Within hours of the announcement, his portrait beamed from every window in the county. Within days, teachers had drummed his favourite song into cacophonies of children. Factories worked overtime to produce flags, mugs, tablecloths and lampshades and, in Mountrath, one enterprising baker concocted a limited edition, once-in-a-lifetime Basilica Bun. The world of Haute Couture responded with typical alacrity. White T-shirts worn with yellow jeans were flaunted on the Main Street while, in the Golf Club, two-tone albs were de rigueur, with lurex mitres and silver croziers as optional accessories. The same establishment reported a brisk trade in contraceptives which, upon expansion, revealed the luminous legend Urbi et Orbi.

As the Great Day approached, travel arrangements obsessed every resident of the town. Senior citizens, who hadn't seen the city since 1932, aired suits of clothes and dreamed of climbing Nelson's Pillar, bringing home a cake from Bewley's and a pound of Hafner's sausages. As if preparing for a festival, teenagers packed rucksacks and guitars, and sewed his face on the back of denim jackets. Over pints of cider they discussed the pros and cons of hitch-hiking, in particular the advantages/disadvantages of musical instruments, mini-skirts, wet T-shirts, physical deformity etc., etc. Train and bus tickets were paid for in advance. Cars were serviced, wheelchairs oiled, and bicycles pumped for what promised to be the greatest mass-mobilisation in the county since the Easter Rising.

Early on the eve of the Great Day the exodus began. Like lemmings, the faithful citizens of Laois forsook their homes and converged upon the Phoenix Park in Dublin. Since its opening to the public by Lord Chesterfield in 1747, this vast natural arena had witnessed many strange and wonderful phenomena viz. the assassination of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr T. H. Burke on May 6th 1882; the establishment of the famous racecourse in 1902; an unrecorded number of clandestine assignations resulting in early weddings, paternity suits and the nightboat to England.

But nothing would compare with the scenes anticipated on this glorious Day of Days. As the light of dawn broke over Dublin Bay, a soprano from The Swan craned her neck and warbled that the Feis Ceoil wasn't a patch on it at all. A Camross man spat into his hand and swore begod it was bigger than the County Final. What elicited such allusive wonderment was, in short, the sheer size of the assembly. Over acre after multicoloured acre stretched this vast weight of humanity until it seemed that the earth itself would surely start to crumble. One conservative estimate put the attendance at approximately two million. Two million! Fifty-per-cent of our blessed, chosen isle.

With many hours still to go before the Grand Arrival, the multitude never once fell prey to boredom, nor, indeed, the slightest sign of unease. Somehow, on this historic Day of Days, the wheels of private enterprise never ceased to turn and, thus, every conceivable distraction was made available to the patient throng. The packed rows were infiltrated by clowns, singers and step-dancers, nimble purveyors of everything and anything from rosary beads, programmes and autographed pictures to lukewarm burgers, condoms (Urbi et Orbi), and Kiss Me Quick hats. In and out they threaded, these intrepid entrepreneurs, bearing sandwiches and chocolates, records and tapes ('Live at Castel Gandolfo!'), folding chairs, step-ladders, telescopes, periscopes, trays of slopping drinks.

At the very rear of the multitude, under the shade of towering oaks, a mobile home with an Offaly number plate was driven into position and parked. Mercedes doors purred open and six attractive ladies slinked into the caravan. Red neon flashed above the doorway - The Holy See! The Holy See! - and suddenly, as if on signal, a squad car came bouncing across the grass.

In the midday sun the stage could be viewed in all its shining glory. Ascending on all sides in lofty, tiered resplendence, its centrepiece was a white marble altar and plain wooden throne whose simplicity served only to accentuate the grandeur all around. Thousands of white-and-yellow banners stretched against the flawless sky. The formal beauty of a million flowers, the pomp and circumstance of singers and musicians all combined to conjure up a scene medieval in its majesty, a spectacle undreamt of by Cecil B. de Mille.

Suddenly a speck appeared in the distance. Children leaped, invalids creaked to their feet as it became a dragonfly hovering in the heavens. Silently, or so it seemed, such was the pandemonium of welcome, the helicopter descended and the Great Occasion, the most wonderful event in the proud annals of Irish history, was finally at hand.

A fanfare split the air and a procession of clerics shuffled up the steps and formed a perfect crescent. Flanked by two burly prelates, The Great One stepped from the wings and approached the thicket of microphones. He adjusted his glasses, gazed upon the tumult then, raising both arms skywards, uttered his first words to the assembled Half-of-Ireland.

"Popule Hiberniae, vos amo."

This endearment was greeted with such approval by the multilingual citizens of Ireland that the Observatory at Dunsink registered an upheaval of grade six on the Mercalli Scale of Felt Intensity. When the uproar finally subsided, a Laois accent cried out in response:

"Tantum ergo adeste fidelis!"

The Great One smiled in all directions and marvelled at the erudition of the Gael.

"My brothers anda sisters, beloved ancestors of Santo Patrizio e Santa Brigida, it gives to me a great pleasure to maka my first expedition to the Green Isle, famous for her forty shades of emerald and the faith of oura fathers. She is also famous for her musica: many time do my padres from Irlanda say to me about the musica bella of Casey Dempsey and the Accordeon Band of Santo Joseph. It is, my brothers anda sisters, about the musica that I wish to say a few little words. Beware, O my Irish children, la musica diabolica. You know what I speak? I speak the Rock anda Roll. Do you, my children of Irlanda, know what this Rock anda Roll mean? It mean howyousay the relations between the woman and the man. It isa name given to the most holy of God's gifts by the negro American man. My children, I say to you again. The musica of Satan will lead you to temptation. Hear me as I beg to you... no more Rock anda Roll. There is no place in heaven for the Rock anda Roll. Also the country anda Western. It isa not good too. This musica she teach to you the adulterio, the divorzio, the stand on youra man."

