I see myself as the new ‘Bono’, ok? Or the new ‘Bob Geldof’. Put your hands in your bleedin’ pockets and feed the feckin’ Ethiopians and them Darfurian yokes. I’ve a conscience, so I have. Not like those wasters in Leinster House. Lining their own poxy pockets from our hard-earned wages. Muppets, the lot of them. We can do better than that. I can do better than that. That’s why I’m setting my own political agenda. I’m organizing my own party. Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.
Look at our beloved Taoiseach, Brian Cowen TD. The press nick-name him Biffo. This is as true as God. He’s a Big Ignorant Fecker From Offaly. He was in Wall Street a few weeks ago, ringing the bell for the opening of the market. The only bell that wanker hears is the one ringing in his local, calling for last orders. Then he’s up at the bar, getting the Guinness in. Fifteen pints of the bleedin’ stuff, all for himself. Greedy bastard! Can’t drink that piss, myself. I’m a Heineken man, and proud to be one. You don’t leave rings on the toilet bowl after a night drinking that.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, my political aspirations. There are those who say Biffo only got the top job because our Bertie, the man of the people, got the boot for not telling the truth about where he got the money for his five houses, three wives and a season ticket for Manchester United home games. I say, who gives a bollocks? He’s a Dub. He’s up in Croke Park every match day, shouting at Jayo and the lads, giving it bleedin’ loads. Anyone who supports the ‘Boys in Blue’ and makes it to Old Trafford to see Manyoo pick up another three points against those Liverpool scumbags is number one in my books. Put that in your pipe and feckin’ smoke it.
I’m organizing a protest march this coming Saturday. We’ll start in Parnell Street and work our way up O’Connell Street, finally finishing up outside Dail Eireann. We’ll let those piss-heads know that the good people of Ireland have taken enough shite from them. They can start listening to the voice of our reason. We want proper leaders, not money-grabbing booze hounds. We’ll meet outside the Parnell Mooney at eleven o’clock. If it’s raining, we’ll meet inside. The pint’s good there.
What’s that? Yeah, you can come to. It doesn’t matter that you’re Chinese and don’t have a vote. You have a voice and though I can’t understand a bleedin’ thing you say half the time, you’re here because we let you in. Don’t want any Romanians though. They’ll leave us with no money to pay our bus-fare home.
These are my policies:
I want Obama and Palin over here now to show us how a true government should operate. I don’t give a flying fuck if they’re from different parties. He’ll get the immigrants united. Except for the Bosnians. No room for a Karradzic in my bleedin’ country. Palin will get those blue-rinse grannies out in force with their zimmer frames, calling for an increase in energy fuel allowances. Also, I really love the school teacher look. Pity about her young one, though. Seems a right little slapper. Up the pole at seventeen. Still she’d get the headlines if she was pushing her pram into the dole office, getting her mickey money.
I want cheaper booze and fags to be sold in tens again. And bring back smoking in the pubs. It pisses rain all the bleedin’ time. Your cigarette gets feckin’ soaked if you go outside for a drag, plus you get the homeless and drug addicts bumming a smoke off you. It would end violence on the streets.
I want a complete ban on Spanish and Italian students coming into Ireland every summer. Feckin’ muppets fill up the buses and pubs. You can’t get a seat in your favorite watering-hole with them wombats taking up tables. Twelve arseholes sharing two drinks between them. I mean, where’s the feckin’ justice in that?
So, comrades, the revolution starts here. I’m off to court. Bleedin’ Gardai have me up on a charge of disturbing the peace. All I did was wear my Dublin shirt and take the piss out of those Cork lads. I have witnesses to say it was them that started it. Unfortunately, some of those witnesses have left the country. Fucking tourists.
(c) 2008 James McShane