Paddy Irishman and Paddy Ulster-Scotsman found themselves tied up in a sale. “Refurbished, Good Ford Anglia. Numerous previous owners (engine wrecked!). Obvious TLC required.” In the end, the potential buyers were put off by the language. The current owner just couldn’t sell it.
A cabal of Arlene Foster’s party colleagues simply aren’t interested in giving Gaeilge a Céad MÃle Fáilte. “The wee skitters!” as Rabbie Burns might have said. With Stormont seemingly destined for the official storage unit, the tenets of the Good Friday Agreement will be passed to Dublin and London for safe-keeping.
But it wasn’t supposed to work out this way for The Brits. Being Northern Ireland’s caretaker at arm’s length has worked fine for these past twelve months. Yet to step up the commitment, with Barnier breathing down their necks…
A young Julian Simmons would’ve spewed, “How could ye be bothered with thon?”
Karen Bradley’s gorgeous early enthusiasm will be sorely tested now as the Government aims to give Stormont one last jump start, out of respect. ‘Respect’ is indeed a popular concept in these parts. Some years ago, after romping his way round Craggy Island, Pat Mustard was heard to say, “Theresa, I forgot me feckin’ trousers!” Paddy Englishwoman herself has been taken for a ride once again.
The DUP has proven that they wear the trousers, and the ‘distracting’ May has been left with a red face and her knickers round her ankles. There is ‘No Respect’ for Theresa May, and the curious cuckolding of the PM continues. With the DUP propping it up, the Westminster government, like a dodgy clutch, was always going to find it difficult to remain in a neutral position.
The DUP’s motivation to remain closer to London as the Brexit negotiations continue means they’d be content with Direct Rule. So while the party may well be feline fine (urgh), we all know that pussy cats are prone to rolling over and getting stroked.
Nigel, Gregory and Sammy (the latter recently rewarded with membership of Her Majesty’s Privy Council) have certainly tickled Arlene Foster’s tummy.
No hissy fits allowed. What of the old banger then? The MOT man broke the news, just on Wednesday. Despite the glasses and the red hair, he was clinical: “We have run out of road in respect of this process.” Much later, Gearóid Adams (a-mazed to have escaped, once and for all) strolled down Blacks Road in a dirty pair of gutties, with Ted tucked under his arm. In The Balmoral Hotel, the barman approached.
“What’ll it be, Chief?” “Mo Chara, I’m afraid it looks like…the same again!”
By Jason Conlon