had so decided when pursued for an answer.’
‘But that’s because they had been beaten into submission on the cultural committee by MOPE, who in the end grabbed three places,’ said Gibson.
‘Not that that’s an excuse for wimping out,’ said the baroness. ‘All right, that’s Lucrezia, the fat and turbulent priest and the other fella, Liam Macwhateveritis.’
‘Speaking of which, Jack,’ said Gibson. ‘Do you know what Liam MacPhrait is in English?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘William Pratt.’
‘What!’
‘Yep. He and Billy have the same name.’
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘I know my assumption has been that they use Irish names to upset people, but I can’t say I blame him. I’d rather be called Liam MacPhrait than Billy Pratt any day of the week. Any more surprises?’
‘Laochraí de Búrca is Lucy Burke. Laochraí is a completely bogus hibernicisation of something unhibernicisable.’
‘Can we get on?’ asked Amiss. ‘We haven’t much time. Eight, with Hamish Wallace from Scotland…’
‘That funny-looking hairy creature who looks like a refugee from the Highland games?’
‘Yes. And I still don’t know who chose him. Any more than I know who chose that garrulous Welshwoman, Wyn Gruffudd, who makes it up to nine.’
‘And don’t ask me anything about the English late substitute either,’ said Gibson. ‘All I know is that instead of three high-level delegates, we’ve got Charles Taylor, who is supposed to be some kind of cultural commentator, goes to the Wexford opera festival and…’ He assumed an exaggeratedly upper-class accent, ‘…absolutely larvvves the Irish.’
‘Ten,’ said Amiss.
‘Where are the Ulster Prods?’ asked the baroness.
‘We’ve Pratt and Hughes.’
‘You know what I mean. I mean proper Prods. Decent unionists who support the state and don’t kill people.’
‘None of them would come except Gardiner Steeples, who is here as an Orangeman and wishes he’d stayed home.’
‘Talk about the dreary steeples of Fermanagh and Tyrone,’ snorted the baroness.
‘Eleven,’ said Amiss.
‘Representatives of Anglo-Irish culture? Southern Prods?’
‘Nope. Pulled out at the last minute pleading a sick headache or something equally convincing,’ said Gibson. ‘They’re terrified of MOPE, so they must have got wind of what was happening.’
‘Still, we’ve got various academics lined up,’ said Amiss. ‘They’ll have opinions.’
‘They’re only coming to perform,’ said Gibson. ‘They’ll all bugger off like Barry and Reilly did this morning and like McGuinness would have done if Jack hadn’t sent him off in a rage last night. The only reason academics haven’t pulled out completely is they don’t want to get in the bad books of Dublin or London.’
‘So they don’t count,’ said Amiss. ‘But then of course we have Kelly-Mae O’Hara, Tomiichi Okinawa, your mate Chandra Kapur and Rollo Pooley.’
‘Eleven participants, four observers and us.’
‘I can tell you the hotel isn’t too pleased,’ said Gibson. ‘It can sleep fifty and as a special concession had agreed to close to outsiders. And even though they’ll be paid a flat rate regardless of how many cancel, they’re going to lose out in bar receipts and so on.’
‘Wouldn’t count on it, from what I saw last night,’ said the baroness. ‘Right. I know where we stand now. Just one last question. Simon, what crime did you commit to be put in charge of this aspect of cultural relations?’
‘I was insufficiently idealistic for the world of Anglo-Irish relations, where you will appreciate that to suggest that reality should intrude is to be recognized as a cynic, a nay-sayer, a person with an anti-peace agenda. Though God knows I can’t imagine why any official with ambition should set out with an anti-peace agenda since the only way promotion is won in our world these days is to chant mindless peacenik mantras in response to every difficult question. Suggest
‘But that’s because they had been beaten into submission on the cultural committee by MOPE, who in the end grabbed three places,’ said Gibson.
‘Not that that’s an excuse for wimping out,’ said the baroness. ‘All right, that’s Lucrezia, the fat and turbulent priest and the other fella, Liam Macwhateveritis.’
‘Speaking of which, Jack,’ said Gibson. ‘Do you know what Liam MacPhrait is in English?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘William Pratt.’
‘What!’
‘Yep. He and Billy have the same name.’
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘I know my assumption has been that they use Irish names to upset people, but I can’t say I blame him. I’d rather be called Liam MacPhrait than Billy Pratt any day of the week. Any more surprises?’
‘Laochraí de Búrca is Lucy Burke. Laochraí is a completely bogus hibernicisation of something unhibernicisable.’
‘Can we get on?’ asked Amiss. ‘We haven’t much time. Eight, with Hamish Wallace from Scotland…’
‘That funny-looking hairy creature who looks like a refugee from the Highland games?’
‘Yes. And I still don’t know who chose him. Any more than I know who chose that garrulous Welshwoman, Wyn Gruffudd, who makes it up to nine.’
‘And don’t ask me anything about the English late substitute either,’ said Gibson. ‘All I know is that instead of three high-level delegates, we’ve got Charles Taylor, who is supposed to be some kind of cultural commentator, goes to the Wexford opera festival and…’ He assumed an exaggeratedly upper-class accent, ‘…absolutely larvvves the Irish.’
‘Ten,’ said Amiss.
‘Where are the Ulster Prods?’ asked the baroness.
‘We’ve Pratt and Hughes.’
‘You know what I mean. I mean proper Prods. Decent unionists who support the state and don’t kill people.’
‘None of them would come except Gardiner Steeples, who is here as an Orangeman and wishes he’d stayed home.’
‘Talk about the dreary steeples of Fermanagh and Tyrone,’ snorted the baroness.
‘Eleven,’ said Amiss.
‘Representatives of Anglo-Irish culture? Southern Prods?’
‘Nope. Pulled out at the last minute pleading a sick headache or something equally convincing,’ said Gibson. ‘They’re terrified of MOPE, so they must have got wind of what was happening.’
‘Still, we’ve got various academics lined up,’ said Amiss. ‘They’ll have opinions.’
‘They’re only coming to perform,’ said Gibson. ‘They’ll all bugger off like Barry and Reilly did this morning and like McGuinness would have done if Jack hadn’t sent him off in a rage last night. The only reason academics haven’t pulled out completely is they don’t want to get in the bad books of Dublin or London.’
‘So they don’t count,’ said Amiss. ‘But then of course we have Kelly-Mae O’Hara, Tomiichi Okinawa, your mate Chandra Kapur and Rollo Pooley.’
‘Eleven participants, four observers and us.’
‘I can tell you the hotel isn’t too pleased,’ said Gibson. ‘It can sleep fifty and as a special concession had agreed to close to outsiders. And even though they’ll be paid a flat rate regardless of how many cancel, they’re going to lose out in bar receipts and so on.’
‘Wouldn’t count on it, from what I saw last night,’ said the baroness. ‘Right. I know where we stand now. Just one last question. Simon, what crime did you commit to be put in charge of this aspect of cultural relations?’
‘I was insufficiently idealistic for the world of Anglo-Irish relations, where you will appreciate that to suggest that reality should intrude is to be recognized as a cynic, a nay-sayer, a person with an anti-peace agenda. Though God knows I can’t imagine why any official with ambition should set out with an anti-peace agenda since the only way promotion is won in our world these days is to chant mindless peacenik mantras in response to every difficult question. Suggest
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