There's, like, chanting and roaring - these are all, like, Horseshoe Bor regulars, remember
There are some family traditions that, like, never die? Like Charles O’Carroll-Kelly’s New Year’s Day Political Think Tank, when the old man invites around all of his friends from politics, business and the Law Library, to drink 100-year-old port and discuss, at a very annoying volume, various ways to make Ireland a better place to live for all of its citizens.
Only three times in the past 40 years has Charles O’Carroll-Kelly’s New Year’s Day Political Think Tank failed to happen – twice when he was doing time in Mountjoy for paying bribes to county councillors – and once when Hennessy – his solicitor and literally portner in crime – had to go to South America in a hurry, in search of a country without an extradition agreement with this one.
The, like, highlight of the event – aport from the occasional visit from a billionaire businessman, serving Government minister or high-ranking judge – is the Foxrock 500, an endurance race in which the old man attempts to eat a 200 gram block of mature red cheddar faster than Hennessy can drink a pint of lager with, like, a dessert spoon? Whoever wins – and it was, like,18 wins apiece going into last Tuesday’s race – gets to make the keynote speech that supposedly sets the tone for, like, the 12 months ahead? I suppose it would have to be classed as an extreme sport, given both their medical histories. The old man’s orteries are so furry, you could stick a pair of eyes on them and put them in the next Muppet movie.
And yet I can’t help but cheer him on as he tears off another mouthful of Davidstow Reserve with his teeth and tries to work up enough saliva to persuade it down his Jeff Beck, sweating himself two collar sizes thinner, while at the same time stealing sly looks at Hennessy to see what kind of progress he’s making with the spoon.
There’s, like, chanting and roaring – these are all, like, Horseshoe Bor regulars, remember – with support, you’d have to say, equally divided between the two.
Hennessy is only, like, halfway through his pint, while a good, like, three-quarters of the cheese is gone, although some economist, who I’ve seen once or twice on TV, points out that the old man has “gone with the front-loading option” and, while he appears to be making progress, most of the cheese is still in his Von Trapp, hordening into a big dry ball – like one of those golf ball soaps I buy him every year for Christmas.
The good news is that Hennessy is slower than usual. He injured his wrist playing nine holes in Elm Pork on Stephen Zuzz Day and has had to switch to southpaw, which has placed the old man at a serious advantage.
“Come on, Charles!” the roar goes up.
“Go on, Hennessy!” comes the reply. “You’ve got him on the run!” The old man forces the last piece of cheddar into his mouth. Now, all eyes are on his Adam’s apple – the question being, can he persuade that giant ball of hord sludge down his throat. He, like, coughs and splutters once or twice and a senior counsel friend of his offers him a glass of Seppelt but ends up getting shouted down by fans on both sides.
“It’s just the focking cheese!” they all go. “Nothing to wash it down!” They’re sticklers for the rules, these people – well, today, anyway.
Hennessy suddenly storts to speed up – or maybe it’s just the way the pint glass, like, narrows? – but he’s suddenly getting closer to the end. And that’s when the old man storts working his jaw like a, literally, lunatic, trying to get his spit glands into production to help him break up that hord ball of cheese.
It ends up being nearly a photo finish at the end. The old man swallows the last piece, then opens his mouth to show the room that it’s empty, just as Hennessy is picking up the pint glass to pour the last bit of liquid onto his spoon.
There’s, like, a humungous round of applause, with literally everyone joining in. Then, once he’s got his breath back, the old man launches into his speech. He goes, “Let me begin by extending my commiserations to Mr Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara BCL, who, as ever, fought a good and noble fight – although I must remind him that the score now stands at 19 to 18! And so it falls to me to say something to set the – quote-unquote – tenor for 2013. And, as it happens, I have an announcement of some considerable importance to make. Which is that, in the coming weeks, I intend to re-enter . . . public life!” There are, like, gasps – well, one or two, anyway.
“That’s right,” he goes. “There’s a political vacuum in this country.
“There’s a demand for a new way of doing things. People are tired of the old cynicism and demanding an end to the politics of self-interest. And those people must be stopped!”
There’s, like, a round of applause. “That’s why I’m announcing the arrival of a seventh force in Irish politics – or eighth if you count the Green Party, which I think I’m correct in saying no one here does.
“The danger this country faces is that your Fintans and your bloody what’s-its might get their act together before the next election and actually do something. Which is why, ladies and gentleman – and, I hope, future TDs! – we must head them off at the, inverted commas, pass. Today – bloated though I am with cheese – I am launching a new political party. And I’m calling it . . . New Republic!”
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE
