That whole polluted mass thing, sub species of the sea, nets, giant flotsam, carrier bags, batter scraps, its stinking skeleton and head like a pumped up trout, waddled its way over the waves to introduce itself to Ulsterman Michael Fish junior, the son of the famous weather disseminator Michael Fish senior.
‘Get back to the tidal waters, ye sardine sons of Satan!’ cried Michael Fish junior.
‘We are harbingers of environmental and maritime catastrophe.’
‘The climate doomsday scenario, eh? That’s the cunning tongue of Papist dogma, and you are the fish spawn of vile Vatican venom. Back to your deep dark waters, I bid ye.’
‘In you we have picked the wrong human to warn mankind.’
‘Take your wicked wilful words and drown them in your long Roman robes of blood and Piscean blubber.’
‘We’ll be off then but don’t say we didn’t warn you.’
‘Hook off, and don’t ye think leaving any of your sick roe or landing any one of your repugnant thought processes over here – not amongst our great united band of brothers, you won’t. No more, I tell ye. No, bloody more!’
‘Ungrateful or what?’
And the polluted mass thing dragged itself back over the shallows, and, reaching the drop of the sea shelf, sunk itself into the tarry deep chill of ocean and disappeared.
Michael Fish junior met his father for a mug of tea and fish and chip dinner.
‘The high priest of tricks and tuna came, Da, and tried to say the waters were drying up and going bad.’
‘Eat you cod, Junior, and drop the Paisley talk. Everything is going to be just fine.’