Our Truculent Tánaiste is perfectly correct. Donald Trump can invite who he likes to his home, but he left out one rather important point. He didn’t invite Harris. And since when did you need to be elected to represent the people of Ireland? Better have a word with that Norwegian Eurosong entry.

The question being asked around the breakfast table this morning is: how did a Crumlin ex-pipe-bender sneak into the White House and give the Irish Government the most almighty kick up the arse? Easy—he dropped a few truth bombs! The “rapist” fraternity? They just need a quick mirror clean to spot the real culprit. What pisses them off most about McGregor is their own reflection staring back—classic projection! Too bad these apes haven’t the intelligence to make a distinction between a civil jury and a criminal one, but let’s face it, chimps with smartphones would embarrass them. But hold that thought—how did half these mentally challenged bog cutters vote in Ireland’s two biggest oxygen thieves? Same reason they’re losing their sh!t at the messenger boy. FF/FG and O’Gorman’s “open borders, free hugs” policy turned us into a dumping ground for rapists, murderers, sticky-fingered skirt lifters, and women who charge by the hour. Irish Americans were blissfully unaware of Ireland’s slow descent into becoming Europe’s septic tank—that is, until McGregor spilt the beans. We’re the final stop-off for every terrorist with a machete and a prayer mat. That’s why Trump rolled out the red carpet for McGregor on St. Paddy’s Day—the day we thought we’d got rid of the snakes, only to find they’re bringing in another few thousand in the coming months.