POTUS and FOTUS are more than just a rhyming couplet.
Take POTUS, for starters. The Donald, indubitably, was aptly named with the correct baptismal water: incessant criticism rolls off him like the exact same kind of water (identical formula: H2O) which rolls off the proverbial back of the legendary duck.
So also with the Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop (aka FOTUS – for it is still he ! Fintan O Toole Uber Shoneen).
Time was when he used to get simulteously angsty and stiff at the very whiff of a hint of a nod of Anglophobia in the air of Éireland. Now, however, that Fine-minded Fintan has finally eradicated that hatecrime – a cleansing which is henceforth to be celebrated every week going f. in West Britain on Waistcoat Wednesday !- he has trained his gimlet gaze in an easterly direction. The better to batter the beast with two backs which the Re-Mainland has become. Where the dregs are led by the Daddy Long Legs of Languid Privilege who is now the de facto gaffer of Brexit. One is referring, gan dabht, to the reacto Jacob Rees Mogg.
–Britain has gone to great trouble to humiliate itself.
What really riles the faffer FOTUS is, of course, Nationalism, of whateverr stripe or tripe-type: whether it be Gaelic, Gallic or Phallic itself. Hence the Lapdog’s insistence on pronouncing it with an affronted, upfront G.
-Gnationalism ! Grrrrrrrrrrr.
Simultaneouly, the Lapdog has impishly expunged Imperialism from his vast vocabularly.
Depend upon it, FOTUS now harbours an animated animus every bit as visceral for the Rees Mogg Oak Monolith as he ever did for the Bog Oak Monolith. Which latter, at last, he has fine-mindedly put to bed, for all time. No never, no more futile Erse-licking on the beady watch of FOTUS !
This liberates him to direct his attention full time at the Brexiteers thar tír amach soir. Indeed so narky has the highest IQ of the Hiberno-English highbrow hierarchy become at the political malarkey on the Mainland that the following appalling vista is not at all unimaginable, so ballista has he become, sista:
The floating flotilla of FOTUS steaming up the Thames with the gung-ho Cap’n Bow Wow on the bow of the flag ship, Inis Ealga (which is a retro, self-referencing tranny of ‘Helga’: geddit?). Which, ar ndóigh, at one time even morphed into Muirchú (Sea Dog).
Tá meas madra aige ar Mhuirchú
Abair: Sea Dog agus Lapdog abú !
Potus is Fotus,
Brú Gunboatus
An é sin an Túr PO i Londain inniu?
In fact he’d be also keeping, ooh-are, ooh-are, a diddly eye out for Jacob’s Biscuit Factor in foggy old London Town in the hope of bringing off a post-modern retro demolition job of the risible Rising in boggy old Dublin Town. If his manic barking on the button-down clown may be liberally translated thus:
Jacob’s Crackers ! Jacob’s Crackers ! Jacob’s Crackers !
–Britain has gone to great trouble to humiliate itself.
This obsessive naval-gazing in an Oriental direction has, inevitably, led the Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop to ignore those interminable instances below his wet nose of the all-pervasive (gulp) Gaelphobia in the Free Southern Stateen. To the point that he, the eternally narky fido known as FOTUS signally fails to bark, be it by light or in the dark, never mind a y-fronted yap or yelp itself from The Toole. On the Holmes front, it might even be remarked, Fido opts not for high-doh but rather for low-doh.
(See legendary duck/ proverbial back thereof / H20, far above).
It is a moot point whether this decision to remain mute, this absense of ullulation on the part of FOTUS, the focus of adulation of the Foxrock Fannies and the Ailesbury Road Ronnies who prefer to farm out the dull task of (gasp) ‘thinking for themselves’ to the Fine-minded one of The Unionist Times, is either of the two d’s. They would be: deliberate or due to a Bono-monogramed fog doubling down on the monoglot lapdog. Nach bhfuil meas madra aige siúd ar an dtafann dúchasach ach an oiread
–West Britain , bejabers, is only after going to great trouble entirely to humiliate itself ?
