— SEE THE QUEEN’S goin’ to mention Ireland in her Christmas speech.
— Ah, great. I might mention her in mine.
— It’s a big deal.
— Not really. I just say a few words to the family.
— The Queen’s one, I meant.
— Fuck ’er – she has it easy.
— She’s goin’ to say Ireland’s great or somethin’.
— She can hardly say we’re a bunch o’ cunts.
— They’d sit up an’ listen.
— That’s my point. They won’t sit up when she says we’re grand. It’s borin’. I suppose yeh have all your presents bought, do yeh?
— The ones I didn’t rob.
— Yeh girl.
— Fuck off.
— Wha’ did yeh get young Damien? A wolf?
— God, no. Nothin’ like tha’.
— Wha’ then?
— A hyena.
— Where the fuck did yeh get a hyena?
— Wicklow. There’s a fella rears them – in a caravan, like.
— Where is it now?
— In the attic.
— Does Damien know?
— Not yet. But he stayed with us there a few weeks ago. An’ he tells me tha’ the hyena’s reputation for bein’ a scavenger isn’t deserved. Tha’ they kill 95 per cent of wha’ they eat. Yeh should’ve heard him. Like fuckin’ Attenborough.
— An’ it’s in your attic?
— Yeah.
— Gift-wrapped?
— Not yet, no. That’s her department.