election day

Wandered into Uncle Scutch's pharmacy this afternoon.
John Coleman saluted me from behind the counter.
Colers.
Left ham of the devil.
I knew him once Horatio.
(Heelers is referring to Mr Coleman's acting abilities. There is a subtle play here both on words and on genres and also a randomised reference to Hamlet which is part of Heelers' current delusions. The phrase Left Ham Of The Devil calls to mind old cowboy films in which a left handed gunfighter who was super quick on the draw might be referred to as left hand of the devil. Note HAND. Hand as opposed to ham. Hilarious no! The ghost of Evelyn Waugh informs me that if a joke needs this much explanation, it's better to let it lie. - Ed note.)
Colers elbowed his way past the noisy and demonstrative mix of counter assistants and customers who seemed anxious to vie with him for my attention.
"I'm in a play," quoth he.
"I've heard," sez me.
"It's going to be a good un," quoth he.
"I doubt it," sez me.
"Why?" quoth he.
"Alan Ayckbourn is dead," sez me. "Dead, dead, dead. It's impossible to make him live. There's not an ounce of joy in what he writes. It's dead depressing British drawing room humour. No one in his plays believes in God. God doesn't even believe in God in Alan Ayckbourn plays. The stuff is inert. Humourless. Dead, dead, dead. It can't work. It doesn't even work for Brit audiences. You're doomed I tells ee. Your play is going down. You're gonna dieeee. You're doooooooooomed."
The pharmacy had fallen silent as it occasionally does when I hold forth thusly.
"I'll bet you a pound it works," quoth Colers with quiet dignity.
"I'll take that bet," I replied, shaking his hand.
I left the shop without collecting the items I was looking for.
The great poet always knows when to make his exit.
On Main Street the bright clear air of winter kissed me.
I spoke aloud briefly and musingly to myself: "Another nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine bets like that and I'm going to break even on the Irish Presidential elections."
I strolled up the street towards my feminist cousin Pauline's health food shop.
The ghost of Dionne Warwick appeared beside me.
As is her wont, she began to sing.
She was singing a parody of Do You Know The Way To San Jose, her hugely evocative 1960's collaboration with Burt Bacharach.
Pure poetry.
John Keats himself would have been proud to have written that thing.
Or sung it.
Well, so he's told me.
Anyhoo.
Dionne Warwick sang as follows:
"Kilcullen town has a lovely face
With windy roads and a coffee place
You can put a hundred down
And rent a bike
And join the drama group
If you like
Just grab the mike
It's not a sin
Ask John Coleman
They let anyone in
Do you know the way to Kilcullen?
Ner ner ner ner ner ner
There is nowhere quite like Kilcullen,
Ner ner ner ner ner ner.
You can offer ten grand
To charity
In the hope of beating
Michael D
For the Presidency
And all the stars
Who never were
Are writing blogs
Or feeding hamsters
Do you know the way to Kilcullen
Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner
There is really nowhere quite like Kilcullen
Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner."