Time to bring the cur­tain down, baby

Irish Examiner - Farming - - NEWS -

With the pres­i­den­tial elec­tion set to get un­der­way in less than 24 hours, I think one thing is bla­tantly clear at this stage.

Elvis and my­self are not go­ing to win.

The num­bers sim­ply don’t add up, no mat­ter how you do the sums.

To add to our mis­ery, there was a cock-up at the prin­ters, I have been in­formed that our names will not even ap­pear on the bal­lot pa­per. So ’twas all for noth­ing. Yes, it will be very hard to win now.

As for King him­self, well he was in som­bre old form in The Grey­hound yes­ter­day evening, as he lamented, “It’s time to bring the cur­tain down, baby,” be­fore fin­ish­ing his pint and head­ing west.

Bar some class of a mir­a­cle, it seems in­creas­ingly likely that you will be stuck with me here on this pa­per for the fore­see­able fu­ture. This will up­set sen­si­tive read­ers who have grown weary of my coarse­ness, but how much worse is it for me? I thought I was gone. My bags were packed, bridges have been burned.

The Áras, so tan­ta­lis­ingly close at one stage, is now miles away again. Where did it all go wrong, I ask you?

Was there any­thing more that could have been done? Prob­a­bly not. Any­how be­fore the dust set­tles on the shenani­gans of to­mor­row, I just want to thank all who helped out in pro­vid­ing the King and I with ev­ery con­ceiv­able hospi­tal­ity, as we went from lounge bar to pub­lic house, urg­ing all to toss a vote in our di­rec­tion.

While we may not have set the opin­ion polls alight, we sure racked up a fair few bills by way of booze and food in our gal­lant ef­fort to charm the ladies and en­cour­age the men to make our am­bi­tious dream a re­al­ity.

Alas, it was not to be. What I’m call­ing for is the set­ting up of some class of a fund to help us get back down to earth af­ter hav­ing our heads stuck up in the clouds. While we made a lot of friends along the way, they won’t be long turn­ing into en­e­mies if we don’t set­tle our ac­count. Re­gret­tably, we have left quite a few IOUS in our wake. And have no doubt about it, but there will be le­gal ac­tion and hell to pay, if the cash isn’t im­me­di­ately forth­com­ing.

For starters. we had a good few wild nights out here in west Cork over the past two months, in which we con­sumed ap­prox­i­mately 100 pints of stout and 13 bot­tles of whisky.

Need­less to say, all was con­sumed un­der the um­brella of our pres­i­den­tial cam­paign and so, nat­u­rally enough, we felt im­mune from all fi­nan­cial re­spon­si­bil­i­ties. And then there was the eat­ing of 125 chicken sup­pers and 147 full Ir­ish break­fasts, all washed down the hatch with co­pi­ous amounts of sober­ing black cof­fee. Elvis and my­self needed such sus­te­nance as we went about the chore of press­ing the flesh, and so on and so forth.

This busi­ness of get­ting your­self fed and wa­tered as you em­bark on the road to the Áras, we found to be an ex­pen­sive and ex­haust­ing en­deav­our.

Now, with the writ­ing on the wall, and our bid gone ar­se­ways en­tirely, I’m plead­ing with the wealthy amongst you to give what you can in sup­port of a good cause, that had gone very astray.

Our fight for the Áras is at an end.

Our fight to pay for it is only be­gin­ning.

Due to a cock-up at the prin­ters, the name De­nis Le­hane will not be on the bal­lot pa­per to­mor­row.

The ex­pen­sive fuel of De­nis and Elvis’s pres­i­den­tial cam­paign.

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