Undoubtedly, a highlight of President Trump’s trip to Ireland was the visit of his sons to the village of Doonbeg. And I can take some credit for that. No, I can take full credit, for ’twas all my idea, and that’s no fake news I’m spouting.
I got a phone call on the Wednesday night of Trump’s visit from a fellow at the Ambassador’s residence, a Yank, and he concerned about how the trip was going in Ireland.
He was wondering if I could help out.
“Go on,” says I, “but be quick about it.” For I knew my cattle outside were feeling itchy for road, and that the call would be cut short if they took to the highway.
Yerra, the fencer hasn’t been great with a while, it’s been misfiring like the devil.
Anyhow, back to the Yank. He was wondering, seeing as how I’m a man with my feet firmly on the ground, if there was anything I could suggest in order to make a success of the President’s visit.
“Sure, what’s wrong with it?” I asked. “No one is after getting shot or anything, it’s going fine as far as I can tell.”
“Gee whizz, you’re right there,” says he. “But the President feels he needs to make a connection with the real people of Ireland.
The fact that Leo was fawning over him at Shannon airport wasn’t enough, he wanted a bit more positivity from the hard-working people of Ireland too.”
“Well,” says I, “the best thing Trump can do, to begin with, is stop going around in that helicopter of his. He’ll see no one up in the sky.”
“Yeah,” the yank agreed. “But I’m afraid the President cannot take to the roads, he’s allergic to potholes.”
“Fair enough,” I responded, I knew exactly how he felt. “Well then, would he not go down to the local in Doonbeg for a pint. That always works,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s a negative too, good buddy,” says he. “President Trump doesn’t drink.”
“The man’s allergic to potholes and drink”, I roared down the line. “What on earth is he doing in Ireland?”
I was cross, at this stage, for I felt we were getting nowhere. “Look,” I said, once I had calmed down, “is there anyone in his party who takes a drop?”
“I suppose,” says he, “his sons, Eric, and the other fellow, could take a pint.”
“Well then,” I declared, “transport them both to the village and make a big deal of it. Make sure they call to every pub in the village. Picking one pub over the other, is like choosing one child over the other. It’s a bad practice. Make sure they get behind the bar and pull a few pints also, for the cameras,” I insisted.
“Cameras?” The Yank replied, as ignorant as be dammed.
“My dear man,” I explained “the whole world and his mother will have descended on Doonbeg with cameras. It will be the makings of the trip.
“Now, I must go,” I announced, for my herdeen of cattle were out on the road, the pallet keeping them corralled in the field had finally given way.
The Yank thanked me for the advice and promised to send on a box of Ferrero Rocher. I thanked him back for the sweets, and assured him they would all be eaten.
I then promised, if he did all I suggested, Trump’s visit to Ireland would turn out to be the resounding success that it most surely was.