Minister for Education Mary Hanafin walked into Bertie Ahern's office. "Good morning, Taoiseach," she offered civilly.
"Good mornin," he replied in a similarly equable manner. The broad grin of welcome that followed suggested that he had not noticed a slight stiffening about her shoulders at his words.
"Forgive me, Taoiseach, but I failed to detect an apostrophe there. I cannot fault you for employing the vernacular when you speak - after all, you do pride yourself on being a man of the people, and Drumcondra people at that - but the least I can expect is some sort of silent grammatical sign that you have elided the final 'g' of the velar."
The Taoiseach suddenly had a slightly hunted look, his eyes shifting this way and that before he replied. "Wha?"
The Minister looked over her spectacles in the fashion of a governess who could have put down the storming of the Bastille with a single focused stare. "You did it again. No apostrophe to indicate the missing voiceless alveolar plosive consonant at the conclusion of the interrogative pronoun. Tut tut, Taoiseach, tut tut."
The Taoiseach ran his fingers through his hair, his face as fretful as that of a plump Christian looking into the tonsils of a peckish lion. "I'm sorry, I-ah didn't catch most of tha," he said plaintively.
"Well, I must say, that's a considerable improvement. Well done on that very distinct apostrophe between first person singular pronoun and the abbreviated first person verb, but I'm afraid you didn't supply one to indicate the missing voiceless alveolar plosive consonant at the end of the final pronoun."
The Taoiseach looked as miserable as a little boy who has just had a little accident in his trousers. He cast his eyes around him. "I should of stayed at home today, instead of tryin to run da goverment."
Mary Hanafin stamped her foot. "Taoiseach! How many times! Go and stand in the corner, THIS INSTANT!"
"Yes miss," he whimpered, casting wistful eyes at his headmistress, like a little Christian koala bear making his broadcasting debut on al-Qaeda television. He rose from his desk and shuffled over to the corner.
There was a brief knock on the door, and Senator Martin Mansergh came gliding in. "Begorrah, and the top of the mornin' to you, Taoiseach," he purred.
"There!" cried Mary approvingly. "You see what I mean, Taoiseach? Martin's first tongue is Oxbridge English, to which he has added some idioms which he imagines to be Hiberno-English, and overlaid them with an accent which could certainly be mistaken for Irish, if listened to during a rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, aided by the massed pipes and drums of the Army Number One Band. But did you note the apostrophe in mornin', so perfectly pitched, to denote the elided final 'g' of the velar? Well done, Martin! Have a sweet!"
"Thank you, teacher. Taoiseach, if I could have your attention for a while?"
"I'm afraid Bertie's not allowed to talk to anyone today, not until he has learned to get his spelling and grammar right. Isn't that right, Bertie?"
A small, stifled sob came from the corner. "Yes Miss. Ah, I-ah was only doin me best. I-ah don't even know what a bleedin postroffy is."
There was a sharp crack as Mary Hanafin's hand hit the back of Bertie Ahern's knee, just below his grey flannel shorts. "Yarooo!" he cried.
"Now, not another word from you, young Ahern, or you'll be staying behind tonight, doing lines."
"But Miss. . ." There was another crack, like a circus-master's whip, followed by a hideous taoiseachly shriek.
"Oh, I say, steady on, old girl," interjected Martin Mansergh, reverting to earlier speech patterns. "The poor little blighter's doing his best, don't you know, what?"
"His best isn't good enough. He's leader of the Goverment. He'll get no sympaty from me." She paused, whitening at the gills, rather like Pope Benedict upon finding the consistory of African cardinals heaving in a vast homosexual orgy in the Sistine chapel. "Martin, write down what I just said in its correct form, would you?"
"Certainly, Miss." He put his tongue between his teeth and wrote: "His best isn't good enough. He's leader of the goverment. He'll get no sympaty from me." Martin Mansergh went the colour of a garrotted slug, and sat down with a bump.
"Its not my fault," sniffed Bertie, rubbing the scarlet backs of both his knees. "I-ah just can't help it."
Mary Hanafin was so distracted she didn't even detect the missing apostrophe. "Why didn't I spell goverment and sympaty properly? Shit! I did it again!"
"You see, its contagious," said Bertie. "I-ah even went to elocution lessons from Sir John Gielgud but I-ah stopped when he started sounding like ah-Ronnie Drew."
The phone rang and the senator answered it. He handed the receiver to the Taoiseach. "Buckingham palace, sir."
"Good mornin, your majesty," Bertie began.
"Howrya," Queen Elizabeth replied.