Tag Archives: St Patrick’s day

Baby Remember My Name

It is well known in Ireland that St Patrick was actually born in Wales, and was brought here by an Irishman by the remarkable name of Niall of the Nine Hostages…. 


Back in Fifth Century Tara, surnames were not as they are now.

For aeons they had been unnecessary, the size of the village meaning that there tended to be only one holder per name, so everybody needed just that name, such as Fionn, or Gráinne, or Cher.

Over time, though, some names became more fashionable than others, and a way had to be found of distinguishing between the many Seáns and Noras. A descriptive second name was therefore added.

These took two forms. One related to possessions, so that Tara was now home to Rory Of The Big Field and Emer Of The Brown Horse. The other derived from one’s occupation, giving the village Brendan The Carpenter, Lorcan The Weaver, and the local lady of the night, Ellen The Generous.

Niall (image from GENI.com)

It was very late one evening when village ne’er-do-well Niall Nojob crept up to the village tavern, The Old Storehouse. He pried open the door, planning simply to take whatever coins were in the till and slip quietly away.

He had forgotten about the Irish tradition of the lock-in, where a hostelry shuts its doors at closing-time but leaves its most favoured customers inside.

Thus upon opening the door he found himself looking into the faces of eight customers and the barmaid. They looked shocked, then relaxed visibly.

“Ah, it’s only Niall,” said one.

By that he was simply expressing relief that it wasn’t Conn Of The Slow Walk, the local policeman. To Niall, though, it sounded like a sneer, a dismissal, and though armed robbery had never been among his many petty transgressions, he drew his sword.

“Give me all your money,” he snarled.

The bar’s occupants stared at him in disbelief. “Ah, here, Niall,” said Bridget, the barmaid. “That’s not like you.”

Niall stared wildly at her, then lowered his sword, and his head. “You’re right,” he said, blushing. “I’m sor-”

There was a loud rap at the door. “Is there anyone in there?” came Conn’s voice.

“No,” said Niall, before he could stop himself.

“That’s you, Niall, is it?” laughed Conn, and again Niall felt the wither of withering contempt. Again his anger rose. He slid his hand down and up the handle of his sword, a move that looked, though he didn’t know it, as if he was pumping the handle of a shotgun.

“It is, Conn,” he said, “and I’ve got nine hostages.”


It was an hour later.

A crowd had gathered outside, including the local journalist, Aengus The Telltale.

“Aren’t you going to do anything, Conn?” asked Aengus.

“I am doing something,” replied Conn. “I’m letting him sweat.”

This was working. Inside the inn Niall was finding out just how whiny hostages can be. They were complaining that the fire was going out. They were demanding organised toilet trips, though this simply meant walking to the bucket in the corner. They were asking could at least Bridget be allowed continue serving drink.

After a further thirty minutes, Conn picked up a bull-horn. This was merely the horn of a bull and had no acoustic qualities, but he felt it made him look important.

“Niall Of The Nine Hostages!” he called out.

Niall unaccountably found himself filling with pride. “Yes?” he replied.

“Release the pregnant woman,” said Conn.

There was a brief silence.

“Er, what pregnant woman?” asked Niall eventually.

“In all hostage situations,” replied Conn, “there’s a pregnant woman. Trust me on this.”

Niall looked around the bar. A woman raised one hand and smiled sheepishly.

Niall thought for a few moments, then sighed. “Ok,” he said, “but in return we want pizza.”

Outside, Conn looked questioningly around at the crowd.

“It’s just flat bread with cheese and bits of pig on it,” said Pat The Baker. “Give me twenty minutes.”

The pizza was duly delivered and the woman released. After another hour Conn raised the bull-horn again.

“Niall Of The Eight Hostages!” he yelled.

“Dammit,” said Aengus. He started to scribble out the ‘Nine’ in his report, then shrugged. “Nah, I’m leaving it,” he thought.

