A Tale of Two Ians

A sunny Sunday evening in north Belfast. The Rev Ian Paisley Snr is pottering around his constituency office, occasionally sticking pins in a plastic doll that's spookily reminiscent of David Trimble. He's a happy man.

There's a knock on the door.

"Dr Paisley, I presume?" says the tiny man on the doorstep.

The good Reverend's eyes almost pop out, for before him are 40 men astride motorbikes, none more than three and a half feet tall and all dressed in loincloths that barely cover their petrol tanks. They're not best pleased, by the looks of them.

"What in the name of all that is holy is going on?" roars the Reverend, apoplectic with rage. "Who are you people? How dare you disturb me on the Sabbath?"

"You are Dr Paisley, the motorcyclist?" asks the leader, eyeing the Reverend's 80-something-year-old frame with some scepticism.

"Motorcyclist? Me? Never, never, neverrrrr!! Heathen contraptions begat of the Roman Antichrist! Get thee hence, papist infiltrators!"

"So you are not this man?" says the man, holding up a copy of the Bush Telegraph, wherein there is a photograph of the Reverend's son, Ian Jnr, resplendent in his all-in-one biker leathers.

"No I am not. That's wee Ian, my boy. What's he done now? I told him those machines were the chariots of the devil, and those clothes evil temptation."

"He has greatly insulted our race. We must speak with him," says the man. The Reverend, mystified, gives them directions to his son. Perhaps they'll put him off that biker nonsense once and for all.

Young Ian is in his Ballymena office with the curtains drawn, guiltily ogling the fine curves of the beauty on front of Biker's Monthly. He's not so impressed by the bike she's sitting on.

There's a knock. The same man is standing at the door. "You are Ian Paisley, the biker?"

"I am indeed. Who are you?"

"I am Ongaku, father of the Mbuti tribe of pygmies. These are my warriors. We have come from the Congo."

"Have you now? Well, how can I help you? Spiritual guidance, is it? Or have ye a problem with papists in darkest Africa?"

"No. We have a problem with you. Look," says Ongaku, holding up an article in the Bush Telegraph about the vandalism of the plaque honouring motorcycling legend Joey Dunlop during the Northwest 200. "We are very sad this has happened, but it is not our fault. Why do you blame us?"

"What are you talking about, wee fella? Is this some manner of a joke?" asks Ian Jnr.

"Mr Paisley, let me read to you what you said. 'I am appalled that some small-minded pygmy could go out and vandalise this memorial.' Why are you saying this? We may be small of body, but we are big of mind."

"Err, I see, sorry about that, a slip of the tongue I'm afraid. No offence meant, honest," says Ian, getting more and more apprehensive by the second. They've all got wee man's swords strapped to their motorbikes.

Ongaku is unimpressed. "You are a stupid man. And now you must die for insulting our people!"

The warriors descend on Ian Jnr, who by now is on his knees, quivering with terror. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death . . ." he's whispering.

Suddenly, the atmosphere changes markedly. Yelling and laughing and shouting erupts. Ian, puzzled, looks up. The pygmies have stepped back, only to be replaced by an obviously delighted Gerry Adams and 15 Sinn Féiners. They all have video cameras. He's been set up. "Got ya, Paisley!" they gloat. "Yer history, man!"

"Oh, Holy Mother of Jesus," wails Ian. He's ruined. He'll never insult a pygmy again. As for the motorbiking, he should've listened to Daddy.