"They are bloody fools. They have been stuffing their faces at Europe's expense for years and now they dump us in the ****."

"He then ordered his government to play down the 'no', proceed with their plans and find ways to save the treaty.” We have to manage the Irish 'no' with calm, with sang-froid and neither dramatise nor minimise it," he said last weekend.

"RAENORTH wrote:Interestingly, the treaty is not formally ratified until the papers are lodged with the Italian government."

So this could still be fixed with a dead hooker or a horses head?

You would not be so confused if you read the blog



http://eureferendum.blogspot.com/2008/0 ... gling.html

What if the FCO is wrong. If you assume the treaty being ratified by royal assent, while a case was still pending before a court, I'd be bringing contempt of court charges against Mr. Brown.

...requires...the Queen's signature on a warrant and the physical deposition of the "papers" (the instrument is actually drafted on goat's skin)....

"the Queen's signature on a warrant and the physical deposition of the "papers" (the instrument is actually drafted on goat's skin) in Rome."

A scapegoat?

I can't see any references to constitutional issues. Don't the Irish give a flying f**k who makes their laws and their own Irish parliament becoming pointless?

The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,–
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring:
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But left him alone with his glory.