It is apt that I begin this epistle of woe on All Fool’s Night by the shores of the currently sullen Shannon rushing through the bridge which separates my Killaloe from the equally historic town of Ballina on the Tipperary shore.

Debbie McGoldrick asked me to try and meet my deadline despite being struck down by a bout of influenza and sure, as ye well know by now, I am putty in her gifted editorial hands even when being under the weather on Fool’s Night.

Forgive me in advance for the species of errors and mistakes which, certainly on our media screens over here (yours too I sense over there) strongly prove that we are indeed enduring a real genuine Fools’ Night, especially on all the political fronts that impact so powerfully upon us all.

Is it not clear now that if an Irish government in this embattled republic behaved in such a chaotic fashion as those sitting as honorable members on the benches in Westminster for the past two years of Brexit moves that we would be scoffed at for alleged Paddywhackery by the politicians sitting below Big Ben?

This evening, just before I began writing, they rejected no less than four more alternative counter plans to that which has already been rejected three times from Theresa May, their prime minister who says that if they pass her Brexit deal she will resign as their leader before the next general election.

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Meanwhile, in total chaos, the Democratic Unionist Party which has been propping up the Maytime Mayhem for years has withdrawn its support totally because of the situation in relation to our strange border.  The mind boggles, as the media screens flicker all the developments of a running story which affects us all.

It changes every hour of All Fool’s night, and nobody knows what is likely to explode on the scene by dawn.  Many political analysts have already said strongly that they are as baffled as this poor fool in Clare, but all fear that the U.K. is very close indeed to crashing out of the European Community without a deal almost by accident rather than design.

Since I began writing this piece, another senior member of the incredibly riven May cabinet dramatically announced that he was instantly leaving the Conservatives in protest.  I’m sure there will be even further Brexit developments before the dawn.

I’m aware I’m sniffling away freely because of the flu, but you can be certain there will be many sniffling sufferers before there is a Brexit of some kind one way or another.  Don’t hold your breath.

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Seeking some kind of relief in the small hours of this morning, I tuned into developments around the White House for some serenity. It was not there at all either.

The story hitting the headlines, as ye know better than I, highlighted your esteemed president apparently threatening to close the Mexican border soonest to stop an influx of migrants from south of that line.

Staff were being rushed down to that other border to support existing patrols, and whilst they are doing their duty around Texas and thereabouts it is almost guaranteed that your leader will be spending time in Ireland and, perhaps, just perhaps, he will devise one of his brilliant strategies to make Ireland, on both sides of its hard border, really great again.  Nothing would surprise me and my sore head on this Fool’s night.

There was one apparent real miracle on the hazy horizon last weekend. I’m still not certain that I was dreaming that Mayo’s footballers actually defeated Kerry in a big GAA league decider in Croke Park.

For decades now the Dublin stadium has been a real Choke Park for many great Mayo teams in the big games, especially in finals against Kerry.  But if it did occur, then there is clear proof that despite the modern plight of the Catholic Church the spirituality of Knock still endures.

I’ll check in the morning after Fool’s Day departs again and will celebrate properly above in Walsh’s pub with a hot toddy or something more healing for my flu than even the most powerful Knock water!

That’s it for now.