He scratched his scrotum in mindless, metronomic fashion, then drew the plaid curtains to be greeted by fuliginous gloom. When would tourists realize that postcard Ireland existed but one day a month; that in the westerly extremities of the verdant isle the average annual rainfall exceeded damp Dublin's by a factor of two? If you didn't like rain, why on earth would you be living in Slieveport? You'd often hear that from the locals, who gave not a fig whether you deemed it meteorological machismo or masochism. When the global water wars kicked off, wouldn't the perpetually drenched land of saints and scholars be sitting pretty, awash with liquid gold? It'll be for exporting water not Kerrygold that the country will be known in the future, quipped Basil, revealing a rare flash of geo-political nous.