The question mark is attached to starkly indicate – the first item on the agenda of the infinitie is a split – that this is a headline which the Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop has consistently and spectacularly failed to bark. Instead of campaigning for a new National Tantrum (‘Greensleeveens’, anyone ?– Fat Harry was/is the decomposing composer) perhaps he might have been better minded to do a cock-eyed Hughie Green impresh and – one means this most sincerely, folks – knock Gaelphobia for six in the Twenty Six whenever the opportunity presents itself. Like, uh, umpteen times per day..
But, where to start? / Ach, cá dtosófar?
Let the curtain rise on, lemme see, fellow lemmings, ah yis: on Liffeyeside at the Theatrical Centrepiece of the Centenary Celebrations of the (risible) Rising in the year of The Good Lord Brookeborough, 19 hundred and 16 (Fat Pat speak) ! The disasterpiece, no less, of a son of the Fort of the Foreigner, Frank McGuinnezzzzzzzz, was especially regurgiated, oops, repeated, oops, revived for the special occasion that was in it..
-Observe the Sons of Ulster on Somme Enchanted Evening. (But known in the trade as: The Loyalist Legion of the Rearguard Lollygag).
Wee wonder therefore, there was a yell-out crowd every night in this sell-out production of sell-outs at the Abbey Theatre / Amharclann Náisiúnta na hÉireann (!). Not least when one considers the following hunchback passage from a magi-comedy replete with Blood Orange humour of the darkest hue and hee-haw, when the Pride of Portavogie is heard to crack wise to the Pride of Cullybackey :
–They’re leading Pearse out to be shot. He’s supposed to see the widowed ma in the crowd. He looks at her and says, pray for me, mother. The ma looks back at him, looks at the Tommy who’s guarding Pearse, the old one grabs the Tommy’s rifle. She shoots Pearse herself. She turns to the Tommy and she says: ‘That’ll learn him, the cheeky pup. Going about robbing post offices. Honest to God, I’m affronted’. So you see, Fenians can’t fight. Not unless they’re in a post office or a bakery or a woman’s clothes shop. Disgrace to their sex, the whole bastarding lot of them, I say’.
Naturally, no other front or back passage itself from this play on (s)words quite scales the same Carauntoole heights as this superb dramatic slice of the higher knee-slapping slapstick on tap. To say it had the yell-out crowd of Southern Yunes like Foxrock Fanny and Ailesbury Road Ronnie rolling and lollygagging in the smiley-faced Anglophile aisles of Amhararclann Náisiúnta na hÉireann doesn’t quite cover it.
Neither, indeed, does :
–West Britain , bejabers, is only after going to great trouble entirely to humiliate itself .
Bearing in one’s grizzly mind that the author is the Pride of Buncrana and that the Pride of Londonderry is namechecked in this quartermaster piece of the drumatic art, a piece which got writ back in the day on the King Billyside of Lough Swilly. The day when the Factory Girlz and Boyz were still busily spinning the texture of this textual yarn with its polyester prose, perhaps the following refined headline might be more apropos:
–West Britain, bejapers, is only after going to great trouble entirely to Fruit of the Loomiliate itself.
Hark ! For the bark of a Muzzled Lapdog who doubles as a Crossword Puzzle Champion: two across: a four letter word begining with b and which rhymes with tóin. Hark! but hark in vain.
The restraint is silence.
Not a whimper nor a yelp or a yap itself nor even a sound of the rough stuff of which a gruff woof is made. No canine bay to be heard from the direction of Dublin Bay, then. Almost as if there’s a canny sign on the Lapdog’s kennel door: Gone Phishing. Could it be that FOTUS has some (gulp) theatrical Skin in the game here? Skin Féin, you might say.
Surely not, Shirley ! Níor chuala mé a leithed de sheafóid dhochreidte le fada an oíche.
Still and all: can it be that the Bow Wow is Kow Towing to cute Know How?
It is, aprés tout, a cat and dog world: d’ainneoin a cheapfadh madra peata na Mórthíre, briseann an scliúchas trí shúile an chait. I gcónaí, de shíor, gan eisceacht, lán stad. And there is just no getting around that fat fact of l. as the corpulent fan from Crumlin bemoaned last Saturday night when confronted with the touchy-feely turnstiles at Healy Park, Omagh, I ask ya.
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT / TO BE CONTINUED
Comments are closed.