As the wretched pauper state began arguing loudly with itself, Mr Osborne put on a feeble air of false bonhomie, telling Ireland: “Yah, I’m feeling the pinch somewhat also, mate, I don’t mind telling you. With interest rates as they are, my little trust fund most certainly isn’t ticking along quite as I might wish.”
|This is a decent neighbourhood, you know|
“Look here, my man, I’m telling you this as a friend,” he added. “With this cash, which I made by kicking out some of my ghastly tenants and selling their furniture, you could start a splendid new life for yourself somewhere lovely and sunny like the Mediterranean, where I’m sure you’ll get along famously with Spain and Greece.”
“I’m awfully sorry, but frankly you’re making the whole area look frightfully shabby,” Mr Osborne called over his shoulder, as he returned to his condemned property overlooking the rubbish tip, next to the rusting gasometer.