At about eleven I heard the distinctive lolloping of Jean’s wee dog, its name tag rattling as it ran, its ears pinned back in the bordery wind as it tore towards me – with a blue plastic shopping bag in its mouth. Thon’s some mutt, I thought to myself, though as she got closer I began to feel a little sceptical about the shape of the bag. Still, I thought, croissants in Muff near midnight. That would be a miracle. Miracles are in short supply where Brexit is concerned, as you may have noticed yourself. ‘Grand job, wee dog. Tip out the croissants there,’ I said, ‘til we have an inspection.’ The dog tipped up the bag. Custard Creams. Bourbons. Jammie Dodgers. And all of them, not to put too fine a point on it, a bit slobbery.
I looked at the wee dog. She was delighted with herself. ‘Is this what you got me for the breakfast, wee dog?’
She assented, in a wee doggy way. ‘Wee dog, I am grateful for your help, truly I am. But this is not a breakfast fit for the EU’s Chief Brexit Negotiator. He’s a man of sophisticated tastes. Leaving aside the canine saliva in which they are marinated, the contents of a box of Family Circle biscuits are not how he would choose to begin his day, and I need him to be in a good mood, otherwise it’s physical infrastructure for me and rabies injections for you [technically this wasn’t true but I had to put the frighteners on the mutt]. Did you just go home and steal these biscuits from Jean’s cupboard?’ The wee dog said nothing. ‘Wee dog, please take these back and, if you can, find me some croissants. They’re like puff pastry things.’ The dog went off, a bit more slowly than before and I felt that my hopes of putting on an impressive continental breakfast had probably gone with it.
I must have fallen asleep for a while. I dreamt that David Davis was dressed in a devil costume and riding around on a souped-up lawnmower trying to find me so he could cut my grass. And some time, probably around midnight, was when it must have happened. I’m not proud of this, dear reader, but you must understand it was an accident. Somewhere, along the length of me, and I’m a bit hazy on the details, a lorry ‘shed its load’, as they say on the radio, and the load was, I believe, kegs of beer. I woke up with a start and a surprise and I was, I think it is fair to say, absolutely plastered.
I do not recall much of the rest of the evening. I know the wee dog came back with another bag. I spoke to it fondly, if a little incoherently. I may have said that it was the best f***ing dog in the whole f***ing world and if anyone said otherwise they’d have me to deal with because there’s no other dog I’d rather have as a border’s best friend than you wee dog you lovely wee dog c’mere ’til I give you a pet but don’t be lifting your f***ing leg near me.
I know I sent Jean a few texts, because I saw them on my iPad the next morning:
Thursday 00:15
oh Jean a lorrrydropped a keg on me an it split so it did n I think I might be a bit ahhm pissed or something xx border
Delivered
Thursday 00:23
it seeeeeeped in I couldnt held it help it fing autocorrect
Delivered
Thursday 00:47
I love you jean you are my best friend like did I ever tell you I love you but god I hate brexit
Delivered
Thursday 00:49
I mean Brexit whats it like a big pile of crap but sure I have you your my best friend. oh wait the wee dogs here
Delivered
Thursday 00:54
the wee dog brought the croissants Jean it’s a wonderdog so it is i’m going to kiss yer dog
Delivered
Thursday 00:54
might boke see u in morning bring jam
Delivered
You know the way, when you wake in the morning with a bit of a hangover – let’s call it for what it was – you know that way, and nothing much is working except your sense of smell, but it’s working overtime because everything else is taking the day off? Well, my sense of smell was telling me that whatever was in that bag had come from the general area of Macari’s chipper. I nudged the wee dog. It woke up slowly and it did that dog thing where they stretch their legs out in front of them like they’re going to catapult themselves into dogland. When she’d wandered off for a leg-lift and come back I says to her, ‘Wee dog, is there any chance we’re at cross-purposes here with the croissants? Maybe show me what’s in the bag, because it sure doesn’t smell like the best Parisian viennoiserie pastry to me.’
The dog looks indignant and tips out the contents of the bag as if to prove how well she’s done. Oh My Sweet Lord. Pasties. Not pastries. Pasties.
Now, it occurs to me that some of you may not be familiar with the pastie. A traditional dish of Belfast, but available elsewhere in Northern Ireland, and beyond – though not far beyond, for who would want it? – the pastie is traditionally made from pork mince, with potato, onion and some spices, moulded into a substantial burger shape and then covered in batter and deep fried. Usually it is eaten in the ‘pastie supper’ form, that is with chips, and usually when the consumer of the pasty is pissed, because otherwise you might pause to think about what you’re eating, what’s in it, and what it actually tastes like. A croissant it is not.
‘Right,’ I said, though ‘right’ didn’t really reflect what I was thinking. The wee dog was sniffing the pasties and seemed ready to tuck in. Jean appeared.
‘Pastie suppers, Border?’
‘Pastie suppers, Jean.’
‘The wee dog thought you said pasties, didn’t it?’
‘So it would seem, Jean.’
‘Shit.’
‘Ah, bonjour, vous êtes la frontière? Et c’est votre ami, Madamoiselle Jean?’
‘Monsieur Barnier, bonjour. S’il vous plaît, prendre un … petit déjeuner, I guess.’
‘We can speak in English, Border. What an usual breakfast. A local speciality?’
‘Erm, yes. Yes, we often have this for petit déjeuner, Jean, don’t we?’
‘Oh aye, at least once a week.’
I had an idea. ‘Actually, Monsieur Barnier, we are very concerned that this traditional dish will be threatened by le Brexit. It depends, for example, on ahm … help me out here, Jean …’
‘… on cross-border pigs.’
‘Yes, exactly. The distinctive spicy flavour of la pastie is achieved by having the pigs criss-cross the border eating herbs from either side of me. And, well, you know yerself, Michel …’
‘Mais oui, le Brexit threatens all our livelihoods. I shall do all I can to maintain the tradition of la pastie, and everything else about you, Border. I will personally ensure that la pastie – like Roquefort, like Champagne – receives the full legal protection afforded by EU regulation. It shall have Protected Designation of Origin status. Now, let me try some of this delicacy.’
You’re not going to believe this. He liked it. He took some away with him for his mates in Brussels. I’d say that place fairly smelt of chip grease and vinegar for a few days after he got back. They’ll not be forgetting about me over there for a while.
So we had the bantz with Michel and that was all grand. He’s on our side, sure we know that, and he was very reassuring