That’s the thing: languages don’t survive through tidy plans, they survive through mess, scandal, and sheer audacity. Latin died because it behaved. Irish lives because it rebels.

Ó hAnnaidh in court, refusing to fold, refusing to sanitise, is exactly the absurd oxygen Irish has been gasping for. This isn’t heritage week in a parish hall. It’s not an earnest YouTube ad telling you “Is féidir linn” over stock footage of Connemara sunsets. This is the language dragging itself back onto the stage, bruised, hilarious, and alive.

And that’s why the English — who believe they invented irony — can never understand. They still think language is for order, for control, for queuing. Irish isn’t for queuing. Irish is for shouting across bogs, for naming saints and swears in the same breath, for defending yourself in a London courtroom while the Crown Prosecution Service tries not to cry.

Welcome to a new kind of tension
All across the alien nation
Where everything isn't meant to be okay