This time Niall agreed to release the old man. Over the next four hours he also said apologetic goodbyes to the honeymoon couple, the man who had run out of his medication (blood of bat), the priest who was needed to say morning mass, the farmer who had to milk his cows, and a woman who was just getting on Niall’s nerves.

Now there was just him and Bridget.

“They’ll storm the place eventually, you know,” said Bridget. “You’ll be killed.”

“I know,” said Niall quietly, “but I don’t know how to get out of it now.”

To his surprise Bridget took his hand. To her own surprise she had found that she had fallen in love with him. This would in time become known as Storehouse Syndrome, and later Stock Home Syndrome.

“I do,” she said, and told him her plan.

“Are you sure?” he said. “It could be dangerous.”

Bridget smiled at him. “Danger is my middle name,” she said.

Niall calculated quickly in his head. “Mine’s ‘The’,” he replied.

She looked into his eyes. “Where will you go?” she asked, quietly.

“Wales, probably,” he said. He squeezed her hand, then stood. “But I’ll come back one day.”

Minutes later he yelled out “I’m letting Bridget go.” The bar door opened and a figure ran out, weeping, shawl wrapped tightly around its head.

Conn raced past, ignoring it, as it fled through the crowd. He burst into the inn, sword in hand. He found Bridget tied to a chair, but loosely, almost as if she’d done it herself.

“What the -?” he said.

Bridget stared at him defiantly.

“He’s gone,” she said.













Belated Birthday Wishes

I started writing this last Monday, but unexpectedly found myself in the pub (ok, I am Irish, but it wasn’t something I’d been planning), so I’m only finishing it now…


He chased the snakes out of Ireland.

The logic of this argument is impeccable. He is our Patron Saint, we have no snakes, therefore he must have got rid of them.

We have no zebras either, but he never gets the credit for that.

St PatrickIt wasn’t the job he applied for, being Patron Saint of Ireland, especially since he is Welsh. But while St Valentine got love, St Vitus got dance and St Louis got jazz he got a tiny country full of cows, confusing road signs, and freckles. It was like a Greek deity finally qualifying for Mount Olympus and finding that she’s been made Goddess of Light Drizzle.

He found that he had to wear what is essentially a ballgown, and a hat that looked like the nose-cone of Thunderbird 1. He had to carry a crozier, an implement that’s sole use is to hook an actor off stage during comedy sketches.

Every year he gets thrown a birthday party. Those of you who think that this a plus have never seen the Irish party.

On the day they all wear shamrock, which is a weed. They might as well pin dandelions to themselves, and let the clocks blow up their nostrils. They will wear giant Leprechaun Hats, although the term “giant Leprechaun” is an obvious contradiction in terms, and drink green beer, which is essentially sending vomit through your mouth in the wrong direction.

And St Patrick just sighs, sips his Guinness (there are some advantages to being Irish) and waits for the day to be over.

Sometimes, he reckons, you need the patience of a saint.

Green Party

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, St Patrick was actually Welsh and was kidnapped and sold into slavery here……  


Patrick was awakened by the time-honoured method of a bucket of water in the face. He sat up groggily, his head still hurting from the blow which had rendered him unconscious.

“Where am I?” he asked, the time-honoured question of anyone coming to in such circumstances.

“You’re in Ireland,” said a voice.

Patrick looked out of the window of the low, dark building in which he found himself. The countryside spread bleakly before him in about forty shades of dreary green. The sky was leaden-grey. Rain was not exactly falling, but not exactly not.

“This is Ireland?” he snorted. “It’s a dank, damp, dump.”

“Says the guy from Wales,” said the voice in a Celtic brogue, which belonged to a man in an apron, Celtic brogues and his early forties.

“Good point,” said Patrick. “But what am I doing here?”

“You’ve been kidnapped, me lad. You’ve been sold to me as a slave. My name’s Sean.”

“As a slave? Doing what?”

“You’re going to run this pub for me while I’m away.”

“Away where?”

“I’ve heard tell of a magical land called Majorca, where it’s said the sun shines all day, so I’m going to try and find it. After all, as you say, this country is a dank, damp, dump.”

