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RAISING their fists in anger to the sky, knees sinking into rain sodden soil on a dramatic cliff’s edge amid a thunder storm, the nation’s Aoifes, Sinéads, Niamhs, Ciaras, Síobhans and Caoimhes screamed in anguished union “no, not the Rose of Tralee you bastarding virus”.

It is proving to be the one pandemic-related cancellation gone too far, with many now mourning the loss of the 2020 iteration of the Rose of Tralee which leaves a massive granny-loving-poetry-reciting-oh-my-god-is-there-anything-she-can’t-do shaped hole in the nation’s heart.

“I’m going to fucking glass that virus in the fucking neck and watch it bleed out next time I see it,” confirmed the nation’s Róisíns, understandably a little bit upset over the regretful news as they were convinced this year was ‘their year’.

“So, what? I’ve been practicing my fire breathing and jumping on a trampoline while reciting a poem about my mammy routine every day, and all for nothing?” added the nation’s Áines.

As a mark of respect, all past, current, prospective Roses will wear black sashes for the rest of the week including all of Abu Dhabi’s current supply of teachers and nurses named Saoirse – 1,400 in total. Disappointed Rose escorts have been told to stop moaning, as they never had a chance of getting the ride in the first place.

The event has for decades been a beacon of light and a key opportunity for the nation to come together and celebrate Ireland and its far reaching diaspora, even if all Roses named Mairead from Tennessee are now pro-Trump, pro-ethnic cleansing.

“You mean, all the horrible things I did… they were… for nothing,” added the nation’s Aoibheanns, who now realise assassinating all their local rivals and burying their bodies in sacks of lime in a field, all so they ensure themselves of a place at the competition, was pointless.