I had a call from the Gardaí last night.
They arrived at the house in a squad car with all their sirens howling and their lights flashing, and then battered on the door.
I invited them in.
There were two of them. I gave them tea, because they said they were on duty.
“Are you here about the house being burned down next door?” I asked.
“No. It’s not that.”
“Is it the four tourists I shot the other night?”
“It’s much more serious than that.”
“Is it the bonfire I lit to get rid of all the rubbish in the house?”
“If it’s about my offshore accounts and my dodgy financial dealings, then I don’t remember anything about them.”
“You’re annoying me now. Is it the half acre of herbal tobacco out the back?”
“Well, what the fuck is it then?”
“I must caution you that you have, on your property a thistle growing. Under the Noxious Weeds Act 1936, you are obliged to destroy that said thistle immediately or you will be issued with a summons.”
“Shit! Sorry. I’ll do it tomorrow. Anything else?”
“How much do you charge for your illegally distilled whiskey? I want two bottles please.”