Paddy O'Leary limped into Finnegan's bar on O'Connell Street in the fair city of Dublin. He looked as though he'd been in some kind of serious accident. His arm was in a sling, he had a collar brace around his neck, his nose was broken and both eyes were a delicate shade of purple-yellow.
"Praise the Lord!", exclaimed Finnegan who was stood behind the bar. "What in the Lord's name happened to you?"
"Michael O'Brien and me had a bit of a fight" said Paddy.
"Nerr," said Finnegan. "That little terd couldn't have done so much damage.....he must have had a weapon or a big stick to beat you with!"
"To be sure he did," replied Paddy. "He had a big shovel and he hammered me with it. I took a terrible pasting!"
"More fool you," said Finnegan. "You should have defended yourself..........didn't you have something in yer hand?"
"That I  did", said Paddy; "Mrs O'Brien's left breast - a thing of great beauty it was -  but not much good in a fight!