Taoiseach and Tánaiste Announce Pregnancy

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The event attracted a densely packed crowd of well-wishers. In the historic setting of Dublin Castle, colourful flags were waved and the people cheered. The Taoiseach, Enda Kenny, and the Tánaiste, Joan Burton, came to announce that they were, in fact, pregnant. The happy couple gleefully held hands and shared their news with the voters of Ireland. At the outset of their relationship the naysayers said that the two were unlikely political bedfellows, but they have proved that they are, indeed, well capable of being bedfellows after all.

Already several months into her maternal phase, Tánaiste Burton said that the child could be due in September, pending parliamentary approval. One enthusiastic Dubliner in the crowd shouted, 'Wha' are yiz goin' t'call de baby?'

'Well, that is also a question to be put before Dáil Éireann and to be voted in according to due procedure. Myself and the Taoiseach,' she gave Enda a squishy-faced smile at this point, 'along with our cabinet colleagues have been discussing this and it is firmly on the agenda for next Tuesday's cabinet meeting ahead of HSE reform.'

Faintly from the back of the Castle Yard, an interjection could be heard:

'Ah, ah, ah, just, ah, answer the question Joan Burton.'

A side-lined Vincent Brown was, dejectedly, trying to not only ask the questions but also rebuke any possible answers given, and rightly so, god bless him.

'However...' tried the Tánaiste.

'Ah, now, c'mon Joan Burton!'

'However, Vincent, if you let me finish...'

'Ah, Jesus,' signed Vincent as he further loosened his tie. From across the Castle Yard, Deputy MacDonald gave a solemn nod of encouragement, accompanied by a narrowing of the eyes--the international sign of malevolent consent.

'Vincent!' shouted Ms. Burton.

'Darling,' warned the Tee-shock, 'Easy, easy, think of the baby'.

She took too breaths and calmly returned to the matter at hand.

'However,' she continued shooting a harsh glare towards Vincent, who was now upside-down in a reclining chair and somehow consuming a smoothie, 'the working title for this infant project is Theresa Áine and I'm touched to see so many people with bright badges showing their support on the streets of Dublin and across the country today.'

Another cheer went up as the crowd held up their badges and waved their banners-- T. Á.

Later in the day, a joint statement was released from the Taoiseach and Tánaiste, clearing up a few details. The name Theresa was chosen in honour of that small, wrinkled aul wan that we all loved in the '90s for some reason. Informed sources also suggest that the Taoiseach chose it to assist (trick) Irish Catholics in their acceptance of the new project. Áine, slightly less interestingly, was picked as it was the name of Jim Larkin's second cousin on his mother's side, or something like that anyway. Bloody Labour.

The statement also announced that a storage room, in the hallway of Ms. Burton's office in Kildare Street, was to be cleared to create a shared living space for Mr. Kenny, Ms. Burton and TÁ (pending an upcoming Dáil vote).

The day was not without its shadows. Away from the jubilant scenes of Dame Street, Dublin Two, political storms were forming. Leaders of the main political parties staked their claims for recognition for the success of the baby.

'I think because we said TÁ all the way along, that we should have rights to the child,' said the Sinn Féin leader, Gurry. 'Reconciliation, island of Ireland, people of Louth, teddy bear, fathers' rights, pisshhed off at thishh agreem'nt....' I paraphrase here, but I think that's the gist of what he was on about.

Mr. Martin, leader of the Fiddley Foolies, was adamant that his part in the conception of the child should be recognised. 'It's desperate unfair that they get all the credit,' he said. 'I demand that we get mileage out of this despite the fact that all we did was reluctantly rework an odd poster or two and put them up in constituencies that were rather likely to like TÁ anyway. I would like to see a day where TÁ could happily play in the front benches of the opposition, on Willie O'Dea's knee, or at least until the next election anyway.' However, Ms. A. Power, now ex-Marty Party Seanadóir, dispelled the idea that Mr. Martin could have had any input into the conception of the baby, primarily based on the thesis that he's shite.

