Perhaps not PC

My boy is over a thousand bird miles from me, living with his Da in Northern Ireland.
Since August, when I took him there, he has worked on his accent (to fit in? to sound less Englishly?) ,starting his sentences with 'ach' and ending them with 'dead on'.  
His history lessons seem to be exclusively devoted to the Easter Uprising  and the Troubles.
The landlord of their rented house stipulated that no cats or dogs were allowed, so Gab created his own cat called Gerry Adams.
To begin with Gerry sat on gab's lap watching Red Dead Redemption but must have got bored and re-engaged himself politically.
He went and got himself arrested by the PSNI for planting pipe bombs, was found guilty of possession of illegal weapons and sentenced to life without parole.  In the interrogation room he sang the Foggy Dew by The Wolf Tones with so much gusto that the police took flight.
He watched his last Irish sunset as a free cat from the roof of the neighbour's caravan and sang the Irish national anthem in Gaelic, pleaded the fifth amendment and disappeared for a few days due to Gab's lethargy.
He reappeared today having lost a finger in an assassination attempt and buried it in the soil beneath Eire's lush green grass, shedding a tear for the sheer beauty of his country and singing amhraran na bhfi.  
Gab has a theory that he ate his finger to make a political statement.
Gab's cousin Isaac arrived in France at the crack of dawn, having spent a night with his Da under an inadequate tent, thunder, lightening and pissing rain in the mountains. 
I found them drinking coffee in the café de la gare, wet, tired and dirty but my heart skipped a beat or so because here was my nephew, his cousins' twin, but in my arms and not a thousand miles away.