Paddy No-Mates

It looks like our election will be on February 25th. This means counting on the 26th and 27th, followed by complete re-counts in a couple of seats in the first three days of March. There will then be a constitutional challenge by some candidate called Frank Zachariah, who will argue that it was alphabetical order on the ballot paper that led to him getting just four votes, and not the fact that his policies included compulsory porridge, a tax on puddles and the appointment of rabbits as Government Ministers. This will take at least another month.

Like a bad bodhrán player, our timing is shite. Let’s face it, it won’t be sorted by March 17th…


Barrack Obama slumped gloomily at his desk in the Oval Office, idly doodling on a piece of paper. It was St Patrick’s Day, and he had nothing to do.

For months he had watched the growing political farce in Ireland, hoping that it would not come to this. He had hoped that the existing government would survive at least until today, so that Barrack would get the chance to look really handsome again beside the Irish Prime Minister (they called him De Shock in Ireland, Obama could understand why). If not, well, he had seen the likely successor, and could not help the feeling that he was descended from leprechauns. But the timing of the election had meant no-one was in charge.

The new guy

So no-one had come to make the traditional presentation of the bowl of shamrock that morning. He hadn’t had to listen to a load of guff explaining how he was actually part Irish (the Dalai Lama had been informed that he had fallen from the same genealogical tree just one month earlier). He hadn’t had to babble on about how the Irish had built the entire world, while ignoring the fact that they had just destroyed the entire world economy. You’d think he’d be thrilled, but he wasn’t.

It was Paddy’s Day, and there were no Paddies in the White House. And he missed them.

He had rung asking could he be Marshall at the St Patrick’s Day Parade, but it been turned down. They had opted instead for Sarah Palin,

Well, she is....

since (1) Sarah was a more Irish name; (2) she was as batty as any Irish person and (3) she was hot.

Obama glared at the hideous green tie that he had worn each St Patrick’s Day for the previous two years. This year he had no reason to wear it, but Michelle had left it out in the hope that it might cheer him up. It could get knotted, he thought, especially now that it didn’t have to.

He looked down at his doodling. He had scrawled

Barrack Obama
Barrack O’Bama
Barry O’Bama
The Bard Rick O’Bama
Bádraig Óg UíBamach (strange, he hadn’t realised he knew Irish).

He suddenly had the urge to put on the tie. He wanted to drink green-topped Guinness, to dance like a tap-dancer with his arms nailed to his hips, to sing a succession of dirges (with one hand cupped over one ear) about how he‘d been forced to emigrate from Erin‘s green shore by the potato famine/the dastardly English/the recession, to charm women with the cheekiest of smiles and cheesiest of chat-up lines, to throw up green-topped vomit, to stand proudly facing the Irish flag, to fall loudly face-first to the floor.

On St Patrick’s Day, everyone wants to be Irish.

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