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Billy Keane: Seducing Angela is our best hope to save Ireland

THE seduction of Angela Merkel will save Ireland. The most powerful woman in the world doesn't need laser surgery to fix a roving left or a glad right eye, but she might just fall for old-fashioned flattery.

By the way, the seduction is not sexual in nature.

Still, if that's what it takes . . . sexual relations for Ireland beat dying for Ireland any day.

It goes without saying that Angela is a woman whose moral currency has never been devalued.

This is a platonic-teutonic seduction. Angela probably sees us as the nephew who needs guidance.

The nephew who is totally incapable of managing his own affairs, even though he is 90 years old; but she is fond of him because he is good-natured and makes her laugh as much as he makes her cry.

She knows too that if she hadn't capped our spending in the referendum, we'd kick out the Government and vote for whatever party promised us the most.

We have a template for the seduction of Angela Merkel.

You collect the rich American aunt from Shannon in a Baby Ford.

The mother cries with the happiness of seeing her as she wipes the flour from her white hands on to the red-onion bag apron and asks Auntie if she'd like a wedge of home-made apple pie. Which was really baked by Angela's pals, Frau Lidl and Frau Aldi.

You tell the wealthy aunt she was always your favourite, that she never lost her accent and we'd be starving without her parcels (of money) from America.

It's what we're good at in this country. Making people feel welcome. As in Temple Bar. And fleecing them at the same time.

Failure could cost us billions. We must keep Angela sweet. But we must be subtle. If Angela cops we're trying to do a number on her, the handbag clasp will be shut as tight as a jam jar in a diabetic clinic.

It would be no harm at all, though, to throw out a few compliments, like "Love your new perm. It's very Mick Wallace", or "Angela, we're after naming a special prayer after you. The whole country says it in your honour before the tea. It's called the Angelus."

If flattery doesn't work, the poor mouth is the only way out of our current permanent difficulties.

The trick with the poor mouth is to hide any signs of extravagance.

Rebrand the local Michelin restaurant Black 47.

Plant a few dozen tomato plants in the crystal palace of a new conservatory and pretend it's a greenhouse for the local farmers' market.

Stick unpaid bills and eviction notices on to the empty fridge with a St Jude's magnet. Give Auntie the tea in a jam jar and tell her the money is so tight the colourin' is ass's milk.

And if one of the daughters is even a small bit anorexic, parade her up and down the house all day long.

When Auntie Moneybags asks how's the grandmother, you drop your heavy head into your sighing chest and tell her that Nana walked out into the snow when the Christmas turkey ran out during the bad winter of 2010 and hasn't been since.

The truth, of course, is that Nana is in Mykonos, sipping cocktails with sexually suggestive names at a Sinn Fein debt-solidarity conference in the company of the lesbian lover she met at the active-retired club.

Keeping up the appearances of the poor mouth isn't easy.

In nearly every bank-robbery movie, one of the robbers starts spending his share the day after the heist. The extravagance draws attention to the rest of the gang and soon enough the police have a lead.

The soccer supporters have given the game away. Here we are, pocketing millions every day from the Germans, and what do we do?

Twenty thousand of us go off drinking and carousing over in Poland. And we all wished we were out there with them.

Angela is smart. She assesses the economic indicators every day. She will pick this stat from the reams of paper heaped on her desk.

The price of Sudocrem is gone through the roof on the futures markets, what with the Gdansk pole dancers suffering friction burns from all the overtime and the lads downing churns of cheap lager.

She might well ask: "Where did you get all the money to go on the piss for two weeks?"

The truth is from telling lies to banks and credit unions and maxing credit cards. But we can't say that.

It was sent by the aunt in Yonkers. Or we won it on a horse. But she heard all that before. We all heard that one before.

There's only one way of placating the chancellor. From now on, we're cheering for the Germans in the Euros.

Come on, you boys in black and white. We're all part of Angela's Army.

WE'RE on the one autobahn, on the autobahn to God knows where. There's only wan Angela Merkel. We all agree Angela Merkel is magic and we get the cast of 'Fair City' to teach us how to cry during the German national anthem.

All the while we must keep the poor mouth dentist open wide.

We serve Angela a burger made from Pal at half-time. Sure the dog food is fine, Ang. Ate up. Sure no one ever heard of a dog dying from mad cow disease.

And if Angela asks us, we tell her times are even worse now than in the saddest days of the miserable Irish childhood of Frank McCourt.

Irish Independent