My motor car crept along, under the majestic shape of Co. Sligo’s prominent mountain, Ben Bulben, covered in an ominous black cloud, as I and the wife explored Yeats’ Country.

We filled up at Betty Hanharan’s, with a huge pot of tea to follow,
and met an old chap called Brian, whose delight it was to visit such a splendid county.

‘I’ll buy you a glass of stout,’ he told us,
‘down the road where the firebugs float in the fading light.’

As we strolled along the strand, I wondered, where had I met him before?
Was it at a dance in a barn?

Then he told us he’d played melodion in an English country band,
during his time in our disunited kingdom.

He even dabbled on the cello, with emerging pop band The Eclectic Late Orchestra.

He mentioned seeing Boris Johnson, ‘Mr Fixit’ himself, cycling through my favourite
part of his former London mayoral domain, Camden.

He told us, ‘I used to play in London’s Cecil Sharp House, home of English folk song,
and the punters loved my button accordion.’

‘Folk music icons Sandy Denny, Swarb and Ashley Hutchings visited there,
unearthing songs of these islands from its library of sheet music,
ballads telling of sailors battling stormy seas, maidens looking for their maidenhead,
and soldiers fighting for Britain against Napoleon.

‘But who’s heard of them?
‘Instead, the radio waves are full of great, but commercial artistes,
like the The Beatles, Stones and Elton.’

Then a storm hit, the wind making a sound not unlike a Scottish bag pipe,
or indeed, the Irish version, with the tongue-twisting name of uilleann.

‘It sounds like O’Carolan’s Ode to Sligo,’ our acquaintance informed us,
‘you know, he was a famous blind harper, although the notes seem to be in C sharp;
but let’s go, the wind’s getting stronger.’

As we were hurrying, a huge black cloud appeared above, and our new pal looked pale as he saw a vision resembling a man called Johnson.

A guy in Hanharan’s bar commented, ‘Sure, old Boris has lost his charm,
and the English have kicked him out.’

Another quipped, ‘Sure, every cloud has a silver-haired former prime minister, and for him, I’m told, some in the British political elite are still pining.’

The next day our friend informed us he’d had a vision in the night.

It was of former politician Boris, who sternly reminded him that he would often,
after a hard day as London mayor, sneak into Cecil Sharp House, and hear the musicians sing and play.

And can he join him in Hanrahans for a pint of stout?

‘I’ve stopped flogging myself as a Winston Churchill expert,’ he declared,
‘and am now embracing that great poet, William Butler Yeats, now I’ve got Brexit done.

‘I love his poem, The Wild Swans At Coole.

‘Maybe the Taoiseach will welcome me, having forgotten all the fuss about the Northern Ireland Protocol.’

‘A man with a cause is left adrift nowadays,’ said Brian, ‘as we’re all European.’

Then added, ‘You’re welcome in Ireland, but you can’t resurrect your career here, you know.’

‘Thanks,’ he replied, ‘but don’t misunderstand me, Eire belongs in Europe.’

‘You’re like an old cowboy,’ commented Brian,
‘chasing the buffalo and Red Indian, too old to get your foot in the stirrup.

But his new acquaintance countered, ‘I run every day, so I’d look good in a saddle.’

Adding, ‘I might join our new King Charles for a game of polo...’

An old fellow at the bar laughed, ‘You mean the game played by posh people
with their arses in the air, wielding those sticks?’

Brian then interjected, with a frown on his face.
‘I haven’t seen any security people with you.
All former PMs have them, or are you a victim of cutbacks?’

‘Oh,’ Boris replied, looking a bit worried, ‘they’re incognito.’

Just then in walked an English tourist, who asked for ‘Sweet Guinness’.

The barman laughed, ‘Do you mean Beamish? Sure, that’s a Cork drink.’

‘Oh, it’s for my dog, she’s a prize poodle.’

Then looking round she shrieked, ‘So that’s where you are, Tim!
I’ve been looking all over for you.’

‘The lookalike agency called – you know that TV show 10 Out Of 10 Dogs?

‘They want you to have a pretend boxing match with Bud Plank; he’s so good,
you’d swear he was Donald Trump.

‘Oh, and there’s been another request from that former prime minister, Boris,
to stop impersonating him, especially in Ireland.

'You’ve been saying things like, ‘It’s a backward place, full of priests and turf bogs.’

‘You make him look a fool – I know, I laughed too.’

‘The Irish still haven’t forgotten he was less than honest, over something called the Protocol.’

That evening the band's lead singer got a laugh after his witty quip,
‘This next song’s by an Englishman, but it’s very good!’

Looking at Tim, he said, ‘It’s by a band called The Who, entitled, Don’t Get Fooled Again!’

Brian interjected at this, saying, ‘I knew them, back in the heady days of British pop.’

As we drove home the next day, the black cloud had lifted over Ben Bulben.