Do foresters dream of electric squirrels?

Amazing what the Atlantic Wind blows in here on West Clare Coast.
I couldn't help but notice the inebriated Geordie twang emanating, nay fog-horning, from the lounge bar of O"Thornohans English Theme Pub up beyond Crappanoolans Crossing on the road to Feckshainrichie Bridge.
"Thas the best feckin' film ever made, fit like man, an' no mistaiken" opined Sir Didley Squatt (the very same) to no-one in particular as he took a greedy, Geordie gulp from his glass of The Black Stuff. For it was himself, holding on to the brass bar rail like the bemused, sodden captain refusing to leave a stricken trawler in a force eleven gale.
"And now I am havin' ti work wi' tossers like Brad feckin' Pitt, man. Moy arse if he carries off that Jesse James character wi' real conviction, like man. Donal, have yers any Pringles, man?"
As I pondered wistfully over this doleful scene unfolding before me, it was only moments until I realised I had origami'd a beer mat into a unicorn. What was happening to me? Is this all a dream? Is Wally Miapine a replicant, or one of us? Is there anyone out there?
I stumbled hours later from O'Thornohan's, with the rain lashing into my face. I pointed the dun donkey down to the black bay and slipped on a fine fawn shawl found on the foreshore. It was a poetic night, enough to stir tears to my cheeks.

Hope all is well in Blighty. Don't give up hope. I will be back soon.