the divine what

Driving along the open road to South Kildare.
Esmerelda the car rattling merrily in robust mechanical good health.
The Mammy in the passenger seat savouring the divine afflatus of Autumn and engine noise over the heartland.
"You know," sez she conversationally, "there's a great new reality TV show starting tonight. It's a sort of talent competition for school children who want to be variety performers. You could go in for that. You could dress up as a school kid and pretend you're about fifteen years old. I'd say you'd be great."
The car swerves violently.
I cannot abide reality TV or the mention thereof.
Worse still is a mention thereof that involves me.
"You know our agreement Lil," sez I. "If you mention reality TV, I get to do my girl singers parody."
Parody?
More of a homage really.
In fact it's my own personal tribute to the young women currently being exploited by the record industry.
A tribute to the good ones anyway.
Let me put it this way.
Rarely does the factory hot house of popular music manage to churn out a single genuine talent, let alone three genuine talents at the same time, as has happened at the moment.
And so I sang.
My voice was melodic, sensual, urban, vaguely cockney.
At least it was, if you're Irish.
My cockney accent is convincing for an Irish audience.
Cor blimey guv, and all that.
If you're English it would be more true to say I sounded like a Billy O'Leary leprechaun on drugs.
And so I sang:
"I wish,
oh I wish I could take Amy Winehouse to a parrrrrty,
But I caunnnnt.
And I wish,
oh I wish I could bring Lily Allen on holidayyyyyy,
But I caunnnnnnnnt.
And I really wish,
yes I really wish, I could maaaaaaaaaaaarry Kate Nash
But I caunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnt."
When I had finished this sublime outpouring, the Mammy eyed me owlishly.
"I promise," sez she, "I'll never mention reality television again."