Patrick looked around the pub that he was apparently to run. It was a gloomy place in which gloomy men sat in gloomy silence, each with a mug of foamy, foul-smelling ale in front of them.

“What’s the pub called?” he asked.

“It’s called The Deep Depression,” said Sean, “on account of the fact that it’s in a valley.”

One of the gloomy men suddenly put one hand over one ear and emitted a “Nyyeeeeaah” sound, like bagpipes being passed through a wood-chipping machine. This turned out to be the first note of a fifty-verse song in which the man’s potato crop failed, his wife died in childbirth, his daughter went into the escort agency business and his ass went lame. The song made it clear that all of this was somehow the fault of the English.

“This place is like Hell,” said Patrick. “I can’t think of anything that would make it worse.”

He moved his foot and trod on a stick, which bit him.

“Oh,” said Sean. “It’s also full of snakes.”


It was two months later when Sean came back. He had learned several things on his travels, such as that there was indeed a magical place called Majorca, that all-day sunshine and Irish complexions do not make a happy partnership and that Ryanlongboats charged extra if your luggage was over a certain weight (twelve ounces).

As he started down into the valley he started. The pub was now called “The Pot O’ Gold ”. As he neared it he could hear what is commonly known as a “hubbub” coming from inside.

He opened the door and stood staring at what he saw. The walls were painted bright green and were covered in harps, shillelaghs and shamrocks. Road-signs pointed to a variety of Irish towns and there were T-Shirts on sale with slogans like “Kiss Me, I’m Irish”. There was a woman, a flame-haired, green-eyed beauty, serving behind the bar and tiny people in green outfits with giant green hats patrolled the room with trays.

Most amazingly, though, the pub was packed, both by males and females, both by young and old. There was chatter, banter and merry laughter.

Patrick spotted Sean and walked over and clapped him merrily on the back, never a joyous event for a man with sunburn.

“Welcome back,” said Patrick. “What do you think?”

“I’m speechless,” said Sean. “What have you done?”

“Modernised,” said Patrick. “I’ve made it a theme pub.” He motioned, and one of the little people walked over to the table. “Darby, bring my friend and me a drink,“ said Patrick. “This is Darby O’Gill,” he said to Sean. “He’s a leprechaun.”

“Don’t patronise me,” said Sean. “He’s a small boy from the village, and his name’s Kevin.”

“Yeah?” said Patrick. “Well, the tourists believe it.”


“Yes,” they come from everywhere. They want to savour the true Irish experience.”

“Sadness, drunkenness and famine?”

“No, friendliness, riverdance and the chance to kiss a stone.”

Darby/Kevin returned with two drinks. Both were jet-black, with white heads. Sean took a cautious sip. “What’s this?” he asked.

“No-one could drink that awful ale,” said Patrick, “so I invented this. I call it Guinness, from a Welsh word meaning ‘don’t be anywhere near me when I fart’.”

As they sat and drank singing started, but this was not the whiny solo effort of two months earlier. The same man began it, but others joined in, basses, tenors and baritones, rich voices somehow redolent of welcoming hillsides and deep mines. Their song was of eyes that were smiling, of their wonderful mammy and of something called touralouraloura, yet there was also a hint of sadness over a colleen who would not requite their love, and the song made it clear that this was somehow the fault of the English.

“They’re the Hill of Tara Male Voice Choir,” said Patrick when they’d finished, with a tear in his eye.

The barmaid came over and kissed Patrick (well, he was now Irish) on the cheek.

“He’s saved the pub, he’s made Ireland famous and he’s got rid of the snakes,” she said, gazing lovingly at him. “He should be made a saint.”

Patrick wrapped an arm around her waist, then turned and winked at Sean.

“Perhaps,” he said, “but as my friend Augustine says, ‘not yet’.”

“You got rid of the snakes?” gasped Sean.

“Yeah, I chased them out into the sea,” said Patrick. “I think I’ve invented eels.”

