The Fingal Theme Park was opened by the Minister for Finance, Enterprise, Health, Education and Foreign Affairs, Mr Michael Smith, only five years late, and a mere €5 billion over budget. This was partly due to the fact that half of the theme park had by ministerial decree been built in Nenagh, with a Japanese bullet train connecting the two sections.
It was, nonetheless, a triumph of Irish engineering, announced the Minister, beneath the umbrella his chauffeur was holding up to protect him from the rain (the roof not yet having been finished). "This is the great dream that the men of 1916 died for!" he declared. "This is the Ireland that Robert Emmet rose for!" he sobbed.
"This is the Ireland that 1798 was all about!".
"Let me show you around, Minister," wheedled the Fingal Theme Park manager, Mr George Redmond. "Watch your step," he cried, steering the Tánaiste - yes, he's that too - around a large lake of mud, dead cats and sanitary towels. "The drainage isn't quite finished yet," he confided, "but we're thinking of retaining this as a feature, and simply renaming it Dollymount Strand, yet another exhibit of Irish technological and organisational genius."
The Minister visibly stiffened with pride. "Lead on," he said. "Certainly, sire," hissed George Redmond, who proceeded to distribute wellingtons to everyone. The Minister and his retinue of VIPs began their tour of Ireland's first great theme park, whose subject matter was this country's great contribution to project management. They went first to Ireland's first ever Olympic swimming pool, which had been built half-a-metre too short.
"Nothing wrong with that," declared the pool manager, Michelle Smith, stroking her beard. "I trained in it before I won 35 gold Olympic medals in track, field and pool, 10 of them - including the marathon and the 10,000 metres - in a single day. Half-a-metre too short indeed: fuss and nonsense about nothing. Why, without this pool, I'd never have won the 110-metre men's hurdles. "
George Redmond pointed to the Punchestown Equestrian Centre. "Half-a-metre too short also. Genius. Pure genius."
A party of Texan fund managers were gazing in a melancholy fashion at an equally melancholy bullock standing in a sea of manure. "Excuse me, sir," asked one of them: "but would you be so good as to tell me what that is?"
"A signpost," said Mr Redmond brightly. "You come to a crossroads in Ireland, and you'll find that the National Roads Authority will probably have left a helpful Friesian to point you on your way. They're not always as easy to understand as this one, however. Some can be quite confusing. As you can see, this one is pointing to the new Dublin Port Tunnel. Why don't we go there?"
The party waded through the mire to the entrance to the new tunnel. "This is the latest addition to the theme park, and it is our pride and glory. It was meant to have cost €600 million, but came in just five years late, and only 150 per cent over budget. It was intended - ha ha ha! - to get the lorries off Dublin streets. However, because we very deliberately made it nine inches lower than necessary, the larger lorries - the ones which absolutely should be kept off Dublin's tiny streets - will be obliged to remain on those streets. Gad sir. Makes you proud."
The Minister beamed, for there was indeed much to be proud about. Making a tunnel that could not carry the new large lorries was rather like making a multi-million passenger airport terminal with runways on which only hot-air balloons could land. Mr Redmond by this time was jumping up and down with excitement. "This restriction will cost the economy millions and millions and millions! Do you understand why we as a nation look on this tunnel as one of the great achievements of the Irish State?"
The Texans nodded greyly, as a gust of wind blew the only piece of completed roof towards the Isle of Man. "Never mind, gentlemen, that'll just add another year to the project: nothing whatever to worry about," he chortled merrily. "We're used to missed deadlines in this country."
While they paddled through a lagoon of slurry, their host regaled them with hilarious tales of Luas. Of how it was constructed only during office hours on weekdays; and whenever there was the least possibility of Luas construction not causing congestion, then all work stopped.
"So naturally, we never worked at nights or on Sundays. Unfortunately, there was one exception: the bridge at Dundrum, where the engineers - mad, irresponsible lunatics! - worked even at nights and at weekends."
Mr Redmond's jowls shook as he contemplated the unspeakably evil consequences of such irresponsible practices. "Came in before time and under budget - an utter scandal. As you can imagine, we never did it that way again.
"Ideally," he continued, "if the delays were long enough, the State would then have a tribunal of inquiry into them lasting years and costing billions, so turning entire generations of barristers into millionaires. It was never certain which would take longer or cost more," he chortled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "The project, or the inquiry into it."
Mr Redmond waved a finger proudly in the air. "You think you have seen Irish genius at its purest? Sirs, how wrong can you be? Follow me please to the pièce de résistance of this theme park: The Red Cow Roundabout."