If there was any good news this week, it was that an illicit vodka distilling operation was smashed in Co Tyrone after the word "quality" was misspelt on the label. Yes, Sinn Féin-IRA can kill, can torture, can abduct and bury secretly, and can absolutely run rings round the unionists and the British and the Irish governments in negotiations: but the poor dears still can't spell - which is why P. O'Neill, rúnaí, and others, have recently been attending English language classes.
Students were asked to leave their spades at the door and their guns at the ready.
"Let's start with a song," said their teacher. "Seamus O Wail-on, give me a line from a favourite love-ballad, if you please, and then spell it"
The TD opened his throat, and crooned, "Aisle bee seaing yew in awl thee oughld phagmiliar playsays."
The teacher's jaw fell open as he shushed the eminent Shinner statesman with a wave of his hand. "My God," he said, "you even misspell English when you speak it. I love the 'old', by the way. As in 'though', yes?"
"Possyblee. Thew itts knot migh phawlt that thuh langwidge ov the oapressor is sew illodgical. Thanx to thegm bleading Britts, I cann nevur rememnbur whitch spelling goze with whitch wurd." He sobbed, and then cried: "Uh Nayshun Wunce Agenn!"
"Amazing!" cried the teacher. "You do it so seamlessly, so. . ." He paused, and allowed a small smile to come to his lips before he finished, ". . .sew dieutleagh."
The class stared blankly, uncomprehendingly, at him. He searched them with his eyes. Nothing. No-one seemed to understand his "deftly", though he thought it was rather clever. He began to explain. "The final gh is silent, as in thorough or though. The first syllable is deft, as in lieutenant. . ."
He was instantly interrupted by a roar of disapproval. A Sinn Féin-IRA leader festooned with campaign ribbons - crossed spades for secret burials, several little baths to denote interrogations, a dozen kneecaps hanging from little tassels, five hoods, six slices of orange skin representing dead policemen, and a few trombones, for army musicians blown up - rose, snarling.
"Excyoose mee," he barked. "Wee dugh do not pronownse lootenant with an 'eph". Thatt is a marque ov Brittish ymnperalizm. Up thu rupublick!"
Their teacher - a new recruit to the cause, he had not been fully indoctrinated in the rubric of the movement - blanched. "It's not just the British who say 'lieutenant' with an 'f'. Our Army does too."
"Are Armeagh? Are Armeagh? What the phuque dough yough mene, are Armeagh? "Weagh argh thee Armeagh ov thee Rupublick and wee seigh lootenant."
Overwhelmed by all those 'gh' letters, silent but nonetheless sensed at the end of so many words, and aware of his gross military solecism, the teacher's face went from white to grey. Up until recently, he had been a card-carrying member of Fine Gael. His wife was called Jennifer. His children - Simon, Richard, Emily - could all play the piano. Nocturnes and so on. Poor, deprived infants! Why, they had never celebrated a murder in their lives. Oh, would he ever get this patriotic thing right?
"Kweight," he said. Suddenly there was a ripple of approval through the room at the vowel sound, as in 'sleight'. Clearly, Sinn Féin-IRA members were connoisseurs in such matters, and relished an elegant mis-spelling whenever they heard one. Feeling a little easier, he continued: "However, we must get the spelling right, if our businesses are to make money. Repeat after me, and make sure you spell it right as you say it, "Smirnoff Quality Vodka".
"Schmeernoff Kwollity Vodqa," intoned the class.
"No, no, no," he said, perhaps a little more testily than was prudent. "Smirnoff Quality Vodka."
"Shmearnough Cwalliteagh Voldcagh," they repeated solemnly, the room replete with unspoken consonants.
"Jesus Mary and Joseph!" he screamed. "That was even worse. Are you utterly dumb or what?"
"Knot dumm," said another Shinner festooned with medals for every conceivable kind of atrocity. "Thysse is uh gunne. And this is uh spayed. Nough. Whott dough wee mayque in Tirrown?"
"Timearnough Ckwolliteagh Voughldkalgh," he cried, an army of silent consonants and vowels filling the air, with the opening sibilant being stolen from the heart of "position".
"Weal mayq uh a troo rupiblicann of yew yette," declared one hero.
"Erin go brath," murmured the teacher weakly.