the finest end of reason is to win spondoolicks

The most cheering sound in the universe has to be my mother's voice in triumphal tones commanding some poor misbegotten telephone scammer to go fornicate with himself.
So began my morning.
Someone had phoned the house to proclaim: "Congratulations Mrs Healy, you've won a cruise."
The Mammy had replied: "F--k off!"
And slammed down the phone.
I struggled out of bed knowing that this would be a good day.
Quick jaunt to the airport to bid farewell to the Rose of the Orient.
We had lunch and she shared all the scandal from the Hopkins poetry festival.
"Why didn't you come to the festival?" she wondered at one point.
"They wouldn't pay me enough," I told her.
"How much did they offer?" sez she.
"Fifty quid," sez I.
"And how much did you want?" sez she.
"Five hundred quid," sez I.
The Rose of the Orient experienced a sudden difficulty maintaining her normally inscrutable expression.
This was strange because I had made no attempt to scrute her.
Perhaps she was struggling with feelings of outrage that anyone would dare to quibble with the mighty Heelers about something so paltry as money.
It was the oddest thing though.
As she headed through the boarding gate, the perfect picture of academic gentility and refinement, I could have sworn I heard her guffaw.
From the airport I drove into Dublin for coffee with film producer Giovanna Rampazzo.
We met in the cafe above Easons on O'Connell Street.
The cafe with armchairs.
I was relaxing in ye olde armchair plush when Giovanna dropped the bombshell.
"I hope Barack wins the American election," quoth she.
It was like a knife in my back.
The noble Heelers recoiled.
(Slumped forward surely? - Ed note.)
"You can't be serious," I groaned.
Giovanna raised an eyebrow.
"Why not?" quoth she. "Everyone likes him."
I nodded bitterly.
"You mean every European pseudo intellectual conformist media scuzzbag likes him," sez I.
"Hey!" said Giovanna.
"You're right," I went on. "They do. In fact the only American politician the Europeans ever liked more was Jimmy bloody useless Carter."
My friend remained insistent in her approval of Obama.
I was equally insistent she should repudiate him.
"You can't like him," I told her reasonably, "I forbid it."
She wasn't buying that for a second.
I tried a new tack.
"I've put a bet on John McCain to win the Presidency," I informed her. "If you support Obama, you'll be hoping I lose."
She looked concerned.
Giovanna is aware that at one stage I had a minor gambling problem.
"Oh don't worry," I said. "You needn't think I'm going off the rails. It's only a small bet."
"How much?" breathed Giovanna.
"Two thousand spoondools," breathed me.
Well bold readers.
Now she knows.
And now you know.
I've declared my interest.
From this point on, you must view my warm hearted insightful analysis of world events as being something less than objective.
Come onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn McCain.
Go snake eyes.
Sorry.
Old gambling addiction habits die hard.
Back at the Chateau de Healy, the nephews and nieces were waiting for me on the lawn.
We kicked football in the light of the setting sun.
Our game lasted until Paddy Pup burst the ball.
Then we sat on the grass and they demanded I tell stories about dinosaurs.
The clamour of the world, the war on terror, the momentous events of nationhood and political destiny now unfolding in America, all seemed far far away.
The ghost of Thomas Hardy came wandering past us through the dusk.
He cast a glance at the children sitting in a ring with the light of evening playing on their enchanted faces.
"This will go onward the same," he said, "though dynasties pass."