Life of Riley: St Patrick and the shamrock
Would that be St Patrick?
'Tis.
The patron saint of dear old Ireland.
'Tis indeed.
What manner of reason brings you to these antipodean shores?
The Irish.
Ah, yes — the Irish.
And I was wondering if you could stand me a pint of the black stuff?
For sure.
I'm destitute of moisture being so long dead.
[Readers will have to assume that the normal waiting period involved in pouring a good head on a large glass of stout has transpired and the patron saint's moustache is now soaked with the stuff as he drains his glass of the last drop of its goodness.]
Ahhhh. That hits the spot. I wonder?
For you, your worshipness, no probs. Another coming right up.
God bless you my son. It is a true Christian act to stand a dead man a few pints on his name day. But before we settle into some serious imbibing, I must tell you that I have come among you to deliver a special homily and this is it: if the leaves of a shamrock are taken from it — first the one, then the other and finally the third — the palm of your hand will then be empty. Why? Because a shamrock has but three leaves and can only exist as one undivided whole with each of its three parts dependent on the other.
So too is it with telecommunications. How so, you ask? What is the connection between a shamrock and a telephone?
It is this: there is very little. While some may see in a telephone a four-leafed clover, their best efforts to that end are sure to fail.
I offer these words to you as a warning. Beware men bearing gifts such as these. And heed me when I say that owning a piece of a shamrock is owning nothing but a piece of something that once was a shamrock. For in casting lots for remnants of the shamrock, its very thingness is lost.
No more shamrock?
No more living in clover. Such are the fruits of a share in a shamrock-owning society.
By Dave Riley