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Death of IONA Edition - Sep 2008

The Death of IONA

It is with great sorrow we announce the death of IONA - after a long and lingering illness. This blessed release took place on the 25th June 2008. The funeral has been deferred until some time in September to allow the emaciated corpse to be prepared. It’s also rumoured that several organs have been removed and will be transplanted into the body of Progress – a Frankenstein creature slouching towards Bedford to be born. More of this anon.

Shortly after the event, many claimed to have seen the ghost of Chris Horn past gliding through the corridors of the Dublin office — his face a terrifying rictus as he rattled his golden chains. 

We all of course had feared the worst for a long time. We watched from the sidelines as the Senior Medical Team (SMT) scurried about the failing body – huffing and puffing as they tried a variety of remedies. "We did all we could" croaked Peter Zotto, the ashen-faced head surgeon, "but there were just too many things failing. I thought when we amputated the beijing a few months ago that it might help, but it only seemed to hasten the end".

Most people felt a sense of relief that they wouldn’t have to watch the pathetic remnants  limp around the place pretending to be fit and well. "I’m glad it's been taken out of its misery" said a stalwart old programmer — "I couldn’t bear to see it suffer."

We’ll remember IONA from the good old days: the cappucinos on the 4th floor deck in Dublin, those drunken nights in "The Field" when Frank Lynch was going through his Brendan Behan phase and Lesbos ruled, the double-penders in the late lamented IONA restaurant, the day Sandra McDevitt dressed up as a plum pudding, Colin Rogan's short trousers, the way Roisin sashayed down the corridor (be still my beating heart), the Spinal Tap gig and Ed Gaudet controlling backstage access, the misrule of the sardonic Stan Slap, Barry's black period, Noel Toolan's bloody bee, Canned Heat in San Francisco, the bacchanalian revels of IONAWorld (Peter Byrne perched at the bar), The Business playing "Red House" at the Engineering Summit, Andrew Condon's  hair and nail varnish, the great Bretton Woods debacle, and that glorious day the share price hit $100.

Hermits upon Mount Meru or Everest,
Caverned in night under the drifted snow,
Or where that snow and winter's dreadful blast
Beat down upon their naked bodies, know
That day bring round the night, that before dawn
His glory and his monuments are gone.