I got the shock of my life, the other morning, when I read the newspaper headline ‘David Cameron lands a job in AI.’ Tossing the paper aside, I let out a roar that my missus picked up on.
She wondered if the sausage I was eating had disagreed with me.
“It’s not the sausage at all!” I yelped. “Only that clown of a David Cameron.”
“David Cameron?” says she, confused as to what he had to do with my fulminations, or indeed, the consumption of my breakfast.
“He’s only gone and gotten a job with the AI!”
“Well,” says she, “I suppose he had to do something.”
“Ha!” I roared, for I could roar little else. “Are you mad, woman!” I exclaimed, as soon as I could exclaim anything. “Cameron,” I said, biting hard into my toast, “has no business messing with a cow’s behind. He’s already after making a right arse of England, and now he’s going dabbing his hands where he has no business!”
“The man’s unfit to clean out a calf house, never mind involve himself with the fertility of a breeding cow. AI me arse! He’ll set this country back a generation.”
“Would you like another rasher?” my good lady wife then asked, trying to calm me down.
“Indeed I would,” says I holding out my plate. “Two of them! I’ll need all my energy now, if I am to survive in an industry that would entertain the likes of him. Can you imagine David Cameron arriving into the yard, wondering if you could kindly direct him to where the cow that needs insemination is stationed.
“My dear woman,” says I, “you wouldn’t know whether to bow or kick him up the rear end.
“I suppose he needs to be earning some wage,” my missis reasoned.
“A wage!” I cried. “Could he not get a job with the council, or even the farm relief? I imagine, given proper training, he could fill a pothole, or eventually milk a smallish herdeen of cows, without making an absolute balls of it. “But AI! I may as well retire to bedlam,” says I, scooping up the last of the scrambled egg.
“Take my word for it,” I declared, pointing my fork in the direction of the window, “there will be a hell of a lot of repeats from here to Castletownbere, if he is stationed in west Cork. The man doesn’t know the first thing abut AI. Cameron,” says I, “will put the kibosh on the AI business. Bringing calving dates to unsustainable levels.
“It makes no sense,” I declared, my cup shaking in my hand with the height of frustration. To cut a long story short, my missus, once she had finished with the frying pan, took up the paper, and being an able reader, was soon able to decipher the full meaning of the article.
“Ah,” says she, getting into the detail of the thing.
“What is it now?” I cried. “Has Theresa May taken up a job with Teagasc as a farm adviser?”
“No,” says she. “And you got the wrong end of the stick entirely, with regards to David Cameron.”
“How?” I cried.
“It not Artificial Insemination, only Artificial Intelligence that he’s getting involved with. And it’s not in West Cork either, only America.
“America!” Well, I had to laugh. “In the company of Trump?” says I. “He will certainly meet his match there.”
So, in the finish all my fretting was for nothing. Cameron won’t be meddling with cows, only computers. Agriculture can breathe a sigh of relief, the danger has passed.