The French President is sitting in his office when his telephone rings.
“Hallo, Mr Macron!” a heavily accented voice said. “This is Paddy down at the Harp Pub in County Clare, Ireland.
I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on you!”
“Well, Paddy,” Macron replied, “This is indeed important news! How big is your army?”
“Right now,” says Paddy, after a moment’s calculation, “there is myself, me cousin Sean, me next door neighbour Seamus, and the entire darts team from the pub. That makes eight!”
Macron paused. “I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100,000 men in my army waiting to move on my command.”
“Jaysus!!” says Paddy. “I’ll have to ring you back.”
Sure enough, the next day, Paddy calls again. “Mr Macron, the war is still on. We have managed to get us some infantry equipment!”
“And what equipment would that be, Paddy?” Macron asks.
“Well, we have two combines, a bulldozer and Murphy’s farm tractor.”
Macron sighs, amused. “I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 6,000 tanks and 5,000 armoured personnel carriers. Also, I have increased my army to 150,000 since we last spoke.”
“Saints preserve us!” says Paddy. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
Sure enough, Paddy rings the next day again. “Mr Macron, the war is still on!
We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We have modified Jackie McLaughlin’s ultra-light with a couple of shotguns in the cockpit, and four boys from the Shamrock Bar have joined us as well!”
Macron was silent for a minute and then cleared his throat. “I must tell you, Paddy, that I have 100 bombers and 200 fighter planes.
My military bases are surrounded by laser-guided, surface-to-air missile sites. And since we last spoke, I have increased my army to 200,000!”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” says Paddy, “I will have to ring you back.”
Sure enough, Paddy calls the next day again. “Well, good mornin’, Mr Macron, I am sorry to inform you that we have had to call off the war.”
“Really? I am sorry to hear that,” says Macron. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
“Well,” says Paddy, “we had a long chat over a few pints of Guinness, and we decided there is no fookin’ way we can feed 200,000 prisoners.
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