One very frightful night, far far away from here, in the depths of a deep and delightful pine forest in a mystical dimension where it only ever rains droplets of the pure stuff and occasionally a golden goblet, two pale and even luminous non-physical philosophers were perusing with some amusement and a degree of interest a small group of leprechauns who were sitting around a bonfire attempting to fashion a concertina and a fiddle from the limbs of a dead sheep.
Pausing only to chew on a small packet of salted peanuts, the taller one of the two men turned very gradually and with an air of gravitas and said to his companion.
‘Have you heard of that bloke Shane Mac Gowan?”
‘I have indeed,’ said the shorter man, who was eyeing with envy the peanuts.
‘Him that was born on Christmas Day and wrote that Christmas song?
‘The very man.’
‘What about him?” said the short man, sliding a sneaky hand towards the peanuts.
‘I like that other one as well, what is it called? A Rainy Night in Georgia?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said the short man, gratefully grabbing the nuts.
‘Well it’s about time he turned up on a T-shirt, I feel. And perhaps a mug and a velvet cushion, some cashmere pullovers, a silk scarf, a baby onesie, some scapulars and even a crucifix? A nice selection of objects that can be worn and used by the humans, for posturing and play acting, and amusement with relish and gratification and even a suspicion of frivolity?
‘I see where you’re going with this,’ said the short man, just as an unexpected gust of wind lifted the embers straight out of the bonfire where they exploded with glee into the night air at the very same moment that the leprechauns having perfected their instruments lashed out a lament so ferocious and malevolent that it sent the two philosophers scurrying for cover in the depths of the undergrowth. And in that very moment, in another dimension, the Shane Mac Gowan collection was created, soon to be unleashed with unprecedented impudence on an unsuspecting world.