The experiment - part II

The second installment in our experiment to see what ads appear on the right once Google Bot has 'read' this post...

Malachy Leprechaun opened his eyes with a start.  He looked around the room to see who else was left, or awake, or alive, or undecided. Sartre was slumped over the grand piano, a bunch of keys held down by his face but making no sound. Now that’s what I call music, thought Malachy Leprechaun. Not like the racket he’d subjected us to earlier. Sartre had a party piece: Neil young sings nursery rhymes. It would begin well enough. ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ to the tune of ‘The Needle and the Damage Done’. Then a few more from ‘Harvest’. Maybe a rendition of ‘Humpty Dumpty’ to the tune of ‘Rocking in the Free World’ - that always got the party singing - or maybe a duet with Bob Dylan joining Young at the piano. It wasn’t X- Factor but it was entertaining enough. The problem was that Jean Paul was on the absinthe rather than his usual discount wines delivered direct to his door. As the absinthe worked its way into his very being he’d slowly changed the set list until his performance had become more Crazy Horse than Neil Young. The leprechauns hadn’t minded. They were warm and reducing their home heating bills without switching their gas and electricity accounts to one supplier. Sartre liked a warm house. Thick carpets. No roll ends or off-cuts and definitely none of that wood  laminate flooring that had become so popular. This was an energy efficient home of the highest order. All was grand until Jean Paul had begun to think he was being heckled by a fairy sat on top of his piano. A green fairy. The green fairy that looked like Pierre reciting Yeats...

Malachy Leprechaun’s stomach rumbled. He looked around the room for some party nibbles. Even an Iceland prawn platter would do. It wasn’t Heston Blumenthal but for five pounds you couldn’t complain. Drinking always gave him an appetite. Too much of an appetite. He knew he needed to lose a few pounds but thoughts of joining a slimming club he just wouldn’t entertain. Malachy spotted Kierkegard talking to himself across the room, his mumbled words falling into an empty glass, his foppish quiff capitulated to the weight of its own existence and now dangling before his eyes, full of self-loathing. Kierkegard was probably boring himself with tales of his new celebrity. He’d gotten a mention in a TV ad for a Welsh vodka and had made sure everyone knew about it, telling them, texting them, even emailing on his Blackberry. Hume sat beside Kierkegard. Drinking tea as always and never saying anything - just watching you, studying you. Why did he come to these affairs if he was only going to drink tea? Not even Yorkshire tea but that french piss that Sartre insisted on buying.