By week six the French Government had agreed to help Ireland's woeful economic predicament by bombing Dublin. Isn't Mr. Sarkozy a marvel? We should have him in charge here! Of course these were no ordinary bombs, they were 'Cheese Eating, Surrender Monkey' Bombs, designed to turn the capital into a city full of Gallic types. Herr Uberrooter called all the staff indoors for fear of a bomb falling on us and turning us into baguette wielding, garlic mouthed individuals with a hunger for cheese which could never be satisfied. (At this point in the blog you may ask: 'Isn't this becoming a bit racist?' and I will do my best taxi driver impersonation by looking back from the front seat and saying, 'I'm no racist but . . .' So just sit back and enjoy your freedom fries, because this week also saw the arrival on site of our special guest star, an All-American Legend, none other than Mr. Mark Twain!! (Play soundtrack: Theme to 'The Muppet Show.')
Restricted as we were to the tea hut, things became a little tense. Herr Uberrooter decided to lighten the mood by having a hat party at the captain's table. Here they all are having a sensational cup of tea beneath their fancy head vestments. It was a joyous occasion with The Chairman even offering the stale rancheros about (left over from HRH's non-visit the previous week.) Jivebunny read horoscopes from the newspaper (very very enjoyable,) and then Broken Nose Barrett did a sublime party piece which involved hurling his full cup of tea at Herr Uberrooter's face and calling him (and I quote) a 'gatemouthed soapdodging sting-bum.' Oh how we laughed! To cap it all he stormed outside where he was hit by a French bomb and returned smoking a packet of gitanes and sneering for no particular reason.
The following day a temporary truce was called after Sinn Fein threatened to explode a Paddy Bomb in the centre of Paris. Sarkozy baulked at the thought of his capital full of redheaded welly wearing bucolic types called Brendan. 'I veeseeted zee Agreecoltore Beelding in UCD wance and I lurnze zee full 'orror of such zings.' He was heard to say.
Here's Corned Beef Ryan, The Incralac Tintoretto Scully and Digger Drivi' Cheese Minin' Derek enjoying the truce outside. Derek wasn't impressed with Corned Beef's abilities when it came to sculpture. 'Corned beef me hole. Give me a tonne of spam and a scrubbin' brush and I'll do a Shergar portrait you won't believe,' he boasted.
Look pals! It's Cathy Moore enjoying her usual lunch of tofu, beansprouts and raw pork belly. Mm, Mmmm. Fine dining was always the order of the day when Ms. Cathy staggered into work, her blonde locks bedecked with wet beer mats. So enamoured was Cathy of matters epicurean, she pioneered the use of marshmallow as a loft insulation, (it had the added benefit of killing any vermin in the roof space through type 2 diabetes.)
That's The Cardinal at the other end of the table watching Herr Uberrooter doing his usual trick with a loofah and a pigeon.
This is a view of the south face of Broken Nose Barrett. Many have tried to climb it but the only ones to succeed were a rugged breed of hair lice. The fallout from the French bomb had effected hims so badly he refused to look anyone in the eye. Instead he spun on his heels while looking upwards, saying 'Laissez moi seul!' There's Herr Uberrooter in the background still smarting from taking the cuppa directly in the mug.
Yes that's right, a hard hat in a bucket! Pencilled while I was sober, inked while I was baloobas.
Friday came and Mark Twain arrived on site looking very well despite his advanced years. Herr Uberrooter lined up the staff and did the introductions.
'This, Mr. Twain,' he said grandly 'Is (in the unlikely event of my demise,) chief bottlewasher Brian Hayden.'
'A delight to meet you Mr. Twain,' said Brian bowing, 'and if I might be so bold, I loved your Moby Dick,'
Herr Uberrooter gave a horrified look but Twain diffused the situation well with one of his killer quotes: 'It is no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.'
'What?' Said Brian.
'And this,' said Alan moving along swiftly, 'Is The Bishop of Nobber. Easily identified by his crozier, his mitre and his frying pan.'
'Why Mr. Bishop,' said Twain smiling, 'clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.'
'I'm sorry President Twain,' said The Bishop, 'I haven't a clue what you're on about. In fact I'm not even sure who you are.'
'And this gentleman here,' said Herr Uberrooter, 'beside the corned beef Huck Finn statue is the redoubtable . . .'
'HIT THE DECK!' Screamed Cathy Moore as an airborne whistle pierced our ears. Little did we know it but Sinn Fein had exploded the Paddy bomb (and France was now overflowing with bad skin and freckles,) so Sarko had decided to launch a retaliatory strike.
Old and infirm Mark Twain didn't stand a chance in the headlong wrestling match to take shelter in our tea hut. He was left outside banging on the door for a good ten minutes before the bombs hit.
Moments later it was all over and we emerged to a street full of crepe stalls and Charles De Gaulle lookalikes. There in the rubble lay Twain, his splintered cigar flattened onto his face. We shook him hard, brushed him off and enquired if he was alright.
'Rheumers of my dayce have been graaatly eggzajjurated,' he replied jumping on a bicycle and cycling east with a garland of onions around his neck.
Coming soon - plot ideas become even more kooky as I progressively give less of a s*** about this madness - We give Ms. Cathy Moore's soda bread recipe a test drive and the RIVETTING final three days of the Meeting House Square Excavations hit a computer terminal near you. DON'T MISS IT!!!