You have I have no doubt, perceptive and rigorously erudite readers, identified that it is an indisputably, torrentially bleak time in Dublin city. The scabrous, dilapidated edifices of a neglected inner city groan, Georgian dwellings dissolving like aching, leprous beasts, throbbing fresh melancholy into the already barbed ventricles of our erstwhile leaping hearts. The fog spreads, the glum, leaden waters of the Liffey coruscate with a tombstone opium hue, the pitch black dye meandering through the city’s veins.
Ireland has been brought to her knees, forlorn, eyes agape like some rain soaked wolfhound having defecated all over the fresh mint velour, meekly offering her belated contrition. Skylarks offer their warbling mournful elegies in the snow atop the once proud gables of Dublin’s lugubrious and vacant ghost mansions. Febrile asset executives twitch from brow to heel, gnawing their portfolios, anxiously awaiting the next fiscal windfall. Give me a gram, quick! The political classes, acidly postulating endless hollow manifestos, glib rhetoric into our sad mouths in the same listless and disingenuous tones, with the same austere, expressionless, half slung commitment; indefatigable jaw lines smudged with turf , eye lashes curling like dry rusted wire, their verve in the morgue.The opaque and duplicitous assertions emitting from an all but defunct national intestine infected by a malignant and torrid hubris; a failing organ in dire need of a transplant. You could always live on a diet of seeds, kale and yoga, abstain from stimulants, read vague and ambiguous literature written by auto-didactic shysters and submerge yourself in the latest virulent television series or get a tattoo of your zodiac across your bollock in sanskrit and then annoyingly attempt to proselytize your chums into your newly found ascetic and kooky way of existing. What’s wrong with that? Right, your daily dose shall consist solely of coconut milk (to be administered intravenously whilst chanting backwards esoteric mantra given to you by a clandestine monk beside the Dodder) vipassana ( this is where contort yourself into the shape of a pretzel) no bread, no alcohol, no fats, no carbohydrates, no cigarettes, no crying, only farts and smiling. Have you a blade I could borrow?
It’s hard, reader. You wake up. You fumble for coffee. Your critical mind cautiously slips into motion like a laborious, overworked turbine. Ghastly rhetoric seeps like black static from the radio, the web, screens, ghastly, tiresome rhetoric from atonal philistines, nostril hairs drooping and writhing from their stout drenched tracheas. Allow me perform a haphazard tracheotomy on the mouthpiece of most Irish press and government. That’s not very genteel. Neither is Louth. Fair enough. The political coterie currently slithering about the halls of Irish parliament are as unreachable and uncommunicative as can be, envisage yourself attempting to engage with a senile septuagenarian following sixteen double brandies on an empty stomach and that’s how amputated the dialogue is between Leinster House and, Fermoy, say. And yet it all remains a harrowing and ineluctable feature of modern democracy, all very real and harrowing and present. Our ghastly political cohort combing their hair in a dream in a mirror in a scene dreamt up by another fraud in some even ghastlier pulp novel. Yes but you can always perform down-dog in Dartmouth Sq. and pollute the air with gattling-gun chick pea farts concocted in your newly detoxified bowl, barely audible gaseous whimpering from your soon to be chiselled Adonis body! Double, please.
Wallowing in bilious suits ill fitted in some gaudy tailors, the ministers of our convivial, fecund and agrarian isle represent sartorially air-brained mannequins, fidgeting awkwardly at their sweaty underpants at suave European summits while the Swiss and Italians posture urbanely like unguent cobras in stark juxtaposition to our ham fisted, bog sopped countenances, repenting that extra jam sandwich. If we’re going to be usurious, greedy and mendacious we could at least do it head to toe in *insert en vogue haute couture house here*. I agree, If I were a minister I would pirouette like a blithe tarantula in a tuxedo across St.Stephen’s green in McQueen, arousing the local denizens in a miasma of quails eggs and floc de gascogne. Unsurprisingly, you weren’t designed for a foray into politricks. Hmph. Yes, if our ministers bankrupted the country sporting elaborate Philip Treacy’s, festooned in plumes of pheasant, riding zebras about Fitzwilliam Sq. I think I’d have an altered perception. That sounds like some despotic, surrealist nightmare. It beats Ming Flanagan. It’s the moribund monotony of Irish politicians that so deadens interest, that so chafes the spirit. Certain ministers it could be suspected harbour moist cabbage in their jacket pockets, nibbling nervously at fistfuls of dry earth save they’re interrogated about the endemic cronyism, the aforementioned uncouth, or the unsympathetic urges of their party to the common good of the people. Sure they’re far more secure in Nesbitt’s or the rural beyond hypnotizing twinkling gullible auld dears with specious grins and vapid pacts concerning drainage, the price of fruit, public transport, change in your back pocket and what have you. I know sure. The Water rates, promising the finest, most limpid, most translucently replenishing syrup this side of the Connaught frontier but it’ll cost you, you gormless gom! Yes, but they should be prioritizing magic, poetry, philosophy, utilitarian ethics and inculcating the youth with a sense of awe struck wonder. I know it sure, but sure there’s Wikipedia for that now! And if you’re thirsty, just slake from a methusula.