Just recently arrived in Dublin are Lt-Commander the Rt Hon Jocelyn Twistleton-Ssykes RN and his lovely wife Tarquinne. Their journey on the mail-boat was, in Mrs Twistleton-Ssykes's memorable words, "perfectly ripping." She is originally Tarquinne Browne-Knowse, and is connected to the Brownes of Oranmore. She is, she declared exclusively to this correspondent, fearfully proud of her Irish connections. Her husband . . .
- Excuse me? Hello? What is this please?
- Pardon me, Commander, if you would be so good, Mrs Twistleton-Ssykes. A small interruption. I will rejoin in you in a second. NOW! What do you mean by interrupting my perfectly delightful tete-a-tete with our two distinguished guests? I will have you know they have taken rooms in the Shelbourne. They are visitors of distinction.
World issues - I'm sure they are. But what are they doing here? This is An Irishman's Diary. Fierce social comment. Bolts of lightning on those who deserve it. Fearless and controversial. No world issue too large for stern views upon. None of this Twistleton-Sykes stuff.
- Twistleton-Ssykes. Look, this is how An Irishman's Diary used to be. Check around the hotels first thing in the morning - the Russell, the Royal Hibernian, the Shelbourne and the Gresham - and see who's arrived from the ferry, sorry, mail-boat. Great days. No hate letters being published day after day from disgruntled readers. No controversy. Just list the titled visitors to Dublin, mention the odd small recital in aid of Kingstown Brownies, throw in personal recollections of the Baden-Powells during their Irish tour and maybe, to keep the natives happy, the odd item about Fitzmaurice and the Bremen. And Robert is your mama's brother. Happy days indeed.
- Happy days my eye. What about all those gallant forgotten lads from the First World War the current fellow's always on about?
- We don't call it that. We call it the war. Lower case. There hasn't been a second one yet. Ah, I feel another Diary item coming on. Also staying in the Shelbourne is Lt-Col Julian Quorn-Pytchley-Horn DSO, late of the Coldstream Guards, and Mrs Quorn-Pytchley-Horn. Col Quorn-Pytchley-Horn was stationed in Ireland, on the Curragh actually, during the Incident there before the war, and after the war he served as a District Inspector with the RIC before taking early retirement. The Quorn-Pytchley-Horns will be staying in Dublin for several days, renewing old acquaintances and shopping in Callaghan's, before taking in a spot of fly-fishing in Connaught.
- Connaught? You mean Connacht.
Thatched cottages
- I do not. I mean Connaught. Connacht is full of bungalows and Mercedes and fancy restaurants. Connaught is peopled with agreeable peasants who knuckle their foreheads, and thatched cottages, and widows in black, and a couple of castles where a chap can take his wife for a few days and meet Irish people who aren't really titled but are called The Something or Other. Not quite top drawer, but top drawer-ish. Heavens, I feel another diary item coming on now . . . Home on leave from the Irish Guards and staying in the Russell is The O'Flaherty. Major O'Flaherty will be remembered by readers of this column for his numerous amusing exploits with the Ward Union.
- But this is frightful bilge. You can't seriously expect people to read this sort of stuff day after day after day, can you?
- Frankly, I don't care. It's better than being hated. You've no idea how it gets a fellow down, all these letters. Horrible. Perfectly horrible. Whereas with, "And tonight there will be a concert given in St Andrew's Church in aid of Distressed Widows of Pembroke and District Unionist Association", you can't go wrong. That's what An Irishman's Diary used to consist of in the good old days. Lists of names, loads of hyphens. King's County. Maryborough. Point-to-points in the County Meath. So-and-so proud of his Irish connections. Light, amusing items about the great characters in Dublin pubs and the wit and wisdom of the fishwives of Moore Street, regular bulletins from Jammet's and the grill-bar of the Shelbourne, plus hilarious tales of misplaced apostrophes. And every now and then, "a rather engaging tome has recently landed on my desk". Never book, always tome. Always landed. Never arrived in the post.
Self-important stuff
Also, "Word has it that . . ." None of this self-important stuff about NATO and so on. As if the White House'll change tack the moment the moment it hears the opinions of An Irishman's Diary. Ha ha ha.
- The grill-bar of the Shelbourne, eh? Jammet's? The Russell too? Plus, of course, to keep the natives happy, Col Fitzsimmons. Begob, I like the sound of it. Do you think I might have a go at Diary writing as it used to be?
- Be my guest.
- And lunching in Jammet's last Wednesday was none other than the King of England and the deposed German emperor, Kaiser William II . . .
- No, no, no. It's got to be inconsequential. You can't fill Irishman's Diaries with Kings of England and Kaisers and Popes and things. Try again.
- And word has it that The O'Sullivan came a terrible cropper at the ffoliot-Ffolliot's point-to-point in Queen's County recently . . .
- Perfect.
- Thank you.
- Not at all.