"Master, Master, the JNLR/MRBI figures are out and RTE Radio's evening current affairs have a bigger increase than us!"
"Oh feck them, Navan Man, here at McCreevy FM we know size doesn't matter, and anyway, who says those Joint National Listenership people can count?" "But Master, Master, the shareholders are ganging up on Shane Ross and he won't be able to hold off for much longer!"
"Right, you uneducated piece of culchie-ridden potage, let's call in Eamo. I know a serious young man with a rather cheeky arse called Crowley, who might be relied upon to help our Eamo give those budgie-counting listings shites a run for their ratings." "But Master, Master, Eamo is the prince of politeness, the count of courtliness, the . . ."
"Get on with it, you obsequious lump of Ross-loving, liberal, lace-curtain pseudorespectability crap. Eamo didn't earn his spurs sipping prune juice in the Shelbourne while the riff-raff whinged outside. Eamo is a Man with a Mission." "But Master, what about human rights, and anyway, what happens if McCreevy FM loses its friends in Ryanair?"
"How many times do I have to tell you, Navan Man, the only place there's inequality in our beloved banana republic is when it comes to bedding nubile young women. Now that's something our listeners might like to hear a bit about, heh, heh."
"No, Master, it's not about sex and young women, sure District Court Judge Michael Connellan said they're all alley-cats. It's about the old, the lonely, me mammy, for godssake! It's about Kevin Myers not getting a job as an air hostess 'cos he's past his prime and he won't wear that little tight skirt!"
"To hell with Myers in a skirt, it's Waters I'd like to see in one, now there's a fellow who knows what women want. Navan Man, you intellectual cripple, get me Eamo! Get me Crowley! Feck it, get me Myers while you're at it, I haven't heard his dulcet tones on McCreevy FM for far too long. We can rely on Myers to do the decent thing, and who knows, then we might even have him back when Eamo's taking his dog-day off, instead of that other culchie, Cooper from the Sunday Torture, or Commandant O'Toole from the Irish Whines, who spends all his time in the air . . ."
"YES, Navan Man, I can see it unfolding before me with all the bare brass nakedness of Sharon Stone. Yes, yes, this is Bambi meets Godzilla, courtesy of McCreevy FM. Eamo does his `I'm nicer than Vincenzo' act, Myers does Churchill sending the troops to Gallipoli, and then that wretched whatever-his-name-is from the Equality Authority tries to explain why he took on Ryanair, the Sindo and our very own Winston Myers, and meanwhile annoyed that delightful woman Rudely-Edwards. What I'd like to do to her with a bowler hat and a tightly-rolled umbrella . . .
"Where was I . . . Ah yes, we'll give that Five Seven Live bird a row she won't recover from too soon, yes, and that Shaw diva, too, her and her spotty-faced, snot-nosed Tubby Ryanair, Ryan Tuttily, whatever he's called. Beware, little ones, you are about to play The Weakest Link!"
Three hours later.
"Oh Master, Master, what are we going to do? The IRTC won't like it, the lads made mincemeat of Crowley like you told them. Crowley never got a word in. He wouldn't play Eamo's pub quiz on Dead Male Journalists, and Eamo gave out to him for using `all the authority he could command, which is not much, in my opinion,' so Eamo said. Then he, oh Master, my knees are knocking, my mammy doesn't like this word . . . "
"Get on with it, you procrastinating relic."
"Eamo told Crowley `We don't need f . . .ers like you'."
"Never mind the language, Navan Man, what was the switchboard doing?"
"Oh cheesus, Master, it was lighting up like Drumcree! They'll be talking about us for the rest of the week."
"Good to see you're learning the business, Navan Man. It's about freedom of speech, this game; freedom for us, not them; freedom to ride roughshod over the media-stupid; freedom to blame the libel laws even when you know the Equality Authority is going to challenge them.
"It's about the freedom to forget the Ombudsman's report on how Micheal Martin's Department and Charlie McCreevy's gang diddled old people out of their nursing home grants, and how they got away with it 'cos the shrivelled, pathetic, creatures were too stupid to know . . ."
"So, Master, was that Crowley fellow setting us up by taking a pop at Ryanair, like we were setting him up?"
"Nonsense, Navan Man. Crowley spends so much time with cripples and queers and gypsies he can't tell black from white, so to speak, heh, heh. I bet Eamo taught him how to turn the other cheek."
"Master, Master. Eamo did say `I only lose the head once a year, and that was it'."
"What a boy. Remember, Navan Man, Godzilla only takes on Bambi. That's how to keep the drinking money safe."
mruane@irish-times.ie