Perhaps Jambo's gone ahead of the rest of the troops on a sort of reconnaissance mission, checking out their chosen destinations of retreat for when the shit hits the fan? They were talking about heading up to Iceland, Norway, and even Finland - like these countries have an open-door policy for fleeing Irish gnomes and fatties who need refuge after their homelands were overtaken by the black man. That there's a special place in every white man's heart for the misfortunate and blighted Irish whose nationalist dreams crashed onto the rocks and sank the shitty little island once and for all.
They say this in all seriousness too.
'
Right lads, it's all over - grab your gear and let's go.'
And so they embark on a magical journey from Hell, fleeing Dublin to Holyhead on the SeaLink, on to Felixstowe for the ferry over to Gothenburg, then across the Swedish badlands and finally into Stockholm port to catch the ferry to Finland, where they'll be expecting a hero's welcome from the hardy but gullible Finns who'll take them in, give them salmiakki to warm the bones, rye bread and cheese, traditional potato pies, viini, viina, lots of olut, some reindeer cutlets with a nice mushroom sauce, and some moose for dessert. The type with huge horns and tiny brains.
Then it's into the coolth of the lake for a wash, all the lads giggling and cupping their little willies beneath the rolls of flab as they climb out and try to figure out what the fuck a sauna is. Where to sit. What to do. '
Why's it so dark in here?' and then stumbling into the kiivas and roasting the skin off their feet. When they're finally out of breath from the steam, out they pile and into the snow to cool down. Willies and balls all the way up into the belly at this stage.
Then it's time for housing and money issues: Finnish Kela offers them lists of addresses and tells them to pick one. Into the free apartment they go and there's already mail from Kela, the Finnish welfare body, under the letterbox. Cheques for two-hundred and thirty euros (
same as their weekly dole in Ireland you see) and free tickets for the zoo, the cinema, and the parliament house. Later the Finns gather outside Paddy's new front door, singing traditional songs of loss and yearning for the homelands, the breaking of spirit and the emergence of a new sense of Finnish sisu about themselves. Bravery, courage, ready to do battle, but sadly without a country of origin to defend. Ireland, overrun with half the middle east and most of Africa's populations is sinking fast, they're glad to have gotten out just in time to save themselves - with some whispers about how the women and children can come later. If they're still alive what with Jamal and his machete collection getting itchy fingers and a wanton lust for blood and human flesh growing ever stronger.
The Arsefield's lads, all safe and sound in lovely Finland, the world's happiest nation - seven years on the fucking trot - and they just wonder why they didn't think of it sooner:
'
This is fucking awesome' - says Roundy, eyeballing all the vintage American roadsters on the highways.
'
I'm lost' says Coal Buckett - '
I want to go home'.
'
Quit yer yappin'' - says Sham, '
and get away from that yellow snow, you doofus'.
'
What in the name of fuck language are these cunts speaking?' asks Jambo.
'
Just keep nodding and smiling', says Roundy, '
and don't mention the war'.
Next morning they awake to baskets of fresh fruit and fresh bread.
The raising of the tricolour next to the Finnish standard.
The singing of
Amhrán na bhFiann, in English, broken Irish, and gibberish.
Then it's time to pick a wife: all the lovely white and golden-blond ladies parade up and down the side of the lake, flashing boobs and twerking those nice firm buttocks. Roundy gets the small fatty, Jambo gets a trannie, Sham picks a bloke, and Saul's too scared to say or do anything - he's not used to thinking for himself. There's one chick still left after the ceremony and everyone's wondering where Myles is. Then they see him, face down in the water, too much salmiakki and jaloviina, drunk as a lord, cold as a Sami midget lost on the tundras. Two days in and one man down.
Frequent treks over to Iceland and Norway are offered on an almost daily basis in order to bring the lads up to speed with the traditional Nordic lifestyle. Free beer in Norway or Iceland is nothing to be sniffed at, what with it being fifteen to twenty-five euros a pint depending which city you're in and in which season. Watching Paddy trying to build an igloo is made into a hit TV show for the Scandinavians to laugh at. Nordic people, as a rule, don't laugh. They're serious people, not clowns. But Paddy knows how to charm anyone, and so he happily acts out his lapdog role as the village idiot. He hasn't much choice but sure what do you expect when you're a refugee?
Which is exactly what they'll become as soon as they open their fucking eyes and take a look around them.
They'll become the very thing they hate the most: welfare tourists.
Except in their case, they know they're entitled to it.
It's the one subject they're all well-versed in.
'Paddy: The Nordic Green Dream'
Coming this autumn on pay-per-view. Watch as Paddy and Bridie try to learn to ski cross-country style. See them fall and struggle to get back up. Experience second-hand as they try to catch and skin a moose. Laugh along as they try to start the sauna but haven't a fucking clue what's going on. Enjoy the banter as they argue about whose turn it is to dig a new Shitting Ditch.