(The scene: Two friends, Bill and Jack, in a pub, settling down to a couple of pints of porter) Kilian Doyle recreates the conversation...
B: "Well, Jack, will you answer me this - do you ever open the Times motoring supplement at all?"
J: "I have been known to on occasion, Bill. That Doyle one is a smug little smartass, isn't he? Got some serious chips on his shoulders, I reckon."
B: "Never a truer word said, never a truer word."
J: "He's got a real bee in his bonnet about that Bono lad, for a start. And I believe he had a pop at God the other day, didn't he?"
B: "For all the good it did him - I heard from his cousin's wife's mate's probation officer that a bit of his car fell off while he was cruising down some dual carriageway in Tipperary a few weekends ago."
J: " Jaysus, the precious 'Bavarian Princess' he's always wittering on about? He must be gutted. Ah well, that'll cure his heretic tendencies. Nothing like a bit of instant retribution from the Man Above to cure the unbelieving, eh?"
B: "Speaking of Men Above, yer man Doyle's been awful quiet about the Minister Martin Cullen and his Leech problems, hasn't he? D'you reckon he's scared of getting sued, or just doesn't care?
J: "Ah no, course he cares. I've noticed he's fierce fond of the easy target, and they don't come much easier than Cullen. I reckon the former, so I do. He'll probably get to it eventually, invent some conceit like an imaginary pub conversation to put the whole thing into the realms of third-parties to any problems."
B: "Yeah, that'd be an obvious way around it, wouldn't it? Lord knows he'd have to be careful, what with libel writs flying around like fivers in the wind at Galway Races. Anyway, what do you think of the whole schamboozle?"
J: "Me? I reckon everyone should leave the poor fella alone, only in the job a few months and everyone and his brother jumping down his throat already.
And him with the hernia that has him in conniptions of pain. Must have had a shocking Christmas, shocking altogether."
B: "The hernia is a terrible affliction all right. But that doesn't change the fact he's in fierce trouble."
J: "Do you reckon? What about all the great work he's done?"
B: "Such as?"
J: "Fair point."
B: "No, I reckon he's for the high jump - if you'll excuse my cruel reference to his distinct lack of stature.
I couldn't profess to have any idea what goes on in our Great Leader's head, but the future isn't too rosy for Cullen when Bertie is admitting to Deputy Rabbitte in the Dail that the whole saga 'will not go away'. Wouldn't you say?"
J: "I'm not sure, I reckon he'll get away with it."
B: " No way man, no way. I'm still predicting Bertie will be employing his own leeches for a bit of ministerial bloodletting."
J: "But look at the figures - the last opinion polls showed the FFers flying. And you know Bertie, if it ain't broke, he won't be fixing it. Anyway, who'd replace Cullen?"
B: "Good question. Transport's a bit of a poisoned chalice - O'Rourke shunted off to the Seanad, Brennan to the glamourless tedium of pension books and rent allowances ...
J: "There's a pattern there all right. "
B: "What about Willie O'Dea? They wouldn't have to splash out on a bigger chair and desk in the minister's office. Might be good PR, saving a few bob.
B: "But what about our defence? Sure we'd be vulnerable to any Tom, Dick or Osama with a pointy stick!"
(The two friends collapse in fits of the giggles as they act out Willie O'Dea fending off the hordes of al-Qaeda with a hedge trimmer and a rolled-up copy of the latest White Paper on Defence - the episode descends into farce.)