Winnigan's Fake...

By Brian O'Edna.

...but that wasn't the worst of it, so it was and what with her having been left to fend for herself after himself was off gallivanting with that flighty one with a bob on herself from down the road oh and look at the sight of her, always giving herself airs and graces and for good reason notwithstanding the mole on her mandible the shape of a Maltese cross and the two of them off at the hobnail factory ball and herself left here all alone in a frigid bedroom with nothing for warmth but a half pound block of state-donated Kerrigold and an inflatable Patrick Kielty - fat lot of use that'd be, what with him being all flaccid and gay and all and all the fuss and botheration of scraping the mould off the State sponsored butter before they could even think of getting down to it - no, she'd rather go without so she would and a bollicking good job of it too she'd make thank you very much and still have a lovely green nob to melt onto the morning macaroon and he could go flog himself and anyway who did he think he was with his firm and county, minty, imperious manner and his County Fermanagh mint imperials - always the cock of the roost no less and keen as mustard - still what could you expect from a man who hadn't taken off his bicycle clips since the great radicchio famine of 1842 and only then because he'd searched everywhere else for the half-eaten Jaffa orange he'd won as a side bet on the Sons of Connamarra steeplechase - oh how they'd shrieked for joy when the steeple crossed the finishing line ahead of the chasing pack - why they'd done it that night so they had to the strains of next door's wireless playing 'The old mottled ferret on the banks of Tra-La-Lee' and oh wasn't it terrible about the banks and all and now what with the cheese reserves having all but run out too whenever would she get to taste the greasy snap of rarebit on her tongue again and there she was once more, a wee slip of a thing half a bite of quartered bread away from the lips of the dandy young fancy Dan from the Gilligan's Turmeric Farm and him having one gnarled and orange-spicy mitt on her thigh while the other nursed the uncocked rifle at his side and her all the time wishing he'd just leave it for a moment, resting against the stump and take her in both his strong arms and make her feel as only a lower-limb amputee could - but that was a lifetime away and here she was now with ridiculous thoughts and catechisms running through her head unchecked, like where was Bono with his feed the world when you needed him and could she possibly bring herself to endorse electoral reform, the flagship policy of a party that had so flagrantly betrayed the electorate by facilitating the most draconian round of public sector cuts ever and flying in the face of almost every single one of their own election pledges? - yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes - no.



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