From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay and from Waterford to Dublin Town the bells were ringing on Sunday March 19. Yes, Quay to rhyme with Bay rather than, say, the key of, G. And Waterford in place of, say, Galway.
For it was in the Church of Ireland (sic) Cathedral of Christ Church in the city of Waterford, oops, Veroafjoror (for the city on the Suir is a Scandinavian city , to be sure, to be sure) that the resident Dean Maria Jannson herself rang out the ‘Bells of Joy’ in a message of fellowship and welcome to immigrants and refugees.
There is a revered tradition of this sorta ring-a-ding-dong thingy in Veroafjoror for it was also in the city by the bonny Suirside in 2015 that a bust was unveiled to a fuzzy-wuzzy buster, name of Field Marshal Frederick ‘Bobs’ Roberts, VC, KG, KP, GCB, OM, GCSI, KStJ, BO, VD, PC.
Not only was he an immigrant to the Suir-side city at the early age of let-me-see, having been borned in Cawnpore, India where his pater was in the Regimented Raj, but he was also the oldest soldier to fade away in the Great Donkey Derby 14-18. Having reached the ripe (very) old age of 82 on the wine-red battlefield of Somme-odawn.
In between, after seemingly taking such a shine to his experience as a young immigrant in Veroafjoror, he grew up to go away and become not just a good, but also a great, undulterated adult immigrant himself.
This he achieved by becoming the market leader in tidings of outstanding hidings administered during the Indian Rebellion, the Ethiopian Expedition (codename: ‘Abyssinia Soon’), the Second Anglo-Afghan Dogs of War Show before rising eventually to become an overseer and undertaker in chief of Internment and Interment during the oh so boring (yawn, stretch, trouser cough) Boer War.
The illustrious attendance at this solemn, inclusive and nuanced unveiling of the bust of ‘Bobs’ included The Big Potato of the British Legion in the Free Southern Stateen, erm, Major General The O’Morchoe.
(Many of the places where the grating yet great presence of Immigrant Bobs was felt are virtually commemorated in stone on the Victualler’s Apron-draped walls of that Ecclesiastical Edifice of Ecumenism, the Church of Ireland (sic) Cathredral in Dublin named after a Papist, St. Patrick).
To the arched eyebrows of the uninformed commonality, the distinguished guest invited to deliver the homily at the Joy-Bell ringing was (gasp) Mary the Second sheself.
In order to fully tease out the reasons why La McAleese (for it is also she !) was so chosen, perhaps it is opportune to call upon one of the Free Southern Stateen’s foremost political philosophers, that acute observer of the contemporary scene, Foghorn Leghorn, Esquire.
For, not only is he a philosopher, but Ole Foggy is also a Southern Freud Psychologist. And as he belongs to the Contrarian School of Contemporary Thought it should come as little surprise to learn he has been devoting much time of late to concentrating his massive brain to the Peculiar Rivarly between the Two Marys.
Come in, Foggy:
-Yo, y’all. Lizzen up, while I tell y’all, what I consider to be at the bottom, I say, bottom of the War of Attrition between the Two Marys. Or what I sometimes call the ongoing Battle, I say, the ongoing Battle between Gushy and Pushy.
When I first set my eyes, I say, my eyes on the sweet colleen and she coming down the Chicken Run green, I say, the Chcken Run green, I said to myself: there is only one way for this Star of the County Down to go and that way, I say, that way is U.P.
She looked to me from my very own dunghill, I say, dunghill, so sweet from her two bare feet feet to the sheen, I say, sheen, of her nut-brown/ peroxide blonde/ spiky hair-style.
Such a coaxing elf, I say, coaxing elf, sure I shook myself, for to see I was really there. And in no time at all, she became the gem of Ireland’s crown, I say, Uachtarán na hÉireann.
As my old C.E.O, Colonel Sanders, I say, Colonel Sanders, pretty much observed: y’all wait for an e-ternity for one doggone Mary to come along, when the next thing y’all know, shucks , two Mary’s come along, pretty much one after the other.
Ketchup Mary , I say, Ketchup Mary is what the old silver-tongued Colonel called the Second Mary. Coz she had a whole heap of Popery-bashing to catch up with. First there was the cour-a-geous, I say, cour-a-geous decision of Mary the First to go and do what not even the Queen of England, I say, Queen Elizardbeth of England had dared to do: enter the durned Vatican itself – bare-headed !
Shucks, I say, shucks, that really put it up to the Mary the Second in the KTP, I say, KTP stakes, according to KFC himself. Of course, when Mary the First, aka Robinson (née Bourke), went a-visiting to an A-rab country, I say, A-rab country, while she didn’t actually get to wear a burka, I say, a burka she did get to wear a hijab, on account of the heebiejeebies, I say, heebeejeebies she musta been a-suffering from.
If I knew that Mary the Second were to be at the harvest fair, I say, the harvest fair, as sure as my name is Old Foggy Leghorn, I’d dress up in my Sunday feathers, my shoes shone bright, and my hat, I say, my H-A-T cocked for a smile from the upwardly mobile Star of the County Down.
Still, she has a mighty lot, I say, a mighty lot of ketching up to do if she hopes to get the same kinda finger-licking high-fives , I say, finger-licking high-fives that Mary the First is already in the process of a-receiving from the downhome folks south of the Black Sow’s Dyke, just up aways , I say, just up aways, from our Chicken Run here.
Still, there’s a lot of other Church of Ireland (sic), I say, Church of Ireland (sic) Catherdral pulpilts to homilize from, including two cheek by jowly ones, I say cheek by jowly ones in the fair and fairly grotty city of nuanced, inclusive Dublin.
No pipe I’ll smoke, no horse I’ll yoke till my coxcomb, I say, my coxcomb is a rust-cooloured brown and till this Zero-sum game, I say this Zero-sum game between Gushy and Pushy is at an end’
It goes without saying, I say, it goes without saying that The Perkin is diametrically opposed to the bog-standard musings of the philosophical (alleged) Foghorn Leghorm, Esquire.
Could the late Martin have been any worse?