The Rathnamanagh Kid, in buckskin shirt and wellingtons, glares in disbelief at a youth festooned with swastikas and chains.

"Man above, did you ever hear the likes!"

"He can say what he likes about that cowboy shite, but what about the Rats?"

"Rats me eye. What about Big Tom?"

"No bleedin' eyetie's coming over here to badmouth the Rats!"

"Now I want to say about the Irish dancing. On the day of Santo Patrizio, I see on TV this Irish dancing and it isa not good. Young men of Irlanda should nota dress like the little girl. Many psicologi he say to me that sucha thing brings sin in later lifes. And also, it isa not good to see, how you say, cailinis, expose his higher legs. The human body isa the temple of lo Spirito Santo and should nota be exposed for all to come and see...."

"Éist leis!" spits An tUasal Labhrás O Rinncú, Uachtarán, Cumann Damhsa Mainistir Laoise, "sure God knows you can't bate a good reel!"

"Ná bac leis," his companion placates, "maybe he's getting it mixed up with Disco or them lads in the tights."

"Didn't he say he saw it on the box? It must've been during the Comhaltas tour of Europe. Well, he'd no right to say we're all queers and call the women good things. A anam don diabhal! What about his own crowd in the Vatican, them lads in the stripey knickers?"

"I speak next to all the parents, the father anda mother of Irlanda. In Italia there isa much making of the bambino. So much bambino he is born that il dottore he say to me that the woman she have to wait two years to got into the, how you say... l'ospedale materna. This isa a great blessing, because in the eye of our Heavenly Padre there isa nothing like un piccolo bambino. But in Irlanda today not so much bambino he is born. Thisa makes my two eyes to weep. Listen as I say to you, my father anda mother of Irlanda, go forth anda multiply."

"Will ya increase the Children's Allowance?"

"Now you're talking Missus, what about the mickey money?"

"Now my beloved brothers anda sisters...la letteratura. Your little country she hasa the long history of the book. In my own libreria I read the Irish message of the Sacred Heart and many libretto ofa the Catholic Fruit Society of Irlanda. This are all good reading, but out of Irlanda too came Giacomo Joyce. This man hasa no place in the homes of Irlanda. Thisa man who came to Italia and say bad thing about my beloved Roma. Thisa man was instructed by i Gesuiti. I have no love for Giacomo Joyce. I have no love for i Gesuiti and hisa black pope. And this reminds me ofa something. I say to all the padre here today, I do nota want you wear the jeans anda coloured clothes. I do nota want the mandolino, I meana the chittara, in the house of God. I do nota want the longa hair, the drinking of vino in bettole, the amicizia with female ofa opposite sex. Alla this isa not good for the man of God. Our heavenly Maestro did nota play the mandolino.

"Now I speak about Gran Bretagna. I read much the long history between youra countries and now, my beautiful Irish friends, I besiege you, on my bent leg I besiege you, to forgive Gran Bretagna for the sins she do to you. The invasion of Norman and his cavalieri, the murder of poora Robin Hood, Patrizio Pearse, Edmondo de Valera. Lasta year I meet with Margherita Thatcher and I tell to you, my besta Irish friends, she una bella donna. In her heart of heart she care very deep for Irlanda."

A veil of silence descended on the assembled Half-of-Ireland. Suddenly, from an enclave hidden in the throng, a Northern accent split the limpid air: "Tiocfaidh ár lá! Tiocfaidh ár lá!"

Hesitantly at first, then with fierce determination, two million voices marched through 'A Nation Once Again'. Clearly moved by such a melodious response, The Great One removed his glasses, dabbed his eyes, then raised both arms to acknowledge the acclaim.

Shock and anger ran like wildfire. Clerics eyed each other nervously as the reaction flew like missiles towards the stage. Voices that hadn't roared so loudly since the County Final hurled abuse and lewd suggestions. Sensing that something had gone badly wrong, a soldier leaped upon the rostrum and urged the Number One Army Band through a medley of 'Slievenamon', 'The Skies O'er Ballyroan, 'Limerick You're a Lady'.

Enchanted by this unexpected interlude, The Great One attempted to tap his foot in time, but eventually desisted and pondered the quaint rhythmic patterns of the music of Irlanda.

"Grazie, grazie. Cead Mile Failte. It makes me happy that you like so much my words to you. If my padre in America del Sud they listen as good, I am the happy pontiff. There isa one more thing I have to say: For many year the people of Irlanda are suffer from a terrible pestilenza. It is, my best Irish friends, the pestilenza of the alcool. My bishops he say to me that all Irlanda she is covered by the alcool. Every little street isa river of the vino. In the holy name of Padre Matteo, apostle of the tenpence, in the holy name of Matteo Talbot, patron saint of thisa fair city, I aska you to stop the alcool. Basta! Basta! And I will tell you more. People of Irlanda who do not stop the alcool hasa no place in the unam sanctum catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam..."

The effect was instantaneous. As if walls of flame had suddenly appeared behind them, the assembled Half-of-Ireland, one enormous, maddened beast, stampeded towards the stage. It kicked over chairs, loudspeakers and hapless invalids. It trampled prayerbooks, crutches, rosary beads and burgers. Nuns fled in terror as it smashed the barriers and panoply of flags. An old man from Mountmellick, abandoned in the melée, slowly picked himself up and straightened his tie. "Holy God tonight, we'll all be arrested. I'll never get them sausages now."

©2006 woodlawn fiction