“How did you manage it?”

“I mowed the grass,” said Patrick. “I don’t know why no-one thought of that before.”

Green Day

St Patrick’s assistant Sean gazed doubtfully at the contents of the bowl before him. “Er, it’s clover,” he said. “It’s a type of weed.”

“Ah, but it isn’t,” said St Patrick. “It just looks like clover. I call it shamrock, from the Irish ‘Shiom Róg‘.”

“And what does that mean, in Irish?”

“Well, clover,” admitted St Patrick.

“And you reckon we can sell this?”

“Yes, why not? It‘s a little piece of Ireland.”

Sean looked around him at, well, an awful lot of Ireland. “Er,” he began.

“Oh, I’m not going to sell it here,” snorted St Patrick. “I’m going to sell it, no, market it abroad.”

“Why, are there countries that don’t have weeds?”

“No, I’m going to sell it to the Irish abroad, when they leave here.”

“Leave? Where are they going?”

St Patrick waved a hand around at the grey, rain-swept March countryside. “Anywhere, I’d imagine. They‘ll go to (Editor‘s note: Please ignore the anachronisticism of the rest of this sentence, along with the fact that anachronisticism is not a word) London, Australia, New York, places like that. And while they’re away they’ll miss the old country.”

“Seriously? The one they’ve just left?”

“Of course. Far away hills are always greener.”

“That’s because they’re covered in feckin’ clover,” muttered Sean. Aloud he said “Anyway, you reckon these people will miss Ireland so much that they’ll buy this shamrock stuff. And what will they do with it?”

“Er, they’ll wear it,” said St Patrick, who hadn’t fully thought it through. He brightened. “Yes, they’ll wear it, a big clump of it on their chest, to let everyone around them know they’re Irish. Oh, and giant Leprechaun hats as well.”

“That they’ll buy from the giant Leprechauns, I suppose.”

“No, from us,” said St Patrick, not an expert on sarcasm. “And on one day a year they’ll meet to celebrate their Irishness, and (here a far away look came into St Patrick’s eye) they’ll drink green drinks, and wear T-shirts with “Kiss Me I’m Irish” on them, and sing songs about Ireland, and Google will change its masthead for the day (“huh?” thought Sean) and they’ll have such fun that the next year everyone will want to pretend to be Irish  and will buy all the shite souvenirs as well.”

Sean sighed to himself. This was going to be like the snakes, he reckoned. St Patrick had gathered up every snake in Ireland, convinced that people would buy them for a range of uses such as rope, or washing-lines, or belts. The trouble was, anyone who’d been bitten by their own belt was unlikely to want to repeat the experience, and sales had quickly fallen, along with lots of pairs of trousers. They’d ended up having to give the whole lot away, free, to Medusa, who was experimenting with a new hairstyle.

“And what will they call this one day a year? Ireland Day?”

There may be a Patron Saint of Humility. St Patrick wasn’t it.

“They’ll call it St Patrick’s Day,” he said.

(PS. And he was right about Google, by the way).

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.

Sure They’d Steal Your Heart Away

It was late in the evening when St Anthony, Patron Saint of Lost Items,  finished work, worn out and fed-up. As usual he had spent most of the day moving lost items from where they lay, in plain sight, to somewhere else, in even plainer sight, where even the dumbest petitioner couldn’t miss them.

Things had been easier in olden times, when all people had to lose were oxen, and it was just a case of pushing their rear-end out into view from behind a tree. The invention of car keys had made his job a whole lot harder. And as for mobile phones…

The office was deserted at this stage. Most of the saints would have headed next door to the pub (“The Shroud and Relic”), and St Anthony fully intended joining them. He felt the coffee pot, realised it was still warm, and decided that a quick cup would revive him for the evening ahead. He stuck his mug, with its witty inscription (“Old saints never die – er, that’s all”), under the spout and filled it. He raised the mug to his lips, and stopped just in time.

The coffee was green.

