The other night, coming from the pub, I felt a desperate need to answer the call of nature. It’s the most natural thing in the world, when you think about it.
So I don’t believe I’m causing offence to anyone by announcing it here on the paper.
And if I cause offence, well then ’tis the delicate old flower you are. I needed to go for a slash, there is no point in beating about the bush.
Anyhow, as I was using the only mode of transportation available to us here in rural parts, namely putting one foot in front of the other, ’twas the easy call to answer.
I simply climbed over an old gate, and rambled into my own field, to the old ring fort. From past experience, I have found the ring fort, when used as a privy, is hard to beat.
On a moonlit night with a gentle breeze blowing, and perhaps the soothing sound of water trickling in a nearby brook, it can give a fellow a wonderful feeling of being at one with nature.
There isn’t a working toilet in the Taj Mahal or any other grand part of the world, that can offer a weary traveller such a feeling of relief and comfort, as my old ring fort.
Anyhow, I had only just begun to relieve the pressure when I heard this most awful screaming.
The bushes were alive. And out came this wet little creature. He was one of the little people who live in this fairy fort, and he was livid. He looked at me and screeched all the louder.
“Look at me!” he cried. “Look at the state of me! You have me destroyed.”
“You’re a right mess all right,” I agreed.
“What has you coming to my fort in the middle of the night and doing your business, are you some class of a madman?”
“Indeed I’m not,” I assured the fairy. “My head is well screwed on.”
I told him I was only journeying home from the pub, when I felt the urge to relieve myself in my own field.
“It may be your field,” says the little creature, “but the ring fort is the property of the fairies. How would you like it if a fairy went spraying around your house at one in the morning?”
“I wouldn’t like it, at any time,” I said.
In fairness, he had a point.
So I explained to the little man that it was only because I had walked a long journey from the pub that I needed the pit stop.
“But what about the rural transport scheme, that the drinking man was promised?” he asked.
Well, I had to laugh. “You’re looking at it,” I replied, pointing at my feet.
“Shane Ross,” says I, interrupting the fairy, “is a city slicker who wouldn’t know country life if you stuck a pike up his arse. His efforts in dealing with the transportation of rural boozers have been abysmal.”
“But isn’t the country up in arms about his failings?” the fairy asked.
“Up in arms! Of course not. Sure everyone is only concerned about Brexit.
“Brexit,” I said, “is the greatest smokescreen ever created. The government has avoided all classes of trouble, by bamboozling us with talk of bloody Brexit.
“Brexit is the reason I’m taking to the roads and piddling on you, my little friend,” I explained.
With that, the fairy vanished.
Now that Brexit has angered the little people, there could be hell to pay.