subtle incongrueties of existence

Coffee with Uncle Throg.
"I have found just the girl for you," sez he.
"Oh yeah. Who?"
"Yvette."
"Yvette who?"
"Yvette. Gerry Culligan's daughter."
The Uncle and I have a frank relationship.
"Are you f--king mad?" I wondered reasonably.
"What's wrong with her?" quoth he.
"She's a f--king Rah man's daughter, that's what" quoth me.
"She's the nicest girl you'll ever meet," sez he persuasively.
"Why don't you just set me up with Osama's Bin Laden's f--king daughter? I hear she's a nice girl too." I answered still reasonable.
"This one's a really beautiful girl."
"Ah you Christians think everyone's beautiful. Unfortunately you're looking for different things to me. Souls and such like. Your conception of beauty is up your holes. A f--king Rah man's daughter. I ask you."
"Yvette doesn't care about politics," persisted Uncle Throg.
"Wanna bet she doesn't care during a bout of love making when I call out Mrs Thatcher's name?" I parried.
"She's rich," said the Uncle aiming for the bawls.
"How rich?"
"Culligan owns all those hotels."
"Rah hotels. You can check out any time you want, But you can never leave."
"She's got more money than the Widow Quinn."
I had passed some time with the Widow Quinn about a year ago.
The Uncle's argument was percipient.
The Widow Quinn was rich by Irish standards, possessing ample cash, ample acreage and ample bosoms indeed.
But compared to Culligan she was a pauper.
That is to say she did not possess anything like the limitless buckets of newly laundered IRA mafia cash that Culligan and, presumably to a slightly lesser extent, his daughter, might be expected to harbour from the vast sums they launder through their front operation hotel chain.
I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns.
"I'll wager,"sez I thoughtfully, "Yvette Culligan's got a sounder hold on reality than the Widow Quinn too, even if her father is an IRA psychopath. But where would we be going? I mean, if things work out. What kind of a wedding would it be? Most weddings you've to worry about seating arrangements along the lines of Boy, Girl, Boy, Girl, Boy Girl. At a Rah wedding with all the IRA skang gangs you have to invite, our seating arrangements are going to be: Psycho, Maniac, Assassin, Kinahan, Tinker, Hutch, INLA, Tinker, Kinahan, Rhattigan, Tinker, INLA, Hutch, Kinahan, Psycho, Assassin, Tinker, Kinahan, INLA, Hutch, Rhattigan, INLA, Tinker, Kinahan, Rhattigan, INLA, Psycho, Assassin, Tinker, Hutch and if we've room, a couple of McCarthy Dundons just to spice things up. And you can never seat two from the same IRA cell group together or they'll massacre everybody else. And they'll all want to make maudlin speeches about knowing the bride since before her first drug run (at the age of five). And they'll all want to kill someone to make the night complete. Probably me, I'm not doing it."
The ghost of PG Wodehouse appeared at my shoulder.
"Think of the betrothal scene," he murmured pleadingly.
I paused.
In my mind's eye I could see myself going to old man Culligan and sitting in his hotel office surrounded by Rah paraphenalia. (Dead bodies, piano wire, wodges of cash, amphetamines, old H Block posters etc etc.)
I could see myself as being something like Bertie Wooster asking Sir Watkyn Basset for the hand of his niece Stiffie Byng.
My lines went: "Don't think of it as losing a daughter Mr Culligan. Think of it as gaining an anti abortion pro Brit pro American pro Israeli advocate of all out war with the Rah and its allied mafias."
And Culligan slams his hand down on a paper fastener and says: "Grnngghhhh," while his daughter kisses him delightedly.
Uncle Throg was looking at me expectantly as I played the above scene in my mind.
"Alright then, give me her number" said I at last. "I shall aboard this belle of the Rah and give her at least an option on joining the forces of good. I've never dazzled an IRA waif before. At least not knowingly. At the very least she should make an interesting study."