The joy emanating from the mouths of the Main Scream Media south of the Black Sow’s Dyke at the success of the Provisional Sin É Party in Nornverland has been so unconfined that it has put the emphasis well and truly back on the front foot of the Free Southern Stateen:
-Land of the Free and Home of the Craven !
Whew ! Dubln is free for the forseeable future (at least) from any more clamous calls for a border poll from the amorous-deficient, personality-disordered Shinner Beasties: the subtext of which, of course, is:
-Céad míle fáilte instead to border line Poles from Lublin !
So far, the Provisional Sin É Party has been playing a blinder. Caubeens off then to the unknown spin doctor whose first dodge was to lodge a real sidewinder of a new brandname designed specificially to nettle the cawbogues of nationalism: the subtext of which, of course, is:
-Yah-boo ! Look who have planted their London derrieres on the green benches of Westminster, there to fight the good fight for the Fenians and Planters alike, back home in God-fearing Norneverland !
One can only speculate just who this unknown spin-doctor is: harass that which he is still pleased to call his (gulp) mind though he may, The Perkin is yet at a loss to know the identity of same. Who truly merits the nom de groom of:
-Eoghainín na n-Aontachtóirí.
For those cankarawns (for they, alas, are always with us ) who doubt that this latest C for A scheme between Provisional Sin É Party and the Tory/ Tóraí (Highwayperson) Party is untenalble all they have to do is to glance as the comings and goings in Downing Street on Tuesday.
Where there was nothng at all , erm, unTENable about the freestyle smiles which illuminated the dials of Taoiseach and Tánaiste – ( the Leprechaun terms for Lioness and Lion) even as they posed for a cameraderie of camerapersons on D Street.
Who’d have thought Arle and Nige could look such a jolly pair (under the meaning of the Act)?
They looked in fact like they were about to burst into song, an impish impulse which is trending in the PSÉ Party at the moment, going forward: The Party which loves to Party !
Indeed, that is precisely what they burst into after doing a spot of horse and hairy-ass trading with the householder of Number 10. While Mrs. Flattie Shoes sheself may well have exited through the front door, looking for all the world like Arl and Nigel were the pair of insoles she had long been looking for – call them Insole Mates – her visitors made their exit through the back door – to be technical about it, they Rearexited. Away from the Prying Eyes of the Anti-Social Media.
But this is a rear guard manoeuvre which the new Souper Stars will have to accommodate themselves to: (think ‘Elvis has left the Building’). While an old hand Souper Star ( née Kelly) will adopt to the procedure as if to the manner born, ditto applies to Nige if for a different reason.
The Perkin’s inner Member of the 1922 Committee man is happy to reveal what songs Arl and Nige were singing: the understandably camera-shy Nige could be heard to merrily sing – ‘slip out tbe back, Jack’ – the relevant line from ‘Fifty Ways to leave your Lens Cover’.
There was but one aria for The Diva of Derrygonnelly-Derryglin aka The Faust Minister of Fermanagh. What might that be?
-Gounod yourselves what it is. (See far below).
Incidentally, there has been some confusion (understanable) in the Free Southern Stateen about the identity of the Corgi-like character who is always seen to scamper a few respectul steps behind the rapid, robotic strides of the strident PM (at time of writing).
Yes, the same one: the one who bears an (almost) uncanny resemblance to (gulp) Emmet Stagg, former Irish Labour Party (sic) stalwart. But, of course, the man in q. is actually Mrs. May’s husband: Corge. Seeimingly, it’s a Mainland thingy. Not that the cankarawns (see above) of the FSS are one bit deterred from snidely referring to the Tory Party as:
-The Stagg Party.
While still on the topic of Parties and Party Animls, the recent results from the Mainland GE remind one, once again, that the essential difference between the Labour Party of the UK and the Irish Labour Party (sic) is that the latter, unlike the former, is invariably led these days by a staunch British Imperialist.
Jeremy Corbyn is in no danger therefore of ever being confused with the emotional Emoji in Dublin, the grim leader of, sadly, the ever diminishing Irish Labour Party (sic). The Emoji whose tiny grim visage is much given to howling at the moon but, in fairness, going forward, in beeeee-oooot-eee-fulllll-eee crafted sentences of the German Q’s English.
