Martin Meehan was introduced as an IRA man on RTÉ radio the other day, and with no dispute. Let us now visit the dreamland of the Mayor of Belfast, Alex Maskey. Paradise has descended on Ireland. The British have gone, Ian Paisley Jnr runs the Patrick Pearse Society in East Belfast, Peter Robinson has changed his name to Peadar Mac Spideog and teaches Irish dancing, and Johnny Adair does lace needlepoint portraits of Padre Pio.
Slumberously, Alex smacks his lips with pleasure. But stay! Here are the Red Hand Commandos marching to the recruiting office of the Irish Army on the Boulevard of the Republic, formerly Royal Avenue. Greeting them there is the Army chief of staff, Field Marshall McGuinness, accompanied by the head of state, President Adams. The RHC brigadier, who changed his name from Whiteside Cromwell Mawhinnie to Taobh Bán Crómtobar Mac Shuibne, is bearing the Tricolour.
Ian Paisley Snr wipes a proud tear from his rheumy eyes.
Seraphic smile
A hand on Alex's shoulder wakes him. The wife. A seraphic smile rests on his kindly pugilist's features and his heart feels warm within him. "Good morning, Mrs Mayor, and how are you this fine day?" Then he glimpses her face. "Mrs Mayor. Is there bad news?"
Mrs Mayor nods. Her hands are to her mouth, her knuckles white. "A calamity," she whispers. Now fully awake, he asks urgently. "What is it, Mrs Mayor? Has there been an earthquake? A train crash?"
Mrs Mayor shakes her head. "Worse," she sobs. "Far worse." She throws a copy of The Irish Times onto the bed. "He's done it again."
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!" howls the Mayor of Belfast. "The bastard. Has he no heart? No feelings? What kind of man is he?"
"A fiend, Mr Mayor, in human form, hoping to expose you to the ridicule and shame that praise from him always causes among republicans. Where are you going?"
"To get a gun and end it all."
At which point the Mayor of Belfast wakes up screaming. The horror of the nightmare has propelled him onto the wardrobe, where he is now perched, clutching his teddy bear in abject terror. It is morning; he and his teddy are alone. From the kitchen, sausages sizzle, coffee wafts.
Thank God: it was all a dream - he hasn't in fact been fulsomely praised, yet again, by that Quisling West Brit Imperialist Toady in An Irishman's Diary.
Grieving plod
Sighing in relief, he lowers teddy down first and is following when his wife enters the bedroom with the grieving plod of a Prussian grenadier accompanying Bismarck's coffin. "What is it, sweetikins?" flutes the Mayor, rather archly, for he is now in good form. "Hast thou a sore toothie-woothy?"
Mrs Mayor shakes her head; her face is ashen. "He's done it again," she says dully, throwing a copy of The Irish Times down on the bed. "He's saying nice things about you in his column today."
"WHAT?" roars Alex Maskey. And then at that very instant wakes from the latest version of his nightmare. His head is still on the pillow, and teddy is beside him. Thank God. Just a dream. But what a dream. Layer upon layer of horrors in which he was being complimented by the MI5-loving Brit-licking lackey in the so-called "Irish" man's diary.
It's over, he thinks, just as a smiling Mrs Mayor bursts into the bedroom, bearing a cup of tea. He chortles with joy. He turns on the radio, and catches the end of "It Says in the Papers": "Finally, yet another item in An Irishman's Diary, praising the Sinn Féin Mayor of Belfast, Alex Maskey. . ."
Alex Maskey rockets from his bed like an ejecting fighter-pilot, hitting the ceiling with a terrible thump, and plummeting back down again, thus finally waking himself up. So now the nightmare is over. Beside him teddy and his wife are recumbent and slumbering. There is no radio for him to turn on. The dream cycle is at an end.
The phone rings. "The Unlord Mayor of Belfast speaking," he announces. "How may I help you?"
"You can help me by explaining why that fifth columnist is complimenting you, yet again, ) in 'An Irishman's Diary' today," rasps the chief of staff.
Colonialist lickspittle
Alex Maskey is instantly and finally woken by his own yells of terror. He lies there, blinking at the ceiling. He looks around him. The bedroom has neither phone nor radio, and Mrs Mayor and his teddy are there beside him. Whether this is reality or dream hardly matters: there is no way that he can possibly hear again that he has been praised by that odious colonialist lickspittle in "An Irishman's Diary". He laughs in relief.
"I don't see what you've got to laugh about," sneers the bear, "considering what that Brit-lackey is saying about you in today's Irish Times. In a single moment, Alex Maskey wakes screaming, and leaps from his bed, his heart blattering as if it were repelling kamikazes.
He stares around him. Yet all is well! Wife and bear sleep soundly. He has just had a nightmare of hideous complexity. But now it's over.
Then the wardrobe opens. Inside is the IRA man, Martin Meehan, distraught, his face a mask of agony. Tremblingly, he is holding open tomorrow's Irish Times and pointing to An Irishman's Diary, which is complimenting him, Martin Meehan, of all people.
Alex's nightmare is now truly over. No more mortifying compliments for him in this column. Tomorrow, poor bloody Martin gets it in the neck.