Who called me Ireland? Was it a Prince from Nigeria? A Leprachuan telling me I just inherited a pot of gold? The other day My mobile, the fancy one I got for Christmas (and still haven’t figured out half the buttons on), it let out this wee digital chirp. An unknown number. My gut, you see, it’s usually right as rain, especially when it comes to avoiding trouble. But this time, there was a wee whisper of curiosity, like a rogue breeze on a still day.
The Velvet Fog and a Voice from the Beyond
So, I answered it, didn’t I? Against all better judgement, the voice of reason in my head was clearly off having a pint somewhere. And the voice that greeted me? Jaysus, it was like warm poteen on a cold night, all smooth and a bit… foreign. Not “down the road in Cork” foreign, mind you. More like “halfway across the bleedin’ world” foreign.
“Greetings,” it boomed, this fella, with enough enthusiasm to lift a donkey over a ditch. “Is this… Ireland?”
Ireland? Begorrah! Did I suddenly sprout a field of spuds in my back garden? Did the Cliffs of Moher relocate themselves to my front doorstep? I had a quick shufty around the sitting room. Nope. Still the same slightly dusty haven of half-read newspapers and the lingering scent of last night’s fish and chips.
“Uh, yeah, speaking,” I mumbled, feeling like I’d wandered into some sort of madcap spy film where my secret identity was apparently the entire blooming country.
Prince Kwame of Ballygobackward, Nigeria (No Relation to the Real One, Obviously)
The fella let out a right hearty laugh, like a barrel rolling down a cobblestone street. “Ah, grand so, Ireland! I’ve been trying to get through. The name’s Prince… well, for now, you can just call me ‘Your Majesty’s Humble Servant.’ I am the esteemed Prince Kwame, from the… the thriving metropolis of Ballygobackward in Nigeria.”
Ballygobackward in Nigeria? Now, I’ve heard a few yarns in my time, but that one takes the biscuit, and probably the whole bleedin’ biscuit tin. My internal “something’s not right here” klaxon was now going off like a banshee at a hurling final.
“And the reason for this… royal decree, Your Highness of the African Ballygobackward?” I asked, trying to sound like I wasn’t talking to a character from a particularly surreal dream.
The Deceased Leprechaun and the Mountain of Gold (Presumably Smaller Than Croagh Patrick)
“My dear Ireland,” he went on, his voice smoother than a freshly poured pint of Guinness, “it has come to my attention, through… let’s just say, divinely inspired pigeon post… that a distant relative of yours, a right wealthy little fella by the name of Seamus O’Millionaire, has sadly kicked the bucket. A leprechaun, you see.”
A leprechaun? Jaysus wept. This was getting better and better. I nearly swallowed my tongue laughing.
“And the good news, my dear Ireland,” Prince Kwame continued, “is that you are the sole inheritor of his vast fortune! Mountains of gold, I tell you! Enough to keep you in Tayto crisps and the odd pilgrimage to Lourdes for the rest of your days!”
My mind, bless its cotton socks, tried to process this. Leprechauns. Millions. Nigeria. This had to be a wind-up. Either that, or I’d finally cracked and started having conversations with the garden gnomes.
Chief Jabu Jabu of Upper Timbuktu (Who Apparently Has Better Wi-Fi Than Rural Ireland)
Just when I thought the madness couldn’t escalate, another voice chimed in, even more exotic than Prince Kwame. “Greetings, oh great Ireland! I am Chief Jabu Jabu, from the technologically advanced kingdom of Upper Timbuktu! We are assisting His Royal Highness in this most fortunate transaction!”
Upper Timbuktu? Technologically advanced? I was picturing fellas in tribal gear fiddling with iPads.
Chief Jabu Jabu continued, his voice crackling slightly, probably due to the aforementioned pigeon-based internet. “Due to certain… minor administrative hurdles… involving the proper transfer of enchanted shillelaghs and pots of gold, we require a small… facilitation fee… just a few thousand of your fine Irish pounds. Think of it as a small investment in your future of unimaginable riches, Ireland!”
A facilitation fee, you say? Jaysus, of course! Because that’s exactly how you claim your leprechaun inheritance from Nigeria via a phone call from Upper Timbuktu. It’s all perfectly logical, like putting your socks on before your shoes.
My Worldly Wisdom Prevails (Just About)
I took a deep breath, trying to channel the spirit of every cynical farmer who’s ever been offered a “too good to be true” deal down at the mart. “Right, Prince Kwame of Ballygobackward, Nigeria, and Chief Jabu Jabu of technologically superior Upper Timbuktu,” I said, my voice as steady as a milkmaid’s hand. “With all due respect, the only gold I’m expecting to see anytime soon is the gold foil on my Easter egg from last year. And the only ‘facilitation’ I’ll be doing involves facilitating myself to the kettle for another cup of tea.”
There was a brief silence on the line, like the moment just before the heavens open on a Bank Holiday Monday. Then, Prince Kwame let out a sigh that could deflate a bouncy castle. “Ah, Ireland,” he lamented. “You are a tough nut to crack! But fear not, our generous offer remains! Just a small token of your appreciation will unlock your destiny!”
“My destiny,” I replied, with the weary wisdom of a man who’s seen it all, “involves trying to figure out how to work the timer on the immersion heater. Thanks for the fantastical tale, lads, but I think I’ll stick to my lot.”
And with that, I bid them farewell and hung up the phone, feeling a strange mix of amusement and the nagging suspicion that I’d just missed out on a lifetime supply of enchanted potatoes.
The Moral of the Story (If There Is One Beyond the Blarney)
So, who called me “Ireland”? The mystery remains. Was it a genuine wrong number, a prank by some lads with too much time on their hands, or a sign that I need to cut back on the late-night cheese and onion crisps?
One thing’s for sure, the next time my phone rings with an unknown international number, I’m going back to my tried-and-true method: ignore it until it goes away. Unless, of course, it’s Prince Aloysius of Lower Dingle offering me free pints of the black stuff for life. Now that’s a royal decree I’d be inclined to answer. Jaysus, wouldn’t that be the life?
About the Author