There are some in the Dublin political circles that are suspicious of the Kenny-Burton match. There has been hushed talk of some seeking a paternity test for TÁ. Fingers wag and noses twitch at the mention of Mr. Gilmore. Former Tánaiste and minister for whatever-de-fuck, Eamo was ever so slightly awkwardly welcomed into the celebratory party in the Castle while some of his aides swapped concerned glances. They are aware that Mr. Gilmore and Ms. Burton spent much time together...on this issue in the recent past, and some claim that Eamo is to thank for its conception. Mr. Gilmore declined to make comment when asked, only saying that it was a great day for Ireland and that the ice-cream provided by the Taoiseach's office for the occasion was 'top drawer stuff'.

Already the comparison is being drawn between Joan & Enda and the Duke&Duchess of Cambridge, William and Catherine, and as the couple left Dublin Castle, the crowds waved goodbye to their new Irish 'Royal Couple'.

*

In contrast to the nearly universe acclaim for the Irish TÁ, some sectors of Irish life (Irish life, not Irish Life PLC, Lwr. Abbey St., Dublin One, God love them) are a wee bit upset by the development. Two aul wans of Dublin stood outside St. Mary's Roman Catholic Pro-Cathedral on Marlborough Street. They did so accidentally as they were on the way to Guiney's to pick up a couple of tea towels for the weekend, as the grand-niece and the daughter and the three childer were coming round for the dinner.

'Wha kindeh wurild are we livin' in at tall?' contemplated one of the aul wans.

'Sure when I was a chung one, sure the politics was all about hatin' each udder furr watchurr granda did ages ago. Ye wouldn't be knowin' wha' t'be doin' deese days,' the other batty aul wan added, nonsensically. They plodded on regardless, minds turning to more pressing matters, like whether a four-pack of tea towels would be even enough for the tasks at hand. As they turned the corner into North Earl Street they were loudly babbling on about Hector Grey's and the tragedy that had befallen them when it closed.

Representatives of the many conservative interest groups in Ireland have already been talking shite about the type of Ireland into which the political baby will be born.

'My uterus is a dry as one of them Ryvita bread sticks, but even if I could drop out another baby I wouldn't--I wouldn't bring another yoke into this world, not the way things are going,' said some ignorant eejit on the Gerry Ryan Show, re-commissioned temporarily for the period of Joan Burton's pregnancy.

The Irish Society for Needless Catholic Over-reactions (ISNCO) has laid out its concerns in a short statement: 'The fact that this unborn child, who should have equal rights--housing, access to the Sacraments, visa applications--as anyone that has chosen in life to exit the womb, the fact that the child has parents who sit in comfortable chairs in high offices of government should induce the Irish people to think about the type of world they want for the child. What's really at stake here is who in society is allowed to touch mickeys.'

The Catholic Archbishop of Montgomery Street has said that the Church should review these concerns with patience and love in their hearts but has asserted that, for some reason , he should not be involved in the events surrounding the birth of the child. 'I'm not touching the little bollix,' said His Grace.

'Mickeys,' declared yer man who walks up and down Grafton Street with a string of unconnected words written on armour-like signage worn about his body. 'It doesn't matter if the child is a boy or a girl, it'll be taught that touching mickeys is the way to get ahead in modern Ireland. Killing babies too.'

Supporters of Ms. Burton have tried to calm these fears. 'This pregnancy has absolutely nothing to do with mickeys. Well, I mean, it does have something to do with a mickey, but it has nothing to do with the misunderstanding of the liberal agenda's opening up of the world to many people touching mickeys. No unintended consequences will occur and it'll ALL be grand,' said one spokeswoman for the unborn TÁ. 'However,' she continued, 'as a member of the unborn community in Ireland, TÁ has been working closely with an interdepartmental committee which will be placing a bill before the Dáil, asserting the right of the unborn to sacrifice itself in life, if the mother doesn't really fancy having a baby. I mean it's all very reasonable really.'

