The President of the Independent Republic of Gaeltachtia gazed from his skyscraper office high over the rolling hills of Connemara, writes Kevin Myers.
The sight - or indeed the site - was enough to gladden his heart. In every single field, as far as the human eye could see, stood a bungalow, with a long tarmac drive connecting it to the road, with each garden fronted by a pretty breeze-block wall. Every single acre of the Twelve Pins now had its own expansive dwelling, all the way up to the densely bungalowed summits.
The President sighed with happiness. All along the shores of the many loughs there were multi-bedroomed homes, all en-suite. Finally, there was not a single hill which was still desecrated by ancient unbroken grassland, or uninterrupted bog, or old fashioned dry-stone wall. Instead, Spanish arches and car-ports, patios and wooden decks now blossomed on what had once been the unpromisingly acid soil of west Galway. Nature was now on the point of being vanquished, as man triumphed in every corner of the westernmost part of Europe.
He turned from this pleasing panorama to contemplate the latest applications on his desk. Last week he had agreed to a request from Inishturk for Government funding for a marina, a deep-sea port, a roll-on, roll off ferry, a hovercraft depot, a helicopter landing pad and a runway capable of taking a fully laden Airbus.
Now the nearby island of Inishgreek had put in an application for two airports, pointing in different directions to allow for shift in wind direction, a hydrofoil base, a bus station, a tramway, and a suspension bridge to the mainland. It seemed perfectly reasonable - indeed, if anything, it erred on the side of modesty. But it is always good to check these things out.
He called in his department secretary, and addressed him in the first national tongue. "What's the size of this suspension bridge? There might be difficult questions in the Dáil if it's more than six lanes."
"You may be assured, President of the Islands, the Gaeltacht and the Bogs, that it is a humble, almost self-effacing little construction in its width. The single inhabitant of Inishgreek merely intends using it to visit his mother. The issue is not width, but length. It is 50 miles long. His mother, you see, lives in Sligo."
President Eamon Ó Cuiv was unable to stifle a sob. It was a sob in Gaelic - a truly Gaelic sob, mellifluously so, a sob rich in the agony of a Gaelic people who had known oppression, poverty, evictions down the centuries. "I respect any man who is loyal to his mother. Padraig Pearse loved his mother. So, of course, did the grand-da. Some say I am not unlike him. Am I not like him? Observe the profile, in particular, against this natural light, so. . ."
The President presented a side view to his first secretary, who could stare past that extraordinarily devaleran nose, to the huge and unused basketball stadium on top of Benbrack. "A most becoming visage, O Sublime Caesar, and the very image of the great man himself. So is that a yes to Inishgreek?"
"It is of course. I see Inishkraut wants a submarine base and a fully equipped ski resort, complete with lifts and black slopes. Does anyone live there? I thought it was deserted."
"It is, Excellency. The application appears to have come from some lovelorn lichen."
The President sobbed again. "Rural isolation - the very curse of the Gael. It is, I take it, Irish-speaking lichen? Good. Give them their submarine base, and their resort, and while we're about it, a night-club as well."
"You are too good, O Celestial One, too good. Some bladderwrack on Inishfrog was wondering if it could have its very own Red Cow Roundabout, with a Luas connecting it with Malin Head, where its bladderly cousins live."
The President inhaled. "If there's one thing that distinguishes Gaelic, island life, it is our passionate attachment to family bonds. What class of a President would I be if I were to sunder wort from wort?"
"You mean wrack, O Scourge of the Saxon. Worts are insectivorous plants of the genus Utricularia. Wracks are seaweeds of the genus fucus. Next, Inishswede, which seeks its own heart transplant unit and a cyclotron accelerator. Nobody lives there, I should point out."
"Excellent! How better to start a community of Gaels than by providing it with its own heart transplant facility, with, just around the corner, its very own cyclotron accelerator!"
"No-one lives in Inishfin either, O Medici of Maam. It is seeking its own nuclear-powered desalination plant. It has, I should point out, the highest rainfall in Europe."
"Grandfather always believed in belt and braces, and so do I. Inshifin gets its desalination plant. Anything else?"
"Yes, Tyrant of the Main. I have a copy of our accounts. Intended expenditure on the islands and the Gaeltacht comes to €2,000 billion. Income from those same areas consists of £17.10.11 in a selection of old coins, plus one clay-pipe, one cawbeen, one Spanish peseta and a pair of Peig Sayers's bloomers. A slight imbalance, sire."
The President sniffed happily. "Imbalance? What imbalance?
"We are the heart and soul of the nation. The rest of Ireland is happy to pay for the privilege. Is that not so?"
"Their silence certainly suggests it is, O Sturdy Stallion of the West."