British, Irish Republicans Share Awkward Moment of Solidarity

Dublin – As Queen Elizabeth II makes the first royal visit to Ireland in over one hundred years, British and Irish republicans clashed on O’Connell Street yesterday in an awkward moment of solidarity.

Witnesses said the encounter was quite accidental, but rapidly became a social quagmire from which neither party could easily extricate itself. As protesters released black balloons into the air and belted out rebel songs, a man with a distinctly English posture and bearing wandered into the assembled mass of fiery republicans, instantly causing a sudden delicate frostiness.

Huntington-Fauntleroy's orange skirt immediately made him stand out from the other republicans.

“Yes, quite right!” shouted the British republican Cedric Huntington-Fauntleroy, his clear English enunciation cutting through the thick mumbled accents of the crowd like a joke by Prince Philip at a convention for political correctness. “Down with the monarchy, I say!”

Huntington-Fauntleroy then adopted the classic Marquess of Queensbury pose and hit the air with a few left jabs followed by a right cross before looking around in satisfaction at his fellow air-punchers, who were slowly lowering their hands and backing away in confusion.

“Wha’ de fook…?” asked a gobsmacked Marty Delaney (43), leader of the protest, as the tricolour wrapped around his shoulders slid off to reveal a Manchester United jersey.

“Oh, haha, that’s it, my good man, don’t be afraid to turn the air blue, what?” shouted Huntington-Fauntleroy, hitting the bewildered air with a classical right hook. “Damn the Queen’s English – let us have the English of the common man, of republicanism!”

The crowd looked at each other uncertainly and then to Marty Delaney for some kind of guidance. “Are you sure you’re in de roight place?” asked Delaney.

Huntington-Fauntleroy has been a republican since he was blackballed by the royal polo club.

“Oh, wouldn’t miss it!” said Huntington-Fauntleroy jauntily. “I had no idea such a gathering was afoot, but whoever wishes to protest the iniquitous privileges of those antiquated institutions, the monarchy and the aristocracy, has found a bosom companion in Cedric Huntington-Fauntleroy.”

“Rouse the rabble on, good fellow!” he shouted as the air turned still.

The awkward silence apparently stretched for a full minute, broken only by an occasional cough. One of the remaining black balloons deflated quietly on stage with a slow sighing gasp and many in the crowd fixed their attention on it until it was just a limp, wrinkled sack of latex.

Huntington-Fauntleroy himself became aware that his presence had yet again, and for reasons he never quite understood, caused the party to come grinding to a halt. But, in the classic British manner, having introduced himself he could not simply say goodbye without having made some kind of acceptable small talk, however excruciating for all concerned.

“And who are these chaps over here?” he asked, pointing to a group of protesters across the street. “Are they with us?”

Sadly, Éirígí (Arise) seemed unaware of the Swiftean irony of having a sit-down protest.

Another awkward silence hung over them all like a tombstone seen from the bottom of an unfilled grave, before one lone voice finally answered from the back. “Dey’re de socialist republican democrats,” said a strong Dublin accent. “Deir name’s Éirígí. It means ‘Arise.’ Dey’re having a sit-down protest.”

“Hoho!” chortled Huntington-Fauntleroy. “What wit! Reminiscent of Swift and Wilde, eh? Éirígí!” he shouted across the street, gesturing for the sit-down protesters to stand up. “Éirígí, hahaha,” he guffawed, before realising that perhaps it wasn’t meant as a piece of Swiftean satire and the humour drained slowly from his face as the awkward silence descended once more like a black cloud of unending gloom.

Whole minutes passed with nothing but the sound of shuffling shoes to fill them. Then the Queen and Prince Philip drove by, waved to the deathly silent crowd, and disappeared round the corner.

“Well, must be off,” said Huntington-Fauntleroy, seeing his chance. He tipped his hat and scooted away, while the listless crowd dispersed slowly, knowing that nothing had changed, and that Ireland would never truly escape the frightfully well-mannered but socially awkward yoke of the British aristocracy.