It is developments such as these that have sparked recent protests in Dublin and across the country. Last week's Mothers and Babies and No Fathers Required Alliance protest at the Rotunda Hospital, Parnell Square, Dublin One, proved its largest on record, attended by twelve individuals. Bernie, the group's nominal leader, spoke directly about their worries for the babies, unborn and born that came through the rotating doors at the Bastard Drop-Zone at the Rotunda.

'We believe that conception begins in the home. You can't talk about giving birth without talking about babies, that's where the heart is. Legislative safeguards must be put in place to protect the babies' futures. The Irish people want it. I mean, suicidal babies? Or 'foetuses' as the Government want us to believe. It's not that we want to restrict the right of the unborn, we want to ensure that they are given full access to their Constitutional rights. Juh swiss Charlie.'

Clearly emboldened by their own vision, the protest remained peaceful and those involved disbanded about tea time, silently travelling home and farting loudly to emit their absurd self-righteousness.

Taking & Supping the Soup

'GET THE CARROT,' boomed the master of the workhouse.

-DONG-

'BRING FORTH THE CARROT.'

-DONG-

'IN THE NAME OF QUEEN VICTORIA.'

-DONG-

'FOR THE GLORY AND HONOUR OF ALMIGHTY GOD'

-DONG-

A group of visibly well-fed, robe-wearing members of the state church, the 'Church of One Ireland under One God, King and Providence,' processed through the dining hall of the work-house and into the kitchen. They accompanied a small box, heavily gilded with gold, frankincense and myrrh, somehow.

It was time to prepare the food for the starving, dying, disease-ridden, damned, savage, good-for-nothing, two-faced, Romish, decaying Irish peasants who had been pouring in through the doors of the work-houses, since their precious crop, the potato, le pomme de terre, or de spud as they commonly referred to it, had failed two seasons ago. They venerated their sole foodstuff as they would venerate the 'Blessed Sacrament' in their heathenish practice. Of course, for them it was equally as uncomfortable to pray before anything as they had to do it in a bush, an area of hedgerow, or somewhere that usually involved having a variety of wild shrubbery in their overly active nether-regions.

The members of the state church had been running this work-house all summer for the glory of God and in the hope of saving the souls of the Irish through the medium of hearty proselytising assisted by the presence of wholesome food for the body.

Several clergy members dropped to their knees in preparation for the next part of the ceremony.

'BRING FORTH THE SPATULA OF THE LORD.'

As the tool of the Lord was brought into the kitchen by the spatula-bearer, the box was opened in front of the range where the healing meals for the bloody Papists were prepared. A large pot of water over a small open flame awaited, the pinnacle of the lavish procession.

'WITH THIS PINCH OF SALT, WE REMEMBER THE SACRIFICE OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST FOR THE REFORMED. WITH THIS PINCH OF SALT, WE SALINATE THE SUPERSTITIONS OF THE IRISH WITH THE HOPE OF FINALLY BRINGING THEM TO GOD, WHO, THROUGH HIS ULTIMATE WISDOM, MAY EVEN NOW REJECT THEM FOR THEIR OBSTINATE REJECTION OF THE TRUE CHURCH FOR ALL THE TIME WE HAVE BEEN HERE.'

'Amen,' replied the congregation quietly, now in their dozens.

The salt was added to the large vat of heating water and was accompanied by a sung response. The spatula-bearer took up his place in front of the box. Using the tool of the Lord, he careful lifted what once was a carrot and held it aloft.

'WITH THIS CARROT, WE PRAISE THE WORKS OF LORD IN THE DEEP AND ALOFT IN THIS WORLD.'

'Amen,' came the hallowed response from those gathered.

'WITH THIS CARROT, WITH WHICH OUR PRESENT ORGANISAION WAS FOUNDED TWO SCORE YEARS AGO, WE FEED THE HUNGRY TO DRIVE OUT THE PAPISM OF THE IRISH AND PERFORM THE WILL OF GOD.

'Amen.'

