Monsignor Willy.

Rome may try to lay claim to Catholicism but for me it’s Ireland. There’s a certain surrealism about the Irish and Catholics that transcends any construct I might fondly apply to the human race. Like the meanderings of dotage or the news from an altered universe I have no idea what they’re going to do next, or for that matter why they’ve just done it. Last evenings dinner was no exception. As a hundred and fifty of us sat down to our meal Kevin introduced our honoured guests, Tony Curry and Monsignor Willy. Unfortunately anything vaguely smutty sets Mothermouse off so the image of a stiff-backed reverential purple robed French penis was too much to bear. Under the table she texts her daughter, “At St Wilfreds do…. The bishop is called Monsignor Willy. I need help” and receives a reply, “There is no way out of it mum you’re trapped in a sitcom episode. Innuendos will only get worse from here. Good luck!” After the meal and Mothermouse shamelessly lusting after our handsome young waiter, who in return gave her an extra helping of bread and butter pudding, we are treated to Tony Curry’s life as a footballer. Tony, as with anyone who’s led an interesting life, was not that interested in talking about it so Kevin, assuming the role of a News of the World reporter, prompted him through the highs and lows of it, extracting anecdotes like teeth. After thirty minutes Mothermouse was playing with her phone, by an hour she was eating it, and when Kevin asked for questions we were both silently shouting, “No, please no questions!!” In response to the third Tony had to explain that after doing a synchronised roly-poly with a teammate they, in post roly-poly exuberance, kissed and that that was how he became a gay icon in Sweden. You can’t write this stuff. We donned our cloaks of invisibility and weedled our way out through the tables. From the foyer we heard Kevin ask if anyone wanted to sing. Pardon? Really? But sure enough two ladies were happy to do their operatic party pieces unaccompanied into the mike. The Catholic mind is a marvel to behold, to be sure.