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Blueshirts bite the bullet and get their just desserts

Scene 1 Ext. Just outside the Pearly Gates. Day. Sunny. In the background, angels float by on clouds and a Heavenly Chorus sings Hallelujah. The world has ended, everyone is dead and Resurrection Day is at hand. Saint Peter is guarding the gates, with Peter McVerry’s dog beside him. Eoghan Murphy rolls up.

Murphy: Hey, dude.

Saint Peter (raising his eyebrows querulously): Hey yourself.

Murphy: Here I am.

Saint Peter (eyeballing Murphy’s suit): Nice threads.

Murphy: Ralph Lauren. (he reaches down to pet the dog) Cute pup.

The dog snarls.

Saint Peter: He bites capitalists.

Murphy (snatching his hand back): Uncool.

Saint Peter: Can I help you?

Murphy: I’d like a room with a view, please.

Saint Peter (laughing): You’re kidding me, right?

Murphy: Eh, no.

Saint Peter: I'm afraid you're in the wrong place. Have you tried Down Below?

Murphy: Ha ha. You’re a funny guy. But hark - I’ve had a bad day. I died. Rum deal. Stand aside like a good man and point me to my chambers.

Saint Peter: What makes you think there’s a place for you here?

Murphy: You know who I am. I’m Murphy, Teachta Dala. I’m a graduate of Saint Michael’s College, UCD and Kings College London.

Saint Peter: So?

Murphy: So - I’m entitled.

Saint Peter: Entitled?

Murphy: I was a government minister, for pity’s sake.

Saint Peter: Ah, yes. The housing minister who built no houses.

Murphy: That brief was complicated – a truth not acknowledged in the Dail by our dafter Utopian members.

Saint Peter (indicating the place behind him): Daft Utopians? Do you realize where this is?

Murphy: Oops. No offence.

Saint Peter shrugs and clicks his fingers. There’s a big WHOOSH and Murphy finds himself Down Below.

Scene 2 Ext. Down Below. It’s cold and dark and rainy. Weeping and gnashing of teeth can be heard in the background. Leo Varadkar, Simon Coveney, Simon Harris and Paschal Donohue are there. They’re fat and slovenly and covered with pimples and boils. They’re dressed in no-name track suits and desperately trying to get warm.

Leo: Ah, Murphs. Here at last.

Murphy: What’s with the scanger gear, guys? Ugh.

Leo: That’s not the worst of it.

He lifts up the leg of his tracksuit. He's sockless.

Murphy: Cripes.

Leo: I know. It’s hellish here.

Murphy (appraising their afflictions): You all look like shit.

Leo (indicating a mirror on a wall): Check yourself out, bro.

Murphy goes and stands in front of the mirror and looks at himself. He’s chubby and scruffy and riddled with acne and sores. He’s wearing a Conor McGregor T-shirt and shorts from Penny's.

Murphy: Good grief. This is too much. I need to lie down. Where’s my gaff?

The others exchange glances and shake their heads mournfully.

Leo: Sorry Murphs. No gaffs.

Murphy (aghast): You can’t mean . . .

Leo: Yes. Horror of horrors . . .

Leo breaks down in tears. Coveney, Harris and Donohue howl in desperate anguish.



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