Return of The Bertiegoblin
The people have spoken and they said ‘Baaaa, Baaaa!’
The election. As it fades from memory like a bad case of dysentery, the remnants and consequences remain to haunt us over the coming five years. Once more the electorate have cleaved to the path of their antecedents. Once more they have opted to attach us to the wrinkled, familiar teat of Fianna Fail governance. Once more they have chosen the failure of imagination and embraced the triumph of mediocrity.
Fianna Fail have ruled this country for seventy five years because they are the Irish people. De Valera was right when he made that pompous statement ‘When I want to know the will of the Irish people, I need only look into my own heart.’ He was right, we are Fianna Fail, they are the dark rotten heart of us writ large. The reflection of all that is stupid and wrong in Irish society. Gaze upon the squirming, wriggling, lying bastards, pompous arrogant windbags, pig ignorant money grubbing, lie peddling, gleefully, willfully, ignorant bumgobblers. Can you see them, hmm? Can you?
THAT’S YOU, THAT IS!
That’s you with your 57″ LCD flatscreen telly with 900 channels of gawping, shit hurling fuckwits, that’s you with your four foot tall stripy ‘Irish’ hats and your Celtic scarf, opening your stupid gob to yawp and holler like brain damaged monkeys, stopping only to shove enough pints of pish lager down your gob until you collapse in your own puke. That’s you with your fucking Louis Copeland suits and your giant four wheeled drive monstrosity shitting carbon like it’s elephant diarrhea and complaining your spoilt, mewling bastard spawn has asthma and dust allergies and lungs like boiled hams, that’s you complaining your sons and daughters have no schools to go to because greed headed property scum built your estate on a strip of poisonous wasteland two hundred miles from the nearest town, but come election time all you care about is, can you get a bouncy castle through the patio doors for your little princesses’ fucking communion party. That’s you with your stupid sticking up haircut and your useless degree in Information Media technology bollocks and your €18,000 in credit card debt, living with your Mammy and Daddy sucking the money from their bank account like the thirsty money whore that you are because you need all your spare cash to pay off your crippling €20,000 bank loan you took out to cover your SSIA money that was due to buy that new set of tits you saw on that skanky bitch what showed everyone her minge on Big Brother or was it Celebrity fucking Jigs and Reels. That’s you Mr. Poxy Breakfast Roll man, I’m David McWilliams/Eddie Hobbs or whatever media pundit gobshite flavour of the month’s, wet dream, with your five hour commute through the tarmacadam bunghole of the road system, that’s you, you little office drone, I see you, with your grey, mashed up faces, crushing yourselves onto those choked up, stinking buses and trains every day, blocking out the rancid stench of your fellow commutards with ipods and lattes. That’s you, you fucking Yummy Mummys sitting at home with your designer lounging pants hanging off your sagging arses worrying about recycling charges and Habitat catalogues, doped to the tits on Diazepam and retail therapy, planning your next visit to the botox man. That’s you in your dotage, lying filthy and reeking in a hospital corridor, riddled with MRSA, syphilis and the pox, wondering where all your tax money went, watching former government ministers carted past you on gold plated robo-trolleys, whisked off to their private rooms you paid for to be treated for gout and have their colons emptied by underpaid wage slaves transported over in shipping containers from Kyrgyzstan.
THAT’S ALL OF YOU FUCKING PEOPLE, THAT IS AND YOU CAN TAKE YOUR ELECTION AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR FUCKING HOLE!
And for the people who didn’t vote, well you’re worse than all of them.
But seriously, Bertie’s back. Another five years of the ‘Cheeky Little Divil’. Except it’s not. Bertie faces into his last term, the legacy term, but he can’t see it out. He has to go before the next election to allow Cowen to bed down his support a la Blair and Brown in Britain. So we don’t have another five years of Bertie, two and a half if we’re lucky, four if he drags it out. I say four, why? The next Irish Presidential election is due in 2011, four years from now, one year before the new government term will term expire.
You heard it here first people, Bertie for President in 2011. God help us all.
June 4th, 2007 at 2:16 pm
I remember having very similar feelings after election day 2004. Couldn’t believe that the idiots had voted him in again, and it was the clearest sign yet that this was a place I needed to escape from. Needed somewhere different, somewhere a bit more interesting. Ahh, of course! Ireland! They certainly have it figured out a bit better than we Yanks have. They haven’t gone all fat and lazy and surrendered themselves to the corporate consumer glitz that seems to have taken over everything in America.
Not that I actually believed that, but it’s still disheartening to hear that this is the outgrowth of the mythical Celtic Tiger economy. We’ve now colonized your subconscious!
June 4th, 2007 at 11:02 pm
You know, all politics aside (because I know nothing about Irish politics), I must just say one thing:
You curse marvelously.
I’m wondering if it’s something uniquely Irish, or what, because it seems that all of the Irish people I’ve encountered have had an unique flair for it. The ability to simply drag it out, and on, and to conjure up fantastic imagery of stupidity and derision.
Fabulous.
Perhaps you should pick pictures which anger you for your Flickr / Ficktion pics.
June 5th, 2007 at 9:55 am
Brian, greed and deceit are universal human failings and the U.S. has no lock on avarice and cupidity. I have little faith in human nature other than it will follow it’s base urges, but it still rankles when you see the mob hand over the levers of power once more to such a crowd of stuttering gobshites.
David, thank you kindly. I don’t know if cursing well is an innately Irish trait, but that old chestnut about the Eskimo’s having one hundred words for snow comes to mind, over here we have half as many ways again to call some one a gobshite. That and the fact that I’m surrounded by them on all sides, thousands of them. It brings the red mist.
If I picked pictures that angered me for Flickr Fiction they would inevitably feature dogs with sunglasses, what the fuck is the story with that? There’s thousands of the buggers on there. It might get boring fast, me shouting at dogs, week in, week out.