Table Talk: Bob Ellis on Film and Theatre

Beweep the fate of Alan Joyce,
Who had, poor lad, no other choice.
‘Oi could not wait another year,
Loik Estragon and Vladimir,
For Godot to come and discuss the matter,
So Oi, loik me hero, Mahomed Atta,
On Saturday after a Guinness or two -
It seemed the sensible t’ing to do -
Aimed all my planes at the world’s economy,
Lest poilets and stewards t’ink they could dishonour me,
And so spifflicated the Melbourne Cup,
And the Balance of Trade; who dreams that up?
And the weddings and funerals and celebrations
That mostly enhance the joy of nations:
There’d be none o’ that: Oi pulled the plog,
Oi sank a Guinness, and shot me dog,
Oi kicked me old secretary, and knocked down the walls
(For that’s what it’s loik when Destiny calls),
Oi slept on the floor, and pissed out the winder,
Oi didn’t feel well, me tongue was loik tinder,
Had a Prairie Oyster, and went on the telly.
‘There’ll be no backing down!’ Oi told Fran Kelly,
Speaking in Gaelic, she seemed a bit puzzled,
Oi then refused to speak to a media muzzled,
Oi moved on then to the Tullamore Dew.
It seemed the sensible t’ing to do.

But, before all this, Oi doubled me wage,
And thus allayed the mounting rage
Of those who t’ought me underpaid,
Until they had their flights delayed.

And me phone has stopped ringing, here’s a how-do-you-do.
Oi suppose it’s what  happens when you crash, or crash through.

And Oi’ve been elected the Fool to Meself,
Snd Oi’ll be the richest man on the shelf.
Oi hope you recall me, and stand me bail.
Oi’m just a dim Paddy; well meaning.’ Wassail.