Dublin Airport, June, 2012:
The toilet door in the VIP Lounge opens and the Irish delegation walks out. Head executioner, EDna Kenny, takes a last glance in the mirror, smacks his lips and smooths his coat down. After him comes President Michael D. Higgins, high heels clicking on the marble floor. “Nice red tie suits your complexion, and helps to hide that big erection.” “Cut it, Michael! And your poetry stinks.” Bring up the rear is Dr James ReILLy, sweating under the weight of the luggage. “Is the patient loaded, doctor?” asked EDna. “Oh yes, Boss, we strapped her in last night and have kept the engines running over night, so everything is ready for you. We don’t want to keep Europe waiting.” “Right let’s get out of here before anyone else tries to stop us.”
They are met at Brussels International by the Troika’s representative, Istvan Szekely, whose soft bespectacled face hid a plutonium frozen heart. “You are running late so let’s hurry up. We don’t want to keep your Bosses waiting!” He tried to calm the nervous tension, “Nice tie, Sir and great for hiding that big electio” “I told him already,” interjected Higgins. “Can we move on, please,” shouted EDna, totally regretting the floral pattern now. They arrived at the palace, where there were a few official arrangements to be filled, before they were escorted into the operation room. It was a sparsely furnished room, with a large table, flanked by gold and velvet ‘presidential’ chairs in the centre. Soldiers from Belgium’s Escorte Royale stood behind each chair and lined the walls of the room. A door on the far side of the room opened and the Troika marched in. Nicolas Sarkozy and Mario Monti stepped aside, to let Angela Merkel take central position. As the Irish bowed in submission, President Higgins added a nice ‘click’ by striking his red heels together. President Sarkozy replied with a resounding ‘click’ from his own platform shoes. The men swapped a friendly glance before taking their seats at the table. Cathleen Ní Houlihan remained on her stretcher, being too weak to stand. Dr ReILLy fussed over her before addressing the table, “She’s very weak. There is nothing I can do for her, as I have told Enda often enough,” he protested his innocence. “Shut up, Quack,” said EDna, giving the doctor a withering look. He looked withered. “This is not my Plan,” said Merkel. “We must follow the Plan. She must sit. It is written!” Soldiers moved Cathleen Ní Houlihan off the stretcher and placed her onto the appointed chair. Unfortunately, she could not maintain an upright position without support. She looked tired and drawn, but maintained a dignified face. “We have no time for this,” shouted Sarkozy. “Strap her onto the chair. We have wasted enough time on the Old Bag.”
The large SOPA belt, that EDna had brought as part of his offering was produced and used to bind Cathleen Ní Houlihan in place. “More trouble than the bloody Greeks,” mumbled Merkel. A soldier leaned forward. “The Spanish and Portuguese delegations have arrived. We are holding them at reception.” “Right, let us speed on. Keep to the Plan, please.” The Fiscal Treaty was placed in front of EDna. “Oh, I must scan this,” said Higgins, stretching his little arm in the direction of the papers. “SIT!” ordered Angela Merkel, all softness gone. “We need only Kenny’s mark.” EDna paused momentarily, until he noticed the shiny gold-plated pen being held before him. The Troika rose expectantly, looking from Kenny, to Cathleen Ní Houlihan and back to EDna. Sarkozy raised himself onto his tippy toes, for a better look. Mario sipped a little spit from the corner of his mouth and his eyes widened. Merkel took control as Kenny rose to attention. “Bloody Hell,” he cursed, moving his hand to cover his crutch. “It always happens when I am around her,” he said to no one in particular. He looked at Merkel and raised the pen. Cathleen Ní Houlihan painfully glanced up at EDna. Only then did she really understand that there would be no hope; no last-minute reprieve. She looked down. “You will sign, HERE, HERE and HERE.” Kenny signed as indicated and Cathleen slumped forward in her chair. Only the SOPA belt stopped her from tipping over onto the floor. The Deeds to Ireland (Republic) were quickly gathered up, the Troika shook hands with each other and, without acknowledging the Irish delegation, left to met the Spaniards. Kenny sat back down; as James ReILLy checked that no vital sign still existed in Cathleen Ní Houlihan. There were none. He crossed himself, as EDna pushed him and Higgins towards the door. “They could have giving me the bloody pen,” was all he said. I cried!
“And the Revolution,” you ask? “Ha! Sure that was stuffed into Room 101! Have a nice pension.”