Your alarm doesn’t go off; you wake up from a Hannah O’Montana dream with drool on your pillow; you’re late.

You stumble into the shower; you lather death-shampoo into your eyes, your retinas burn.

You contemplate shaving, you look at you watch which is no longer on your wrist, you contemplate shaving again; you don’t.

It’s gushing down with wetness outside; you left your coat at the pub last night; fuck it you could do with a few days off with the man-flu anyway.

The moment you step out of the door you’re week of corporate cock-slurping begins… Monday, bloody Monday

So, I know why Bob O’Geldof, and of course why I hate Monday, by why then are the ‘Norrrn Irrreesh’ so loathsome of it?

Well they used to hate Sunday, see, but following the goings-on of the last few days that focus have shifted to the first working day of the week. Over the past week an all-too-familiar atmosphere of terror – that would be enough to make Mo O’Mowlam’s hair fall out – has once more descended on one of the final outpost of Britain’s rotting empire.

The killing of two British soldiers by Republican dissidents last week was further compounded 48-hours later by the shooting of Constable Stephen O’Carroll, who was struck by a single bullet to the head through the back window of his stationary patrol car, becoming the third member of the security services to be killed in Ulster in as many days. According to reports the gunmen were laying waiting in waiting on a grassy park bank. Much in the vein of Michael O’Barrymore, or George O’Michael I think it’s safe to assume this was an innocent dogging stunt that went horribly wrong.

A slurring and repetitive Nornn Ireland Head of Police, Hugh O’Orde, swiftly issued the following un-proof-read statement: ‘The people who perpetrated these awful atrocities are enemies of the Irish people, and enemies of the ireland of Ireland.’

According to a very official report, from a very important body the problems in Norrn Ireland are three fold. First they think it’s still the 1980′s. Secondly, and carrying on from the first point, they think Margaret O’Thatcher is still running shit across the moat. And, thirdly that there are two groups of people living on this tiny spot of land who essentially share a very similar interest, but who fight like a Burnley fan at any given football stadium, street corner, religious temple (irrespective of the faith), or at the hearing of the first note on track 7 on that Yellowcard album.

Has anybody mentioned to Shaun O’Woodward, the Norrn Ireland Secretary, that possible interbreeding between the Catholisics and Protesterants could solve all of this? Annnyway.

On Thursday, peace rallies were held across the country in both remembrance of those who died and in solidarity against those who committed the atrocities. The main march being held in Belfast was attended in large numbers. Seriously, I know that normally it takes nothing more than an Irishman to stand on a stage for people to burst out into laughter, irrespective of what he has just said, or is about to say; but be real for a second: I know they’re Irish – but this is no laughing matter.

At a security summit, hosted at Hillsborough Castle in County Down, British and Irish ministers met with a unified front, pledging that the terrristas would not be allowed to derail peace.

Peter O’Robinson, Norrn Ireland’s First Minister, opened the statements to the baying press saying, “We are heading into grounds of recession; sorry, I mean recession. Fek. Regression. Yes, definitely regression. Fek.”

At some point in the proceedings Martin O’McGuiness, a massive fucking turncoat and a rather insensitive human being, described the recent events as: “Like the Hillsborough disaster, times a hundred.” Wednesday, Bloody (Sheffield) Wednesday.

Growing wearing of the official line I thought it best turn to my token Paddie friend who I am still able to understand past 11am in the morning.

“This isn’t noose ta may,” she said. Well, at least I think that’s what she said.

“This isn’t noose; this is heestray,” said my Irish social commentarian who when paraphrased, and written out, has somehow picked up a Bavarian accent.

“Dat Shin Feeann fella needs to do sumpt abaat it,” she naively added.

Not being able to contain myself, I had to belittle her with my knowledge that Sinn Fein was not actually a ‘dude’, but a legitimate political party ‘Building an Ireland of Equals’.

Her response, however, to my response was slightly perturbing, and well irresponsible.

“I’ll threew a brick thru yur windies wee lad.” So much for a guffing peace process.