Non-stop partying, ironically, the kind the Irish do so well: lots of noise, booze, sick. The irony? All the party-goers were Brits. That would include me, of course. And we all had something to celebrate. The Irish were going to start aborting more of their loathsome spawn! More dead Irish infants! Brilliant.
Darkey Kelly and O’Cromwell, as Ollie styles himself, had been by earlier with a breezy, “Well, you one-legged, homosexual drug-monkey, the results are in!”
“You two seem pleased,” says I.
“Like every day’s a potato famine, Mr Duranty,” says Darkey. She explained the referendum vote.
“I thought you Irish liked the little people,” I said.
“Not that little,” Darkey laughed. “Although at 12 weeks, they’re wee enough to fool the tourists. The Irish Tourist Board is thinking of stuffing the tiny ones and hiding them under mushrooms for the tourists from Boston.”
That Irish referendum. Pure genius. Leave it to the Irish — that dim and dwindling race.