Just because it's online doesn't mean it's not tabloid bullshit.
The Ancients, gathered here, will recall with fondness the teachings of stage Paddy, Guido, Colonel O'Fawkes, just a few summers back, that the Free State, Eire, the Republic of Ireland was not actually a superstitious, floating pigsty, in thrall to repulsive gangster politicians and crooked financiers, it's children buggered, still, around the twenty-six counties by noncing monsignors; it's diasporic migrants not a joyless horde of red-faced. spud-gulping, Guinness-swigging, melancholy, repressed-homosexual Mummy'sboys, feasting sorrowfully on homesick bacon and cabbage, labouring on holes in the road, exploited by their own countrymen in Birmingham and New York; no, Ireland, according to the great political scientist, Mr O'Fawkes of the PizzaHouseOfBlood, himself, was the very overnight model of a modern economic powerhouse, so it was, a beacon to we, benighted in poor England, wasn't the Irish fiscal policy just the very broth of a t'ing, her shifty, simpering ministers the very boys with the know-how, and weren't we all stupid, not to be, like Guido, himself, pretending to be living in Ireland?
We must hope that the great tabloid newsman now contributes some of his advertising revenue to the exchequer of his adopted country, now that, despite all his nonsense, Ireland is fucked, mainly by the very tax-dodging, wealth-creating irresponsible entre-fucking-preneurs to whom he, along with the riff-raff now squatting in Downing Street, unfailingly kowtows. We must hope, also, that Chancellor Spunkface, preaching an Irish sermon of low corporation taxes and massive public sector cuts, lifts his head from Money's groin and sees what's going on in the country whose approach he so admires, even though he won't.
Guido, of course, should stick to what he does best, and for what he is best loved, racism and sexism, but then he generally does.