It will come as no surprise I’m sure, when I announce here today that I have the definitive itinerary regarding the trip of Donald Trump to Ireland.
Yerra, seeing as how I’m in the media, the likes of me would always have the connections to have a detailed account of the President’s movements.
Before he sneezes, I would know about it.
Anyhow, we will start with his arrival next Wednesday.
For starters, he won’t be flying to Shannon.
That’s fake news. It’s only a smoke screen to put the skids under Leo Varadkar.
By the time Leo and his cronies cop on that the famous meeting will not be happening in the opulent surroundings of Shannon, old Trumpy will have touched down on a Ryanair flight to Farranfore.
He will be greeted in the Kerry heartland by myself, the Healy-Raes, and a few other local dignitaries, before we head a little closer to home, stopping at The Mills in Ballyvourney for a bite of grub. Trump loves his steak.
He is not a man for fanfare, he’s unassuming, and retiring, if truth be told.
Next, it’s off to the farm, where I will have an old cow lined up for Trump to milk.
Trump has a strong connection to the land, and the plough in particular.
The secret service informed me that he would like to “draw a few sups from a cow’s pap,” in order to satisfy the folks back home checking his country credentials. And I have no problem with that, “So long,” says I “as he avoids going near her hind quarter on the right-hand side.” I don’t care if he is the greatest man in the world, or the greatest blaggard, she will lash out if he goes near that quarter.
It’s the udder warts, only someone who knows what they are doing can handle the thing.
“Could you not get another cow?” the CIA head honcho asked me, only yesterday.
“Could you not get another President!” I retorted.
I’m telling you, that wasn’t long shutting him up.
On Wednesday night, Trump will stay at a secret location between Béal na mBláth and Kilmurry village (it’s a secret, for fear of the Taliban).
On Thursday morning, President Trump will accompany me to Kanturk Mart, where he plans to see how we make our money in this part of the world.
But he won’t see a damn thing, for the mart in Kanturk is held on a Tuesday.
And in spite of me telling all the president’s men that the mart will be as empty as the president’s head, they are insisting on “striking to Kanturk” as they put it over the phone yesterday evening.
Now maybe there is a dairy cow sale, or some other special sale pencilled in for next week, I don’t know.
But right now, my feeling is that Trump will be staring at an empty ring.
“Tuesday is your day for Kanturk,” says I, but you may as well be talking to Trump’s wall down there on the Mexican border, for all the good it did.
And on Friday morning, it’s back to Farranfore, where he will take a Ryanair flight back to Stansted, and then a coach trip onto Paddington Station.
I presume once at Paddington he will be greeted by the Queen or perhaps Theresa May, if she can stop crying.
Either way, his trip here will be at an end.
And I guarantee this, if nothing else, when he’s gone, fellows all over the country will do nothing but wonder what all the fuss was about.