Everything, everything, is an imperialist conspiracy. God love him, but it would break his heart if he learnt the truth: That the Brits probably regret ever getting mixed up with Ireland, and would pull out in a heartbeat if they could figure out a face-saving way of doing it. Everything is “Cromwell this, Kevin Barry that” to the extent that if he gets a bad kebab at 2am on Dame Street, he proclaims “Is this what the men of 1916 died for?” He will never be happy. If the Queen was guillotined on College Green to a huge crowd, he’d slam the Brits “and their Queen” for causing traffic congestion.
Everyone is a sellout, from Fianna Fail to Sinn Fein, and he uses his own vocabulary that makes him sound like a 19th century pickpocket. The Gardai are “the Peelers” or “the Free State constabulary”. The Provos are ” the Army”. He only buys Irish clothes, which means that he dresses like an extra from “The Field” and drinks whiskey neat, where he then launches into tirades about 800 years during which he chides all around him for having “John Bull’s hand around your bollocks!” He can be seen in various Dublin pubs, with vomit down the front of his hairy jumper, demanding that Lily Allen be replaced by “the tones.” and that the bartender is obviously “in the pay of the crown”.
To his mortal shame, his dad is English, and his grandfather died at the Somme. And not fighting for the Germans, either.