'Sam Hogan?' some wit risks slyly and is quickly silenced with a glare. 'Samogon,' Long Match snarls, 'is home brewed vodka to stir your innermost. Next time I'm up there I'll bring down a crate to test you all.'

Long Match Greim, so known from the time he burnt himself with a standard match and never used short matches again, is not a man to be trifled with. 'I'm fed up hearing about Milo Fluffe and his Irish poitin. My family in the Carpathians have been making samogon for centuries.'

'At all, at all, is an Irishism I picked up at 'The Sod'. They tell me there that I have a natural fetch for the blather. Buddy the guv'nor tells me that Ireland had not one but two Jewish Lord Mayors of Dublin. 'The first was Leopold Bloom, I forget the second.'

When Milo came back from AWOL it was usually with a case or two of best poitin from the Hochfelz, a couple of bottles of which always landed on Oberstleutnant Biermann's desk by way of a penance when the miscreant was brought before him.

When I served with him in the Fex Militia Milo Fluffe went AWOL so many times he was known as Furlough Fluffy. And he always got away with it cos his folk originally came from the West of Ireland from whence they brought with them the skills of making poitin.

'The Sod' aka 'The Sod in Exile' is the place to go to soak up the latest gossip on The Free Boweleros, a loose living exhalation of high-fliers. All you have to do is sup a litre of the guv'nor Buddy Brolligan's best and listen. Right now, Trigger Sullivan is foaming in his West Cork accent.

'Retru! Just the man we want to see', Marmalade Freddi the Gigolo and Mila De Locks, the Gay Hussar, shout as I belly up to the bar at The Sod.

Long time since I seen Little Plops Novotny sloughing in despond down at 'The Sod in Exile'. 'What's up?' I asked. 'What isn't fuckin' up?!' he snarls. I leave it at that.

'Buddy,' Milo Fluffe calls, 'Do you know a Tammy Solusin?' 'Nope. But I know a Jammy Jam,' the guvnor replies.

'That's old Guano,' my neighbour at the bar, Hotfoot Lanigan, tells me. 'You should have seen him earlier, hammering out a bolero with Nudie Nelligan. Torchy!' 'Ravel?' I enquire. 'Amen to that!' smiles Hotfoot.

I belly up to the bar of a rammed Salawomander night club. 'Gimme that old soft stool, I said that old soft stool...' I hear. I turn around and, sure enough, there is Guano La Trine showcasing his latest shtick on the small dancefloor.

'Hey, Retro,' Milo Fluffe calls out to me from the end of the long bar, 'Do you know a mec called Tam Sulosin? 'Nope, but Blinko has a mate called Dapper Glifosin. He might know.'

Zola is dripping with jewels and spangles and wearing the latest fashion. Bibi slopes over to me and hands me the 500 curios he has been owing me for an age. ' And here's an extra thou to cover the interest.' My lucky day.

The Lottery winner Bibi Beo barrels into 'The Sod in Exile' exuberantly with Zole Dex dangling on his arm and calls out, 'The drinks are on me'. We career to the bar.

I find Little Plops Novotny, the Secretary of The Wholly Free Boweleros, sloughing in despond at 'The Sod' 'What's up?' I ask. 'What's up? What isn't fuckin' up?' he snarls, 'The Festival of Turds in Gyor was a washout. The Magyars turned the hoses on us. Wasn't even the Growls.'

Yesman Chancey Vancey has no morals.

The Humble Trumpie is the newest satirium in Cybele in downtown Fex. As I enter, Sveitus Sveitii, the Tyrrhenian stand-up is abbreviating his set. 'Bring on Chutzpah Maguire,' I bawl. Chutzpah opens a new seam of wit. 'if you ever cross the border into Hungary...' I grin.

I don't have to turn around at 'The Sod' to know it's Johnny Besoin from Marseille via Monalaur. 'Bring me boiled beef and cabbage with a rattle of raw cashoos and a bottle of Bandol Rouge,' he bawls at Buddy.

