There once was a land far beyond the Purple Ocean, high up on an enchanted mountain where volcanoes fill the air with beautiful songs and angels plait the golden braids of celestial princesses.
This is RTÉland, a mystical world of giants and timeless beauty, a land of song and wisdom and never-ending happiness.
Far below the slopes of the enchanted mountain, beneath the clouds, they speak of a dark land. A land of ignorance. A grim place filled with Small People. A dark, rough wilderness unblessed by the sunshine, the wisdom and the witty cheer of RTÉland.
Now, there came a time when hardship fell upon the Small People.
What is this to us? asked the cheerful, wise folk of RTÉland. Are we not wittier, and prettier, and more tanned than they? Do we not speak with stranger accents? Are we not indeed blessed?
We are, agreed all.
But a quiet, chivalrous fellow spoke up. I will try to help them with my wisdom and my cheerfulness, and my better tan, said Sir George. I will show them how to live properly, as we in RTÉland do.
It is impossible, said the wise, witty and tanned people of RTÉland. The Small People are not of our ways. They are dull and untanned. He will surely fail. But when he does, we will welcome him back and bless him for his good thought.
We will indeed, shouted they all, and so began a great cheese and wine party.
And when the cheese and wine party ended, Sir George girded himself, called his mighty battle-steed and descended the mountain until he came to the dark and forbidding Blueshirtland
Behold, he proclaimed. I am George the Glorious, come from RTÉland to end your misery. I would be your King!
But they gazed upon him with dull eye and shuffling gait.
Who is this stranger? Let him muck out the stables.
Sir George drew his sword. Stables? Stables?? What is this talk of stables? Know ye not who I am? I hail from RTÉland where the lowest one of us is greater than any in this dark land.
The yokels of Blueshirtland grunted and turned from him. We know nothing of this RTÉland. Muck out the stables.
And so it was, with a heavy heart, that Sir George the Glorious urged his mighty steed heavenward until at last he emerged above the clouds.
The wise Princess Olivia greeted him. Welcome back, gallant Knight. You tried your best for the Small People, but they wanted you not.
True, said Glorious George. The Small People deserve whatever befalls them Let us give our thoughts over to tanning and being wonderful here in RTÉland.
Indeed, said Princess Olivia. For ever more let us talk of them but let us never, from this day forth, talk to them.