Hardcore Eurovision Fans Lament Moldova’s Poor Placing

Düsseldorf, Germany – As Azerbaijan celebrates being the first Central Asian country to win the Eurovision Song Contest, die-hard fans of the competition’s trite pop, malfitting costumes, and antic stage routines lamented the poor showing of Moldova.

The small Eastern European country lived down to the finest traditions of the Eurovision with a cheesy combo of rockin’ rappers singing in pidgin English while wearing giant dunce’s hats, before wowing Eurovision fans with a trumpet solo by a girl dressed as a fairy princess on a unicycle.

“Moldova just ticked all of our boxes,” said Michael Jaeger (47), head of Fans for the Real Eurovision, a continent-wide grouping of people dedicated to fighting the growing trend towards emphasising music and performance ability in the assessment of European music.

“From the medallions dangling pendulously between their knees like glittering scrotums to not being able to afford a stool for the drummer, Moldova really excelled itself this year and deserved at least a top three placing.”

“And, of course, the trumpeting unicycling fairy princess should have put it over the top and given it victory,” he added, to emphatic nods of agreement from Fans for the Real Eurovison, who looked depressed and angry at how the voting had gone.

"Is that the Israeli transsexual or the Irish guy?" asked Jaeger, scratching his head.

Previous winners of the Eurovision have included an Israeli transsexual, a Russian ice-skating on a small puddle, and Ireland. However, fans are worried that a growing number of Eastern European countries are taking the competition seriously, thereby raising performances to an unacceptable standard.

“They’re just not getting into the spirit of the Eurovision,” complained Jaeger. “I mean, at first I thought Azerbaijan was going down the traditional sexy girl route to Eurovision glory – short low-cut flouncy billowing dresses, and plenty of ‘em – but then some fag in a white suit showed up in the middle of them.”

“You can’t mix the ‘sexy girl’ with the ‘flaming queer guy’ approach, unless you do what Israel did and make them one person – Dana International.”

Jaeger also expressed disappointment at those traditional enemies of Europe, France, for sending someone who could actually sing. “The moment he hit that first note with a clear, ringing, operatic tenor voice I nearly vomited,” said Jaeger, looking visibly nauseous. “I mean, who do the French think they are?”

"What is that fag doing mixed in with the sexy girls?!" yelled an enraged Jaeger.

“They’ve just been pissed off ever since Abba won it with Waterloo back in ’74, but that was no reason to send a singer to the European Song Contest.”

“They’re just trying to ruin it for everybody else,” he added bitterly.

Many expressed dismay that traditional favourites had failed to make much of an impact. Former man and winner, Dana International of Israel, failed to make it past the semi-final stage. Ireland’s all-non-singing, all-non-dancing duo Jedward failed to live up to the hype, despite obviously forgetting their dance routines at one point.

“Well, the transsexual thing had been done, so Israel needs to up its game,” said Jaeger with a shrug. “And Ireland, while sending an entry to compete with the worst, still had an air of neediness about it this year, like they were trying too hard.”

“I mean, no one can be that shit by accident,” he added sceptically.

"Sorry, Ireland were just trying too hard to be shit this year," said Jaeger dismissively.

Fans for the Real Eurovision are mounting a campaign to recognise Moldova’s efforts this year and restore Eurovision to its former troughs of greatness.

“Look, some of those performances on Saturday weren’t that bad!” said Jaeger in disgust. “If they get any better, some of these acts might be just plain lousy. Then we might have an evening of lousy bands playing imitations of music, and we can get that an open-mic night in our local pubs.”

“Do you want to spend a Saturday evening in May listening to Europe’s best open-mic performers?” he shouted, to cries of “Never!” from increasingly frustrated fans who were riding around him on unicycles, blowing trumpets and waving their dunce’s hats in support of Moldova.