Irish roots showing

Dorries has said that she credits her Irish grandmother for some of

her inspiration, having been whisked away to the west of Ireland on childhood holidays, there to be enveloped in “the scent of raw peat and Holy Smoke”. Coincidentally, I’m currently watching repeats of the television drama The Irish R.M., shown daily here in Ireland on TG4, the Irish language channel that I watch in the pretence that I’m getting really serious about learning Gaeilge. Luckily, the 1980s adaptation of Somerville and Ross’s novels is being shown in English. The programme is an unrepentant celebration of appalling stereotypes – drunkenness, fecklessness, dishonesty and a lot of horses – and thoroughly enjoyable, largely because the Irish always get the upper hand.

A recent episode saw a pompous Englishman set sail for Heir Island, in West Cork’s Roaring Water Bay, to collect examples of folk tales; he ends up ensnared in an illegal drinking den while islanders spout codantique nonsense at him.

I squeaked with excitement because that bit of fiendishly wiggly coast is where our family always heads on holiday, the latest excitement being that the tiny island now has its own pizza place, PizzHeiria.