'You know, Rasher, Baloney is the lowest form of gobshite, and you know why? It's twaddle with tits on. I refer you to Trumpet, Farrago the Talking Arse, and their mouthpieces, male and female.

Putin chats up Trumpet - 'I know you're ashamed your mother was a domestic from the Highlands. Don't be. In the Soviet Union during WW2 our children extolled our babushkas. Come to the Altai with me. We hunt, shoot and fish the lakes. We can have women too. IF we want women.'

Up on stage Mynt Juleppe, the Flemish stand-up, is into his Temptation of Christ shtick. ' By now' he says, 'Satan is beginning to lose his cool...'

'Ah, Jimmy Roselli!' Blinko smiles, 'Heard him in Chicago before he made a name for himself.' 'I never knew you were in Chicago?' I query, never surprised by my old friend.' Not long after WW2. It was all hush hush stuff to do with postwar politics.'

A quiet night at the 'The Old Sod' when suddenly Buddy Brolligan, the guv'nor, indulges his taste for the great crooners. 'When your old wedding ring was new' blasts from the loudspeaker around the pub.

'Such is life,' Oblong responds, 'The Mad American Jollygarchy (MAJ, as in Maj Greene), premiered by the Donniban back in January, is slowly creaking round the bend, taking its Dictator and Executive of headless chickens with it.'

'I hear that Dictator Trumpet ain't lobbing it anymore,' says Rasher. (I should say that the expression 'lobbing it, which he has from The Black Fella' is Rasher speak for male penetration of the female, who in this case would be one Melanija Knavs, none other than Melania Trumpet.'

A fleeting moment recalled in quiet ecstasy elicits an enigmatic smile but the dream echoes through to oblivion.

So Chancey Vancey has met Tories in the Cotswolds. Who else would he meet there?!!!

'You know, Rasher,' says Oblong, 'I've come to the conclusion that that Tomboy Trump maniac in America is a zomby, 'cos whatever words spew from his gob always have the same meaning - ME, ME, ME. That is a characteristic of the American zomby from Pioneering days.'

Trumpet's prime arselicker, Porky O'Bannon, of the Irish immigrant dynasty, has been put in charge of Blarney Matters at the Shite House. His Assistant, Darby O'Gill, the Secretary for Loot, will be Keeper of the crocks of gold.

Donie Trumpet, the Doonbeg Dipper (cos he dips into other people's pockets) is still playing up the old golf angles. How many holes can he get out of?

'I have my own theory about shrieking women tennis players,' Blinko Morefatte offers, blowing on his monocle, ' I put it down to multiple delayed orgasms.' 'Same for the male shriekers then?' I ask. 'Naw, you can't swing a racket with a hard-on.'

'How would you like to earn a shine o' doubloons, Retru?' he says. Now Maxie always does his own dirty work so I am intrigued.

So there we are, my partner Roxy and I, out of our detective agency, and sloping a habanera when in walks Maxie Macushla, another devotee of the Latin fusion. We tryptych around the floor in tandem. I wonder what he wants.

'Retru! Just the man we want to see,' Marmalade Freddi the Gigolo and Mila de Kocks, the Gay Hussar, shout as I belly up to the bar at 'The Sod in Exile'. 'Me too,' adds Nudie Nelligan, the Nornireland stripper.

'Did you hear, Retry?' asks the wrestler Manus Limpias, the Galizian Assassin, 'Since I changed my moniker to Odious Trump I'm gettin' decibels of boos. Even Linda McMahon sucks it up.'

'I see that Arra Bejasus and Half-Tits are putting about their bliss in Venice this week,' Oblong remarks, 'She brings out the amazon in him. The Doges are spinning in their tombs at the luxus of it all.' 'Very DOGEY,' Rasher says, 'I'd say the Fat Arse will preen a flyby in one of his black jets.'

'Hey, Oblong, want to know the latest I heard from across the water?' says Rasher. 'The Trump fella's wife, Melania, sulks to him the other night, 'When are you going to make love to me again, my little Donie?' 'Know what he replied? I'll let you know within two weeks. Ain't he a passion!'

Hi. I am a refugee from the lamentable, humourless and obsequious platform known as X.