Of a poetry festival that never took place, but could have, in a place that doesn’t exist, but might. Come to Ballyfungus, where silences are like the pauses in Beckett plays, some more significant than the dialogue, and the booze flows faster than the river Fung.
“Before he died the Harper put a curse on the Kilrotherys. The Earl has a wall-eye. and the heir a slight lisp. I think it’s dying out. So are the Kilrotherys. So are we all.”