return of the native

The noble Heelers, tanned and swarthy, having returned to the green Republic after a month ogling women round the world, encountered Shamie Brortigern on Main Street, hailed him, and repaired to the Tearman Cafe to catch up on events.
"So how has Ireland managed without me?" I enquired.
"The police are on strike," said Brortigern cautiously.
"They probably need the money," I mused. "Anything else."
"The teachers are going on strike too. For seven days."
"Ah, the helpless little lambs. They probably need something to spend on their six months holidays a year. Is that all?"
"The government is going to bail out the Irish Times and the Independent Newspaper group."
"Well what's good for the cops and the teachers is good for the journos," I smiled. "Anything else?"
"The Civil Servants are threatening strike action next month," said Brortigern.
"They'd be fools not to," I purred. "Anything else?"
"Your old pal Judge Desmond Zaidan issued a bench warrant for the arrest of a member of Ireland's parliament who was accused of exceeding the speed limit by five miles an hour in a 30 mile an hour zone."
"Good old Judge Zaidan," I chuckled. "He's such a scamp. Anything else."
"Wow, Heelers, you've mellowed. There was a time when you'd have gotten upset about things like that. Nothing else really. Oh. One thing. John Coleman bought a greyhound while you were away and it's won seven races. He's got a real champion on his hands."
I stared at him aghast.
"Colers with a champion greyhound," I breathed. "Great Scott. I've wandered into a parallel universe."