plot and proceeded to carry on simply with verbal diarrhea speaking faster and faster with my voice getting higher and higher to a pitch only Aled Jones could ever dream of hitting.

“We are simply delivering this to you from Seamus, our Boss, he is the main man, the Irish Godfather (why on earth did I say that), we don’t know anything, I’m simply the carrier and he is my driver”.

At this point my red haired panda driver stood up, beat his chest like Guy the Gorilla, promptly sneezed that sent a puff of white powder shooting from each nostril like Puff the Magic Dragon and like a wild red haired rhino (if there is such a thing) charged towards the iron man barring the wooden gate that led to the High Street.


Head down, at the top of his voice, he bellowed “ FREEEEEEEDOM” as he charged towards Iron man. He was quicker away than my greyhounds, gathering speed across the beer garden about to make a point of impact that would undoubtedly send iron man into orbit.


Go on Ginge my hero , run Ginge run, I muttered under my breath, then thought, save yourself you git, what about your best mate (only mate!) sat here surrounded by the polish mafia?


Fortunately for Iron man he saw this coming and simply side stepped the red haired rhino who continued at speed, leaving a trail of white powder in his tracks as he continued gathering speed and hit the wooden gate full on taking it off its hinges in the process.


Skol calmly enquired “ Was that Sheymoose, your Boss?”. “No that was Reg my driver, he’s gone to start the car as we are parked on double yellow lines so I can’t stay long”, thinking let me go, let me go, please let me go!


“Why does Sheymoose not like schmelling?” he continued.


What the bloody hell is schmelling I thought to myself, if he spoke polish I’d have more chance of understanding him!

“Schmellin?” I asked.


“The schmellin of that” as he pointed to the package. “Your friend Weg (Weg???, bloody hell it get’s worse) seemed to like it, no?”

I didn’t know what to do or say, I was like a rabbit in the headlights and I think I just froze. “Open the cake” he demanded, again pointing to the package


Now I was brickin’ myself. Cake??? We are talking here crack cocaine and in Poland they refer to it as cake! No wonder Robert at work likes cake and his eyes light up when I tell him there is plenty of cake in the office!


I began to unwrap the brown greaseproof paper from the package; white powder was going everywhere so I was trying not to inhale, holding my breath for as long as I could then taking little breaths from the side of my mouth.


Next I found a layer of tin foil – to throw off the sniffer dogs no doubt when this ‘cake’ went through customs. I’d seen that in Die Hard 3.

“What you think of schmelling? Enquired Mr Skol as inside the tin foil was a white brick block, obviously cocaine.


“I don’t smell, or snort, or whatever you do with it Mr Skol, I don’t schmell” (I needed to make it clear in his version of English what I meant so I spoke using his language, especially after what I saw it do to Weg!!!


“You don’t schmell?” he queried. Whatever he said I wasn’t going to disagree.


“Turn over the cake” he demanded “Why you no like schmelling?” now raising his voice.

As I flipped over the block of crack cocaine I started to weep.


All my emotions came flooding out, those of elation, surprise, definitely relief, for a moment I even relaxed my bowels that had been firmly clenched to make sure I didn’t have an unfortunate accident (another reason why I couldn’t make a run for it like Weg) as I saw before me the ‘schmelling’ ON the ICING of the CAKE!


The schmelling read – ‘Good luck FARTBOY on your retirement’.


Oh my God, was I relieved.


“What is wrong with schmellin” again Skol demanded. With a smile on my face I said “It’s Fatboy not Fartboy”.


The damn crack cocaine block was in fact a sponge cake covered in icing with an abundance of icing sugar (white powder) going everywhere that Sheymoose had arranged for my leaving do.

“Skol” I said, “It’s fine, leave it as it is, we’ll take it” . “Sheymoose is not happy with cake, he says schmellin is wrong. My wife baked cake especially for Fartboy leaving do today. She not happy now” replied Skol. “

Now physically crying I started to laugh uncontrollably, something I shouldn’t have done as my bowels became totally relaxed. Maybe Fartboy could be more appropriate if I don’t get a grip I feared.

Putting my hand out, very happy I still possessed two, I took Skol’s hand and said again “The cake is good, I’ll sort it out, thank you but I must go as Weg is parked outside”


“Ok if you ok, you must go. I tell my wife you change your mind Fartboy and everything is good” he said.


Picking up the cake, not bothering to wrap it, I put it under my arm and walked across the beer garden taking in the smell of fresh air, simply happy to be alive and especially not having followed through! Walking through the gap in the fence opened by the red haired rhino made my way towards the blue rocket.

As I opened the passenger door I banged my hand down on the roof and scared the hell out of the red haired rhino who was clutching the wheel with the engine running, revving in preparation for a quick getaway.


“Where the hell have you been” enquired Weg, still with white powder all over his face.


“Well Weg” (not easy to say) “I’ve been enquiring what you have been putting up your nose and thanks for running away leaving me on my own to single handily fight off three polish warriors, lucky I still remembered my SAS combat skills”


Not too sure and very worried he asked, “What was that powder, was it crack cocaine?


“No Weg, it was bloody well icing sugar so why the hell did you turn into a demolition rolling ball and take the gate off its hinges?”


“Icing sugar, icing sugar! God, I must have snorted loads up my nose, I can’t remember a thing but that amount of icing sugar would have sent me into overload because of my diabetes”


I showed him the cake, he saw the spelling and cracked up. “Come on FARTBOY let’s get back to see Sheymoose” he said.


The little blue rocket pulled away from outside the bakers and we made our way back to normality (well, the yard) eating fingers – Viennese and iced on the way back!

All true.

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