In Fermanagh, they’d call it a clatty pracus

Often, in these crazy times on all fronts globally, I devoutly wish that I could deploy my most expressive language by far, to inform you fully of how I’m totally flummoxed and bamboozled, these days in the wake of April Fool’s Day.

The sadly pure truth however prevents that happening because — like many of you readers out there — we have all been divorced from the local Irish dialects that served us colourfully and totally for the last two or three centuries.