Miss Caroline Morahan, and Her Fabulous Role in Irish Life

The facts, from what can be pieced together from my own recollections and the Garda files, are these: on New Year's Eve, December 31st, 2005, I, An Spailpín Fánach of the County Mayo, was summoned for "emergency coffee" by my very dear friend, Nessa Nic Lir. Nessa had been having a very bad day and needed cheering up, so we repaired to that joint on Grafton Street that isn't Bewley's, even though it looks like Bewley's, feels like Bewley's, and charges through the snout like Bewley's used to do. Go figure. Anyway, Nessa ordered a skinny chinny whinny chino, with skimmed milk, marshmallows and chocolate powder sprinkles. An Spailpín Fánach had tay. We got down to business straightaway.

"I hate her so, so much," said Nessa. "That fat cow."

"Ara musha whist," said An Spailpín, comfortingly. "You don't really. You only think you do."

"You don't understand. You'll never understand. I hate hate hate hate hate her."

"But she's done nothing to you, Nessa. You've never even met her. You've only seen her on the telly."

Nessa glared at me. "That's not the point. You don't understand. You'll never understand. You're such a pig!"

"Well, there's not much I can do about that Nessa. I'm trying to be your friend, but I just don't see what you've got against Caroline Morahan. It doesn't make any sense to me. She's just some girl on the telly, that's all. A fairly fit one, but - what the Hell is that? It sounds like a tuba. Who plays a tuba in Bewley's? Even in this strange ersatz neo-Bewley's that we find ... er, Nessa? What are you doing?"

My companion had pushed her chair away from the table, a mad and unearthly light shining in her eye. She stood up and began to pace the floor. People began staring. An Spailpín Fánach started dreading the worst. The tuba was getting louder and louder - Dum dada dumdum, dum dada dumdum...

Nessa began to speak. Dum dada dumdum, dum dada dumdum...

"Dear God, you made many, many size thirteens. I realize, of course, that it's no shame to be beef to the heels, like the Mullingar heifer. But it's no great honour either! So, what would have been so terrible if I had an RTÉ contract?"

Dum dada dumdum, dum dada dumdum...

"If I were a Morahan,
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
All day long I'd biddy biddy bum.
If I were Caroline.
I wouldn't have to work hard.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy Mor-,
Yidle-diddle-didle-didle -ahan."

"Ah God Nessa, this is going to be a scene, isn't it? People are staring."


"I'd have gowns and frocks and shoes by the dozen,
Each bought on account at BT.
And I'd always wear the most exotic furs.
Paris and Rome would be my destinations
- Although Dublin's where my heart would always be -
If I had a rack like hers!

"The Horse Show in summer, in all of my glory,
Soaking up the sun in Dublin 4.
Looking at all the horses, the greys and bays.
In the evening on the town going dancing,
But there's only one boy I want to score -
Who else but Philip Boucher Hayes!

"Oy!

"If I were a Morahan,
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
All day long I'd biddy biddy bum.
If I were Caroline.
I wouldn't have to work hard.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy Mor-,
Yidle-diddle-didle-didle -ahan."

"I don't believe this, I really don't. What will Sister Mary think in the Convent?"

At that point in time of course, Sister Mary's opinion was about as relevant as An Spailpín Fánach's. The café crowd had separated into two camps - the ones who joined in con brio, and even shouted along with the "Oy!"s at Nessa's punchlines, and those that bore hats, coats and scarves to their breasts, and beat a hasty retreat to the exits. And so, as Bertie Wooster used to say, the long day wore on. Oy!

"I'd drink champers and spritzers with that rugger set
And I'd spend a lot of time in Donnybrook -
When I'm not working hard in RTÉ.
And later in the night when I'd meet Brian O'Driscoll
I'd say 'So long Glenda, take a final look
Because Ireland's call is calling now for me!'

"But you know, it's not all glamour.
I'd be a serious journalist - I'd have a qualification from - whisper it - DCU!
And I'd walk the geo-political stage - in the most fabulous shoes, of course...


"I'd read Chomsky and Pilger and even Robert Fisk
And the nature of jihad I'd investigate
You'll have never ever seen a harder worker
Til we do Off the Rails from war-torn Palestine
And I find a arab female who doesn't look so great
And I say 'now's the time to pimp this burqa.'

"Oy!

"If I were a Morahan,
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
All day long I'd biddy biddy bum.
If I were Caroline.
I wouldn't have to work hard.
Ya ha deedle deedle, bubba bubba deedle deedle dum.
If I were a biddy biddy Mor-,
Yidle-diddle-didle-didle -ahan."

Pandemonium, as you can imagine. Grow men weeping. Old ladies snuffling into their hankies. An Spailpín Fánach, hypocrite to the last, was telling all and sundry that yes, Nessa is a very dear friend and he had always encouraged her to be A Star. Sweetness and light all round, in fact, except for some young fella who was trying to make a few pound doing Blue Oyster Cult covers on Grafton Street. Realising that a showtunes revival wasn't going to help that endeavour, in he goes to Bewley's and tries to do mortal harm to Nessa, swinging his axe like it was an actual axe, instead of a second-hand Strat that fell off the back of a lorry. And bounced a few times.

Nessa wasn't sharing her spotlight with anyone, least of all some pikey. She went for him karate-style, a la Miss Piggy in the Muppet Show, and both fell in kicking, biting and gouging heap. Other punters picked a side and then dived in themselves, until a full scale riot was in effect, and had to be stopped by a battalion of coppers and two Russian sailors, who were only in town because one of them was on a promise from some babushka from back in the Motherland, now resident in Parnell Street and working as a dancer, of all things. We're all up before the beak for the Hilary term, and as I sat in my cell with my new friends Pavel and Igor, I wondered: Who the hell is Caroline Morahan anyway, and why is everybody suddenly talking about her? What does she do? Because one cup of tay, impromptu showtune performance and several blows dealt and taken later, I still have no idea.

Culture, Satire, RTÉ