There is an odd smell in my hallway. Not unpleasant, you understand, just reminiscent of the rather strong manure. Apparently Aunty Marianne and Scouse Doris, that pair of pipe-smoking lesbians upstairs, have got two giraffes living in their apartment. Now far be it from me to criticise what people do in the privacy of their own homes or what sort of pets they keep. I have a little Scottie myself, who sleeps all day, and then jumps up and licks my face when I come home from work, yapping incessantly. But GIRAFFES! And not one, but TWO! And while we're on a jungle theme, this weekend I am going to renew my acquaintance with Mr Gorilla Bananas, who is on a flying visit to London for the Wimbledon ladies' final (no, he's not a flying gorilla, just a talking one). I'd better take the bananas off my hat, otherwise he'll think I have brought him a packed lunch.
Next week I shall be spending a few days in the bosom of my ancestors, courtesy of Ryanair. This is quite a momentous step, since I am half-Irish on both sides, as witnessed by my luscious auburn curls and the twinkle in my eye,
but have never to this day set foot on Erin's soil. One side of the family may have taken a detour via Scotland for a few generations, but I feel myself to be a true daughter of Hibernia, with the ancient dynasty of Harridan on one side and the noble line of Blarney on the other. I am so excited, I could Riverdance all the way across the Liffey! I am going to meet My People at long last, never having got nearer to the Auld Sod than Kilburn thus far. Bejasus, begorrah, and top o' the morning, I feel like the Homecoming Queen, so I do. After a lifetime of listening fondly to the delightful musical lilt of Terry Wogan, Val Doonican, the Bachelors, Saint Bob of Geldof and countless other charmers of that ilk, I am finally returning in triumph
(or in an Airbus to be truthful) to the beautiful land that my great-grandfathers left so many years ago, crossing the Irish Sea to seek a better life on Albion's shores. From now on, I will of course wear green, drink Guinness and learn to play the spoons. I always felt a certain affinity with Mrs Doyle, Father Ted's housekeeper. If I should spot a priest, I will have to restrain myself from offering him a cup of tea.
but have never to this day set foot on Erin's soil. One side of the family may have taken a detour via Scotland for a few generations, but I feel myself to be a true daughter of Hibernia, with the ancient dynasty of Harridan on one side and the noble line of Blarney on the other. I am so excited, I could Riverdance all the way across the Liffey! I am going to meet My People at long last, never having got nearer to the Auld Sod than Kilburn thus far. Bejasus, begorrah, and top o' the morning, I feel like the Homecoming Queen, so I do. After a lifetime of listening fondly to the delightful musical lilt of Terry Wogan, Val Doonican, the Bachelors, Saint Bob of Geldof and countless other charmers of that ilk, I am finally returning in triumph
(or in an Airbus to be truthful) to the beautiful land that my great-grandfathers left so many years ago, crossing the Irish Sea to seek a better life on Albion's shores. From now on, I will of course wear green, drink Guinness and learn to play the spoons. I always felt a certain affinity with Mrs Doyle, Father Ted's housekeeper. If I should spot a priest, I will have to restrain myself from offering him a cup of tea.
10 comments:
It's a pity you haven't got on friendly terms with Bock the Robber, Conan Drumm and the other bloggers from your ancestral land. Terry Wogan is the biggest act from there, even though he wears a wig. What was that ditty on the radio?
Terry Wogan makes your morning
Terry Wogan makes your day
We'll have you know the giraffes are very sweet-smelling. We think anything you may be smelling could either be from the young family across your corridor, the cooking of the African diplomat nextdoor to you, or possibly Mr and Mrs Soup, combined age 230, on the first floor.
I have given up the pipe and taken to smoking Slim Panatellas, rolled between the thighs of opera singers.
Oups! (For Aunty Marianne, hello madam) If I had known? the commentary that I did risks surprising!! I WILL PASS FOR A BOOR to see worse a clown!!
The island of Ireland!! where the girls are beautiful like one to lay down sun?
Un oranger sur le sol irlandais,
On ne le verra jamais.
Un jour de neige embaumé de lilas,
Jamais on ne le verra.
Qu'est ce que ca peut faire ?
L'île d'Irlande !!là où les filles sont belles comme un coucher de soleil?
Bon voyage!
If you plan on visiting any of your forebears, don't expect them to be out of their jammies before noon.
Gadzooks - are they evil giraffes? The sort that eat all of the leaves off the tree when other giraffes might die?
Top o' the milk to you!
May the jet-stream rise to meet you and your Airbus, Lady Daphne.
Have a lovely time now altogether, wontcha!
Terry Wogan is bogus. I happen to now for a fact that he is in fact funny.
I hope you remembered to take a bunch of Bananas when you visited Mr GB. He does become petulant when one forgets....
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