Welcome To Pebble Beach

Wherein the glorious Celtic hero Oisin, having eloped to the land of eternal youth with Niamh the Unbelievable, briefly returns home in order to retrieve his favourite toothbrush, whereupon he finds that all is changed, changed utterly …

We present our sleek, up to the minute, ineffably trendy new radio soap, showing off modern Ireland’s waxed and gleaming thighs to a relentlessly watching world. Yes Ladies and gentlemen, it’s ‘Pebble Beach.’

Scene: Vogue, our hot hotelier heroine, is relaxing early one morning with her boyfriend, airline pilot Rick McFlick.

Vogue: Fancy a law-tay darling?

Rick: Wha? Oh yeah, love a law-tay baby. God you make such great law-tays.

Vogue: Well I can’t claim all the credit, lovey puffs. It’s partly this incredibly expensive law-tay making machine from Italy, imported at great expense from, er, Italy. You see we can do things like that now in the economic titan that is new Ireland, now that we’ve recovered from, er, that thing we don’t talk about. It comes with four different types of cream.

Rick: Oooh darling. You’re almost as good at law-tay making as you are at lovemaking, and you don’t need a complicated machine to do that, apart, of course from your fabulously complicated body, and er, that machine we picked up in Amsterdam last year.

Vogue: Oh Rick, you’re such a sexy and eloquent airline pilot.

Rick: Thanks babe, and you’re brilliant at whatever it is you do as well.

[Phone rings.]

Vogue: Just a second hot cheeks. [Answers phone] Yes? What is it Fergus? Oh calm down. You know how difficult it is to understand your high pitched voice when you hyperventilate. Ok, ok don’t worry. I’ll be down in a minute.

Rick: What’s wrong?

Vogue: Oh, it’s just Fergus. He’s having a problem with someone in the hotel.

Rick: It’s great the way characters like Fergus are accepted in Ireland now, almost as if they’re just like us. I mean, obviously we still laugh at them, but sensitively.

Vogue: Yeah, he’s such a dote.

Rick: Darling, where exactly is Pebble Beach?

Vogue: It’s a state of the art tourism facility and convention centre located somewhere on one or other of the Irish coasts. It boasts 200 ultra-modern rooms, fully connected wifi, cooking which fuses traditional Irish themes with cuisine from the South Pacific, and there’s even free porn in the rooms if you pay 5 euro extra. Why?

Rick: Oh, no reason. Just trying to remember where I parked my Jumbo Jet. Anyway baby cakes [long and lurid smacking of the lips]. See you later.

Next scene: A busy hotel lobby.

Vogue: Well Fergus, what’s the worst?

Fergus: First off, the Filipino gardener says he’s going on strike if he doesn’t get that 30 cent a year pay rise.

Vogue: Tell him he can have an extra stick of Twix with his dinner. Next?

Fergus: We’ve managed to scrape most of the puke from the hen party off the ceiling. Fifteen of the ladies are still asleep in their own filth, three of them have run off with a fishing trawler and one of them thinks she’s a small village in the Kerry mountains. She keeps screaming that can she Mark Hamill taking a shower.

Vogue: All very normal. What’s the problem?

Fergus: That fella over there. Oh he’s doing my head in so he is. I swear to God Vogue, I’m about to have that long promised breakdown any second now.

Vogue: Sure calm your little gay head down peteen. Have an extra frothy law-tay or something. Who is it? That guy over there, with the white robe and the enormous white beard?

Fergus: Yah, I mean what? Does he think he’s in Eurovision or something? I mean: fashion tragedy. Lord of the Rings went out a century ago. I accused him of being a homophobe and he threatened to hit me with that giant walking stick.

Vogue: I’ll take care of it. Uh, hello sir, welcome to our state of the art, truly deeply modern Irish hospitality facility, symbolising all that is waxed, gleaming and not in any way sleazy about the modern Irish state. How may I help you?

Oisin [In a deep voice which rumbles with the vague sound of pipe music being played from the top of a distant mountain]: I seek the ancient heroes of this land. I seek to take my rightful ease in the halls of the great Finn Mac Cool. I wish to drink mead and eat roasted venison while bards sing of the deeds of great men such as, though not exclusively limited to, myself.

Vogue: Oh that’s very good. Are you with one of those historical recreation societies? That sounds like fun, even if all those people are a bit weird, but fun.

Oisin: What are these words? They are the mindless chirrup of birds. I left this land but ten minutes ago, in the arms of Niamh the Wondrous, Princess of Tir na Nog, but then I remembered I’d forgotten my toothbrush and favourite belt buckle, so back I came, only to find this … This abomination where my father’s halls used to be.

Vogue: Er, you aren’t German by any chance, are you?

Oisin: Mead! Hounds! I shall put this entire place to the sword.

Fergus: Told you. He’s a mentaller.

Oisin: You shall be first, earwig.

[Phone makes beeping sound.]

Vogue: Calm down Fergus. Sir, I’m sure we can sort all this out. Fergus, get that map, the one with, you know, all the historical places on it. Now. Oh no!

Fergus: What’s wrong?

Vogue: According to this unusually long text message I’ve just been sent, Rick McFlick is actually married to a TV presenter in leafy South Dublin. They have three point four kids and a Golden Retriever named Denis. Oh no, he’s been lying to me.

Fergus: Oh that’s horrible darling. How about a law-tay and a facial?

New voice: Vogue darling, hello. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you after all these years.

Vogue: Fitzwilliam Sharkey, the merchant banker who stole my heart on a vodka and Pernod soaked evening just before the, eh, thing we don’t talk about. But you sent me a note telling me you were dead.

Sharkey: Not dead darling, merely away on important merchant banking related business. And if I may say so, I have become even more rich and you have become even more beautiful since last we met.

Vogue: Oh swoon! Fergus, put on a law-tay. Stat.

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