The spatula held the Carrot of the Lord. It was the sole ingredient, apart from the soul-saving salt, to be added to the cauldron of the Church. The carrot had been added to the cauldron for every meal, and then removed before serving, since the beginning of the present famine in Ireland. In blatant disregard for any nutritional value, it was believed that it was the Carrot’s spiritual nourishment that was truly for the benefit of those present. At this stage, the Carrot was not much of a carrot. It was a soft, multi-coloured (mostly a dark grey-blue) smush that was moulded back into the basic shape of its former self once it had been retrieved from the boiling water that was to be served to the hungry stomachs waiting in the dining hall.

After the slow, stately lowering of the Carrot into the vat, most of the congregation went back about their regular duties and jobs. The spatula-bearer remained with a core group of clergy for the Removal of the Carrot once the water had reached boiling-point. For this ceremony, an Auxiliary Tool of the Lord was often needed to graciously scoop out the remnants of the Carrot for its return to the box. This was also accompanied by sung responses and psalms.

The serving then began. Small bowls were half-filled and brought out to the almost dead Irish peasants. For the previous forty minutes, they had been treated to a reading from the Gospel of John and a sermon based on the First Letter of Gee to the Phallopians. The Irish looked about at each other, puzzled, but respectfully listened to the clerically-clad man, as they tried to hear his words over the growling of their stomachs and the wails of their children.

At long length the small bowls were placed before the Irish. They were told to wait until all the bowls were served and a prayer was said.

'WITH THIS SOUP WE SEEK TO WASH THE CLAPTRAP OF ROME FROM THE BOWELS OF THESE ASSEMBLED IRISH. WITH THE WORD AND BROTH OF THE LORD WE AIM TO DRIVE THIS LAND FORWARD TO PRODUCTIVITY AND REAL UNION WITH GOD, HER MAJESTY AND THE EMPIRE.'

'Amen,' said the staff and clergy'.

'Amen,' then fumbled the Irish, as they assumed they were to respond.

*

A third of the way down the table, Gearóid turned to his father.

'Da, what's this?'

'It's soup, son. We listen to a bit of Proddy shite to get a sup o' soup for the dinner.'

'Da, I think I got hot water instead of soup.'

'Ah no, now c'mon and eat up.'

'Sure, there's nothing to be eaten except that fleck of blue on top.'

'Wha'? You got a fleck of blue?! Ah, be the name o' Jaysis, sure there's eatin' 'n' drinkin' in your soup.' The Lord must have a plan for you. Maybe you won't die after all, ho ho.

'Da, what's Proddy?'

'It's the divil himself son, but if ye pull the right chain, you get a sup o' tepid water, a bit of blue shite and a stool to sit on for half an hour a day. Now, shut the fuck up.'

*

By the following month, in order to survive, most of the people in that room had said that they were, at one time or another, members of the state church, Presbyterians, Quakers, Keynesian Economists, Methodists, Vegetarians, Train-enthusiasts, and Progressive Democrats.

Imagine being a tenant farmer in 1840s Ireland—it'd be shite. The Irish prayed for a saviour, a liberator, a power figure that would rise from nothing and champion their cause in a non-violent, rational fashion. These prayers were answered and the Irish were delivered from the depths of depravity and systematic repression by such a man. To this day, the Irish still praise the name of William Ewart Gladstone. They may, erroneously, put the emphasis on the second syllable of this grand old man's name, but God love them, they mean well in their reverence of their political hero.

On 24 April every year, the Irish have a quaint tradition to honour their favourite Prime Minister; they take to the hillocks of their island to fly kites in honour of Gladstone. The kites are often in the shapes of blight-corrupted potatoes or the bones of dead children to recall their misery and suffering. When asked why they still do it one Irishman replied, 'sure dat's de way we like it, j'kno'?' to the absolute befuddlement of this writer. What’s the point in having a history full of wretchedness, severe melancholia and repression if, in the generations that follow, one can’t contentedly, almost gleefully, wallow in it like an otter in a basin of yesterday’s breakfast milk?