He stared at it in horror, and then stared at the calendar in greater horror still. He uttered one extremely unsaintly word, then trudged grimly into the pub next door.

As he had feared, the pub was packed and noisy. St Christopher was in the centre of the floor performing what he fondly imagined to be an Irish reel, his legs moving like a puppet that had got its strings caught in a ceiling fan. St Petersburg, the Russian, was attempting to drink a four-litre jug of green beer in one swallow, while a group of saints around him roared “drink! drink!” in encouragement. St Bridget was standing on a table in a tight-fitting black T-shirt with the words “Kiss me, I’m Irish” written on it in lurid green letters, though the odds of this actually happening were lengthened by the fact that she was bawling out “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” in a voice that sounded like a cat being sucked up a drainpipe by a vacuum cleaner.

St Anthony made his way over to the table where he usually sat with his friends. All of them were wearing giant Leprechaun hats. You might think this would lend them an air of jollity. You’d be wrong.  

“I know we have this conversation every year,” said St Anthony, “but why him? Why is his day more special than any of ours?”

“You’re right,” said St Jude. “Take you for example, St Andrew. We don’t all go around in kilts and eat haggis every, er….”

“November 30th,” said St Andrew icily.

“..yes, November 30th. So why is St Patrick so special?”

At this point the story paused for one minute for the Angelus. If they don’t observe it in Heaven, then where else would they?

As the final bong died away, St Stephen said “after all, he didn’t do anything great. All he did was chase snakes out of Ireland.” This was a sore point among St Stephen and the other martyrs, most of whom had qualified for sainthood after unfortunate incidents involving stoning, or lions (and in the case of St Barnabas the Unwise, patron saint of Really Bad Ideas, after he had tried to stone a lion). 

“Hear hear,” said St George, “He never slew a dragon like I did.”

There was an affectionate silence after this. All the saints knew there was no such thing as a dragon (and indeed, no such word as “slew”), but St George was one of the very oldest of the saints, and much loved by them all. He had, in fact, shooed a cat away from some chicks with a broom, but over the years the tale had grown taller, the cat more dragon-like, and the broom more swordly. If he closed his eyes now, he could still feel the dragon’s fiery breath.

He opened his eyes. The fiery breath belonged to St Patrick, who was standing behind him. He wore a clump of shamrock so thick that he looked like a green bear, he had an angel with a tricolour painted on her cheek hanging on his arm, and as he stood there he burped the first line of “The Fields of Athenry” in one long, drawn-out, cheese-and-onion-flavoured belch.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye all,” he said.

“Oh shut up with that diddley-aye crap,” said St Anthony, “you’re not even Irish. You were born in Wales.”

St Patrick shrugged. “Qualified under the having-an-Irish-Granny rule,” he said. “It works really well for the Irish soccer team”.

“But why bother?” said St Anthony. “Why pretend to be Irish when you’re not?”

St Patrick looked down at the angel, who was gazing adoringly up at him, looked back at the other saints, and winked.

“Because everyone loves the Irish,” he said.

Happy St Patrick’s Day to you all.

Don’t Rain On My Parade

Last year Mrs Tin walked in the Greystones St Patrick’s Day Parade, with the new Educate Together School.

For the three years before that Tingirl and I were in it with Tingirl’s baseball club.

So yesterday was to be the first time in five years that no member of the Tinfamily was in a Parade.

And it would have been, if I hadn’t had to drive Tinson2 to Wicklow town, and decided to save time by driving through Newtownmountkennedy (sorry, LK, that’s the longest name we’ve got).

I didn’t know that Newtown has its own Parade. I do now. For anyone who was watching it, Tinson2 and I were the ones driving in the opposite direction to all the other entrants.

In the car with steam coming out of its radiator.

I wonder if we won anything – Best Entry Depicting the State of the Economy, perhaps.

Top O’ The Mornin’ To Ye


“Good Morning, Mr President”.

“Good Morning, Jeeves” (yes, for the purposes of this story, Barack Obama has a butler. Didn’t you ever see Benson?).

