the monica leech gamble in

Picture it.
A handsome Irish poet is walking in his garden.
The day is going down.
Listen.
Midst the gentle murmurings of roosting wood pigeons and havening swallows, midst the rustle of hedgerow and sigh of evening breeze, midst the distant unutterably sweet clamour of children from the orchard and the elegaic barking of dogs in neighbours' gardens...
Listen...
You can hear him speak.
He is muttering to himself.
Muttering to himself like a loon.
His words go:
"When oh when will some free nation of the western world elect a government that I have bet they would elect? Bloody Conservative alliance with the Lib Dems. Who would have seen that one coming? I ask you. A pox on both their houses. Five hundred smackers down the karzie. Varre Varre redde legiones."
And so he walks.
A haunted soul.
Still emperor of all he surveys.
But only just.
Varrus is the name of my bookie.