"We are pleased to announce that all categories of crime are down for the year 1999," the Garda spokesman declared, his voice trembling with pride. "Our crime figures are even better even than those in the Galapagos Islands, where some finches have recently taken to petty larceny. Ours is a stunning blow for law and order against professional crime in this country."
The press conference scribbled busily. "There was no shoplifting last year. No assaults on tourists. No pickpockets, no car-theft, no murders, and only one affray, and that was outside 35, Acacia Avenue, Blackrock, Co Dublin. Now. Any questions?"
"The crime wave outside 35, Acacia Avenue, Blackrock, Co Dublin - has anyone been charged in connection with it?["]
Preliminary investigation
"We've deployed all our resources on this serious matter and I can confirm that a preliminary investigation does suggest that there was indeed a late-night public dispute in which words were exchanged. I'm afraid the gravity if this affair prevents me elaborating any further. I'm sure you'll understand the delicacy of my position."
A long silence followed, broken by the snoring of the representative of An Irishman's Diary. A neighbouring elbow was savagely inserted into his ribs and he woke with a beginning, or, as some would say, a start. "Ah, welcome back to the gentleman from The Irish Times. I trust we are not interrupting your siesta with this ill-timed news conference?" said the spokesman pleasantly. "We were discussing the complete and utter absence of crime last year."
The representative of this column cleared his throat, leered at a comely young weather forecaster nearby whom TV3 was grooming to be Crime Correspondent - largely by issuing her with new TV3 Crime Correspondent's nail varnish. He belched twice, and croaked: "In that case, what happened to my bike, the one that was nicked outside the Legless & Babbling Hostelry for Distressed Gentlefolk, Amiens Street, while I was imbibing the tiniest tincture in order to restore the old tissues to working order?"
The Garda spokesman smiled. "Perhaps sir was a little too under the weather to remember where sir had parked his bike. Any other questions?"
"When I reported it to Store Street, the station sergeant declared that it was the third bike removed from those railings in the past day."
"Quite the crime-wave," replied the Garda spokesman, smirking.
Ranting and roaring
"And then there was this ranting and roaring, and three gardai brought in two young gentlemen in handcuffs and the five of them looked as they'd been been pulled from a train crash. The station sergeant said they couldn't put the lads in the holding cells because they were full. So a Garda van was sent for to take them to Fitzgibbon Street, and as the gardai were putting them in, the prisoners already inside it mutinied, and they all escaped. After setting fire to Store Street Garda station, and briefly garrotting the Chief Supintendent, they blew up Busaras with high explosive which they'd taken during the raid on the Curragh - the one they'd initially got arrested for. Then they hijacked the DART, machine-gunning a line of waiting Japanese tourists as they left."
The silence which followed was long. The Garda spokesman cleared his throat. "Is that all?"
"Not quite. The prisoners in the holding cells below then broke free, and stormed the Custom House Docks Development where they . . . they . . .they . . . No, it is too, too terrible." He uttered a manly sob.
"There, there," murmured the TV3 Future Crime Correspondent soothingly, her nail varnish flashing meteorologically. "My poor lickul diawist. Be bwave and TV3 Future Cwime Cowwespondent will give you a big kissums."
An Irishman's Diary repressed a lustful grunt. "Thank you, me dear. You have made an ageing hack very happy indeed. I was about to say that they kidnapped Dermot Desmond's moustache and held it to ransom, threatening to shoot a hair every hour unless their demands were met."
There was a loud cry of shocked disbelief from the assembled press. The TV3 Crime Correspondent moaned in horror and swooningly slid to the floor. "Be with you in a minute, me dear," cried An Irishman's Diary gallantly. "But first, the small matter of the destruction of the entire Dockside Development and the lynching to death of 25 dot com. millionaires later that night."
Sniffed disdainfully
The Garda spokesman sniffed disdainfully. "When precisely was this incident?" he asked.
"It was the day before the starving IFA rebels from Leitrim seized Dail Eireann and ate a deputy."
"Alive?"
"Boiled. April 24th."
"April? April?" cried the press officer jovially. "Now how would I know that? The PULSE Computer wasn't working in April, so we've got no record of any incidents at that time at all, at all. But we have got records of an affray outside 35, Acacia Avenue Blackrock, which we are determined to crack, believe me."
"When was this affair?" asked a voice from the back of the room.
The press officer checked his notes. "During the brief period when PULSE was working last year. A few minutes before midnight on Christmas Day."