[ Excerpt from ] PAT'S POP UP PICTURE POST. BALLYGORANTINANRAVIN EDITION. DATE : Not too long ago a while back now. Or so's I think.

' They was right on the case.
Our first spaced men in space,
Settin' out f' the stars up above!
All well off their face! The pride of our race!
Every man jack hand picked from the pub.

There was Turbo-Charged Pat,
There was Retro-Brained Matt;
Zapped Out Mickey, th' Moon, f' Drumclover.
Joining Whiskey McHugh an' th' rest o' the crew,
All Aboard! The Shamrock Rover! '

In keeping with its enhanced status of wealth and respect, The Irish Republic has joined those nations engaged in the exploration of the world's last vast and empty wilderness. No. Not Stormont Castle. Space!! And more particularly, the Moon.

Blasting off from The John Jameson Astronomical Eyeballing Centre situated back of Moony's Late Licence Liquorama, top of Clancey Street, TOUCAN ONE, sponsored by Arthur Guinness, left earth after closing time on Saturday night under the command of Pat ' The Navigator ' Du Lally, former celebrated captain of the only Icebreaker in the Caribbean. A friendly crowd of bookmakers and policemen turned out to witness Ireland's first astronauts in weighted wellies, knitted tank top spacesuits and woolly helmets stagger out to carry the good name of Th' Ol' Place to places never dreamed of by their wretched emigrant forefathers. Mind, first off, their was a bit of a scare when the door comes loose and falls off at launch.

' No sweat, Lovely Boys ' says Sparks Sweeny, acting electrician on account of the last daft shytehawk wiring his cock up to the National Grid. ' I's stick a spot o' Lion Gum on th' thing an' yous'll never tell th' difference ' 
 
Then, would you credit it! The barmy thave Pat goes and mistakes the flight co-ordinates for the odds on the Two O' Clock at Ponchastown and shoots the shuddering jerry built jaloppy wrongways up the back side of Uranus!! Last recorded message from him and his Bhoys :

' Jeeeeze, Yer Honour! Its feckin' black as a miner's arse round here! An' th' dive stinks o' gas! I can't get a screw o' nothin'! Any bastard got a match? '

Followed by a large explosion.

Dexy o Dossa, TD, Ireland's newly appointed Minister for Space Between the Ears-- [ Salary in Funny Money and keep yer gob shut about that flat and two cars I got for gettin' McAlpine's to cobble up the clapped out crate  ] --gave a progress de-briefing to a hushed and packed special Assembly of the Dail.
 
' Uranus!!!! God's Skywalkin' Saints!! I'll land that dumb buck eejit lig on his feckin' anus if he ever shows up here again, an' no coddin'!! Didn't I tell th' pie-eyed Garsun straight. Its the Moon! That's th' shiney thing right above yous feckin' head yous dim plastered bosthoon!! Stay off the rocket juice an' no readin' th' Racin' Post while you is drivin'!! Any probs; give th' ol' bang shoot a couple o' hooves f' the Irish Engineer. That way yous'll be right on course sweet as a swagman's salted balls! No jossin'.

Well. Leastways they should have been heading for the Moon. But it turns out the whole cheapskate kit and keboodle shindy is under the budgetary control of Michael O' Leary, lovable soft spoken and customer conscious crackpot crook from Ryanair. The genial and jovial Lip o' Limerick told a massed gathering of angry and concerned relatives awaiting news of their loved ones and their hand luggage [ though not necessarily in that order ] and questioning his knowlege of planetary geography:

' Th' Moon! THE MOON!!?? ? Says cheery O'Leary. 'What planet yous doe eyed dipsticks on? Course I knows th' feckin' Moon!! Big place. Cold. Feckin' deserted. Feck all but rocks an' reindeer shit. Bit like Canada. Sure no sane self respectin' runt would want t' be seen dead there! An'if yous is thinkin' I'm about payin' good money f' them loopy Lunar Landin' Charges, yous paupers can go piss in yer poxy plimsolls!! Moses on 'is Moonbike!! Yous lookin' f' space travel!!?? Yous got space travel!! One feckin' Moon's just th' like o' any other! I'll dump th' lot o' th' gormless gomsheen gobshyte th' butt end o' Pluto. Bastards can grab a taxi on f' there. WHAT TH' FECK ELSE IS YOUS WANTIN' F' £39.99!!!!


(c) King James' Catholic Army Syndic. Inc. 2006.