OK. I’m off to Dublin to stay the night with Wrinkly Paddy and to see the Australia game tomorrow at Lansdowne Road. Good. This promises to be a long night on the piss, especially as the Duck of Death is back from Norway for the match, and also staying chez Wrinkly Paddy.
It’s going to be so exciting in Dublin. All those skyscrapers and traffic lights. Not to mention the 40-million-euro cycle-path from Bray to Sutton. Well I remember how my poor old father used to get down on his knees every evening to pray to Mithras.
Oh mighty bull-god, please, I pray you, let there be a very long cycle-path above there in Dublin. ‘Twill help us all, so it will.
And so it came to pass. And the People of Ireland were granted a cycle-path in Dublin, making it much easier to get around Galway and Cork and Limerick and Letterkenny. And across the Nation, a cry of gratitude went up:
We thank thee, o mighty Mithras, for spending more money in Dublin, for it benefits the whole fekkin lot of us.
Anyhow, I digress.
Wrinkly Paddy had an accident.
Oh? Did he crash a high-speed rocket-car on Lake Windermere while attempting the world water-speed record?
Well then, did he fall off the Matterhorn, while fighting with a beautiful and seductive but ultimately treacherous Russian double agent?
Did Dick Cheney shoot him?
That wouldn’t be an accident.
Well maybe his moon-orbiting module malfunctioned and he had to make a crash landing on the Sea of Tranquillity?
Also not so. Sorry.
Well, what happened to him, then?
That’s right. He fell, the fucking eejit. It won’t stop him going to the pub, but he might miss the match, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to tell Eddie..