“I notice you’re not wearing the tie I left out for you, Sir”.

“Well, yes, I was going to ask you about that, Jeeves. Was that a joke?”

“I don’t follow, Sir.”

“Well, it was green, Jeeves. And not just any green – it was a lurid, virulent, cat-sick green. If I wear that it’s gonna look like I blew my nose with the front of my shirt.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but your visitor this morning will expect it.”

“My visitor?”

“It’s a Mr Brian Cowen, Sir. Here is a picture of him.”


“Succinctly put, Sir. He is the Prime Minister of Ireland.”

“Ireland? Isn’t that the teeny little country out on the corner of Yerp? How come they get access to the US President?”

“Because today is St Patrick’s Day, Sir. And because Everyone Loves The Irish.”

“Says who?”

“Says nobody, Sir. It’s just an established fact – the sky is blue, Lost is confusing, everyone loves the Irish.”

“I see. Well, what’s he doing here?”

“He’s going to present you with a Traditional Bowl of Shamrock, Sir.”

shamrock“Shamrock? What’s that?”

“It’s weed, Sir.”


“Not that type of weed, Sir. It’s just, well, weed.”

“I see. Is this some sort of ceremonial insult? Did we do something wrong to the Irish sometime, and as reparation we agreed to let them come each year and hurl weeds at our President?”

irish-dirt1“He doesn’t hurl it, Sir. He presents it in a Waterford Crystal Bowl.”

“I see. And what do I do with this?”

“Well, after he’s left we destroy the weed, as is done with all food and floral gifts. You may do as you wish with the bowl.”

“Such as?”

“Well, Mr Bush used to microwave popcorn in one. Mr Clinton kept his cigars in one. Mr Reagan kept his glass eyes in one.”

“Glass eyes? Plural? Are you saying Reagan was blind?”

“No, Sir, I’m saying he collected glass eyes. In your own case, I notice that you have recently acquired a dog. I’m sure he has to eat out of something.”

“Fine. Anyway, what’s he going to talk about?”

“Well, he’s sent an agenda. Apparently, he’s going to mention the special relationship between our two countries – they all say that, if you remember, even the President of Iran said it last month, just before he threw his shoes at you. And then he’s going to refer to the fact that you’re both “awfully men” – there seems to be a word left out there, he must mean “awfully busy” or “awfully important”…

“Awfully handsome, perhaps.”

“Very droll, Sir. Finally, he’s going to speak to you about The Undocumented.”

“Who are they?”

“They are Irish people who came here without work visas, and who live and work here outside the system.”

Illegal Alien (damn you, Google Images)

Illegal Alien (damn you, Google Images)

“Oh, you mean Illegal Aliens?”

“You’re thinking of the Cubans and the Mexicans, Sir. They are Illegal Aliens, the Irish are the Undocumented.”

“Why are they different?”

“Did I mention that Everyone Loves The Irish, Sir?”

“I see. And what do the Irish call, um, undocumented outsiders in Ireland?”

“They call them Benefit-spongers and Wasters, Sir, and the Government generally deports them, children and all.”

“Really? Isn’t that called hypocrisy?”

“Apparently not, Sir. Apparently it’s called the Gift of the Gab”.

“Wow. Fetch me that green tie, Jeeves, and then send this Mr Cowen in. I’ve a feeling I could learn a lot from these guys.”




And he did meet him, green tie and all……


Subtly Irish

I’ve just dug this T-Shirt out of my wardrobe, because I’ll be wearing it tomorrow:


If it’s cold, as it was last year, then I’ll wear it on top of a hoodie, as I did last year. I don’t want to risk anyone not seeing it.

Looking at the picture I realise the T-shirt badly needs to be ironed (and that’s Ok, because if you want stuff badly ironed, then I’m your man). This is because it has been sitting at the bottom of a pile of clothes for twelve months now.

Because I only ever wear this shirt on St Patricks Day.

Otherwise I’d look like an eejit.