The Unionist Times, continuing with its angstly, three-hankie report of the GE Election in Norneveland where the mouring mountains are sweeping down to the C-word :
“Before the evening is out, we’re likely to a situation where there isn’t one Irish nationalist speaking for Irish nationalism in the House of Commons, and I think that’s a very sad day,” said the SDLP leader and Foyle MLA, Colum Eastwood.
“This is a tradition that was begun by Daniel O’Connell, and I think we all have to reflect on what that means,” said Mr Eastwood.
Eh, nationalist ?
Since when did this (gasp) nationalist stuff suddenly become up-to-snuff in The Unionist Times where the Tory is the only party which is hunky-dory?
TUT, the tut-tutting organ of record, whose most celebrated organist of record is, of course, (gulp) Fintan O Toole. The same towering inferno of intellect who, while always writing Nationalist with a captial if pedantic N, will invariably insist on pronouncing it as Gnationalist in Radioland, off which he never is.
-Daniel O’Connell ?
Might that be the same, erm, ever peace-loving, non-sectarian DOC who did meet, to wit, by prior appointment with a dude name of D’Esterre, Protestant, at a pre-electric picnic on the plains of Kildare on February 1, 1815 (climate change in the intervening years explains the date) to practise their version of ‘Fulsome Prison Blues’ as the duo of plink-ponkers known as:
-Duelling Banjos.
Sadly, to this very day, The Perkin’s inner pacifist can never pass the statue of Dan the Man on Sackville Street without warbling against his wishes:
-I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.
So, pray, where does C. Eastwood, who would appear to fancy himself in the role of (gasp) The Gliberator ( ‘is that a grain of salt in the young non-shaver’s black beard’ ?) plan to go for a spot of reflection ?
Perhaps the answer lies in the title of his no-bottle Party, SDLP, which is, is not, text for:
-Saddle Up and Go, for God’s sake, go. And go to the smaller and nearer Tory Island, there, perchance to make a remake of, say:
-The Outlaw Josie, oops, Prince of Wales. Or, A Fistful of Eurodollars. Or, even, The Good, the Bad and the Smugly.
To bottom off where one topped up with: Alrene Foster (née Kelly).
Policital innocents and other blaggards south of the Black Sow’s Dyke are puzzled as to why the leader of the Provisional Sin é Party did not herself stand in the recent GE in Norneverland. Such as Isaac did back in the frock-coated day, when he ran under the slogan:
-Putting your best Butt forward.
The bottom line about the Mother of Parliaments, of course, is the bottom line. Although one may stand for election to the the M o P one is not guaranteed, if elected, to get a seat. For while there are 650 MPs there are but (gasp) 427 seats upon which (gulp) bums may be parked.
For not only is Westminster the Mother of Parliaments but she has the distincion, perhaps even dubious, of being the Step-mother of that phenomenon not unknown in contemporary commerical culture,, as Double Booking.
One was reminded of this phenom last Sunday ever as one gazed and gazed in awe at the undulating dorsal aspect of Dame Foster even as she, with handbag on arm, devoutly made her way up the avenue to her local parish church. One was compelled to even close one’s eyes even as Sunday Morning was coming down, for fear of sinning in one’s heart with the aid of one’s conspiring eyes.
Even then, images came to the mind’s eye: of handsome transoms in general worth paying, perhaps, a Queen’s ransom for, right down to one particular transom, indeed, the one of the good ship SS Clyde Valley which, prior to engaging in a spot of arms running (handbags at forty paces !) at Larne in April 1914 had first rendez-voused with a Norwegian coaster whose name, sadly, has been allowed to lapse from the public memory, the (gulp) SS Fanny.
Which brings one nicely to the hinted-at aria which the Faust Miniser of Fermanagh was giving her full contralto welly to even as she Rearexited from Downing Street.
It was, sans doute, an aria from the pen of Charles Gounod:
– Que ferons-nous avec le ragoût de citrouille ?
Which is as rhetorical a question as one is every liable to hear, as noted linguist M. Gregory Bouche-Tordue will aver:
-What will we do with the pumpkin stew?
Which also neatly wraps up the latest meaning of the acronym:
-The C for A Scheme.
The C stands (rather than sits ), ar ndóigh, for Confidence and Supply (CAS), thus giving us:
-The CAS for ASS Scheme.
Simple as / Sin é.
Comments are closed.